Free Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle by Deborah MacGillivray Page A

Thank you, B.A.”
    She glanced at the cat, who looked like, See told you? The red roses were out of place in the pale pink room, a vivid and startling contrast as incongruous and sensual as Desmond Mershan, himself.
    “Not much for scent, but the clarity of the red sets the bloom apart.”
    Rubbing the petals against his lips, the warlock’s eyes flashed with blatantly sexuality. “They remind me of red satin underwear with black lace. And they smell… not perfumy. Earthy. Pagan.”
    B.A. almost swallowed her tongue. The expression on his beautiful face nearly provoked her to crawl up on that bed, knock the tray aside and have her wicked way with him. She wanted to see his expression as she lowered her mouth to his, felt his hands rough upon her breasts.
    Yeah, bloody shame she was in this stupid virginal cotton gown and not a red satin bustier with black lace. Never had she felt such a grinding, elemental need for a man.
    Her intense emotions were amplified by the meeting of their minds, both thinking the rose petals reminded them of sexy underwear. What would it be like to make love to such a rakish man so attuned not just to your body, but your mind as well?
    Setting the vase on the tray, he lifted the cover over the eggs sunny-side up and then gestured with the knife to the nightstand.“May I have the salt and pepper?”
    Before she realized, she’d handed him the salt. Her fingers flexed in a spasm around the shaker as his hand closed over hers. Och, the bloody warlock—he’d tricked her! Now she’d done it! Maeve would come back to haunt her for being so foolish.
    His brows lifted. “Some quaint Falgannon custom?”
    “Never mind.” She released the shaker. “Too late.”
    “Perhaps I need to look in your eyes. You seem… distracted.” When he saw she wouldn’t explain about the salt, he gestured to the edge of the bed for her to sit. Taking a sip of the juice, he nodded to the books on the dresser. “You read a lot?”
    She dragged the chair to the bedside, knowing she dared not get on that bed. “Not much to do on the isle in winter. Whole island’s movie mad. We play music. Read a lot.”
    He paused, the piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Why do you do it?”
    “Read?”
    “No, bury yourself on this island. A woman like you should be in London… Paris… Rome.”
    Umbrage twisted her mouth. “I dunna bury myself. London’s fine, I enjoy a trip there. Paris is nice a time or two. If I lived in a big city, I’d choose New Orleans.”
    He nodded. “A town with an attitude. Shame Katrina did a number on it.”
    “She’ll be back. Food’s marvelous, the people warm and friendly. But I couldn’t live anywhere except Falgannon. When I’m away, I miss the isle.”
    “But it’s so far away from everything, I’d think you’d be dead bored.”
    She enjoyed watching Desmond eat. Movements of his hands were deft, precise—like magicians make. He had elegant, long, well-manicured fingers. They were hands she once again envisioned upon her body.
    Stop drooling over the man like a ninny, Angel B.A. fussed.
    “There’s something”—B.A. reached for her exact feelings—“magical about Falgannon. It’s in my blood, my soul.”
    He paused from feeding Dudley bacon, those pale eyes incisive, assessing. It was a dose of ice water hitting her, reminded her that Desmond Mershan was an Outlander, a man passing through. He’d be gone in a month if she permitted his work on the isle, back to the bright lights of those cities he admired. She’d be left with her books, Dudley and the screwball islanders.
    She’d be safe.
    She’d be… lonely.
    “I don’t think anyplace provides those feelings,” he said coolly.
    She countered, “A Scot’s roots run deep. If I left the island, a part of me would be dreaming of soft nights, of listening to rain on the roof or of walking on white sands at gloaming.”
    Desmond drank the juice and watched her with those guarded predator’s eyes, causing B.A.