“Ya cannot spend your whole life running, Willow,” Duncan said softly.
“You’re smart enough to know that no matter how fast ya are, it’s only an illusion of safety. Love comes unbidden, lass, and is as unstoppable as the sunrise.”
Willow pulled free, returning her gaze to the fire. “You don’t think you’re a bit arrogant to assume I love you?” she asked without accusation.
“Nay,” he said, his chest rumbling in amusement. “You’re the arrogant one, if ya think to continue denying your feelings.”
He lifted her chin again, gave her a quick kiss on the lips, then tucked her head against him with a deep sigh. “I’ve the patience to out-wait ya, Willow, and the means to eventually capture and keep ya.”
She popped her head up and frowned at him. “What means?”
“My body, of course,” he said, arching one brow. “Ya can’t seem to get enough of it.”
Also by Janet Chapman
Charming the Highlander
Loving the Highlander
Wedding the Highlander
The Seductive Impostor
Tempting the Highlander
Published by Pocket Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Copyright © 2005 by Janet Chapman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 1-4165-0689-6
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To the state of Maine,
and to all the people who
call this wonderful place home
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Dr. Robert Bayer, Professor of Animal and Veterinary Sciences, and Director of the Lobster Institute at the University of Maine, for sharing with me his knowledge of lobster and fishermen, and the chemicals that can threaten them both. Dr. Bayer and his colleagues do great work at the Lobster Institute, and are invaluable to those making their living from the sea, as well as those who enjoy feasting on its bounty. The Institute’s mission is as simple as it is far-reaching: The Lobster Institute, with guidance and involvement from fishermen and all constituents within the lobster industry, and with both a community and global perspective, conducts and provides for research and educational outreach focused on protecting, conserving, and enhancing lobsters and lobstering as an industry and as a way of life.
Check out their website to see just a few of the reasons why I love living here in Maine: www.lobsterinstitute.org.
Chapter One
“I can’t decide if you’re the most patient man I know or the dumbest.”
Duncan Ross set his drink down on the bar and followed Keenan Oakes’s gaze to the booth in the back corner of the pub. “I prefer cunning to patient,” he said as they watched the two chatting women. “Patience implies that I’m waiting for something to happen, whereas cunning denotes a plan.”
Kee turned narrowed eyes on Duncan. “And does this plan involve any actual dating, or are you saving all of your energy for the honeymoon?”
Duncan shot him a grin, picked up his drink, and looked back at the booth over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. Willow Foster and Rachel Oakes were both hunched forward, whispering to each other across the wide oak table. Rachel suddenly sat back in her seat with a laugh, and Willow just as suddenly leaned away, folded her arms under her breasts, and snorted loudly enough to be heard over the hum of the crowded pub.
Duncan quietly chuckled. “It’s going to be one hell of a honeymoon.”
Kee slid his empty glass toward Duncan, nodding for a refill. “Inviting half of Puffin Harbor to your wedding before you’ve secured a bride is not a good plan.”
Duncan felt a dull flush creep up the back of his neck. If he ever found out who had started that rumor, he was going to kick some serious butt. Having his love life bantered about town was not only not part of his plan, it could very well be the death of him. Duncan picked up the bottle he’d opened just a few minutes ago and absently ran his thumb over the embossed crest on the cap. “Have ya ever known me to fail in an objective once I’ve made up my mind to go after something?” he asked softly.
“No,” Kee said. “But then, wife hunting isn’t exactly your usual objective. And Willow Foster isn’t exactly…easy prey.”
Duncan had started to refill Kee’s glass, but instead he set the bottle down again. “Willow’s just scared, is all. It’s a holdover from what she thought had happened between her mom and dad and Thaddeus Lakeman. Unlike Rachel, who thought passion was the root of all evil, Willow still thinks commitment is a four-letter word. All I have to do,” Duncan said softly, finally refilling Kee’s glass, “is convince Willow that marrying me won’t be the end of her life as she knows it, but the beginning.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen,” Kee said with a snort, picking up his drink. “Just as soon as you stop acting like a caveman.”
“Troglodyte,” Duncan said, puffing his chest and smoothing down the front of his shirt. “She calls me a troglodyte.”
Kee stopped in mid-sip. “To your face?”
Ignoring Kee’s question, Duncan looked back at the booth. Willow was glaring now, her snapping hazel eyes reflecting the firelight from the stone hearth as she leaned on the table again and whispered something to her sister.
Rachel still hadn’t stopped laughing.
“Willow knows about the betting pool for when—or rather if the wedding will take place,” Kee drawled. “Mikaela told her.”
“That little rat fink,” Duncan said, his smile betraying his affection for Kee’s seven-year-old daughter. “She’s supposed to be part of my plan, not the spoiler.”
Kee shrugged, his own smile filled with equally fierce affection. “My daughter is as impatient with you as the rest of us are.” He leaned closer. “She wants you to sweep Willow off her feet and live happily ever after.”
“Someone’s been reading fairy tales to our baby again,” Duncan accused, shaking his head. “Is it Luke? I told that man a thousand times that he’s only inviting disaster. Ya know how Mikaela gets when it comes to stories. She’s always trying to bring them to life. Hell, it’s why she changed our wolf’s name to Mickey Mouse, and insisted we call Jonathan Captain Ahab after somebody read her Moby Dick.”
Kee held up a hand. “Willow’s the one inviting disaster. At least four nights a week, she spends almost an hour reading bedtime stories to Mikaela over the phone.”
Duncan relaxed back on his hips and hid his grin by sipping his drink as he looked over at the booth. He wasn’t surprised to hear that Willow ran up phone bills reading to Mikaela.
Nothing about Willow Foster surprised him.
Especially not his feelings for her.
Duncan had fallen under her spell nearly two years ago, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on the stunning woman. She had been as drunk as a sailor on leave at the time, gulping strawberry daiquiris while having a rock throwing contest in the pitch dark with her sister, arguing and giggling and nearly falling down every time she sent another missile wobbling into the fog-shrouded sea.
She had instant
ly captured his interest. And by the next night, when he and Kee had helped the two sisters anonymously place a large Puffin statue in the town park, Willow Foster had somehow captured his heart.
She was a bossy, sassy-mouthed, impulsive little tyrant who didn’t know the definition of retreat. She was also beautiful, intelligent, and utterly feminine, and when she walked into a room heads turned and male hearts started breaking.
She’d been a state assistant attorney general in Maine for just over two years now, and had slipped into her role as the people’s defender just as smoothly as Duncan’s drink slid down his throat.
And she thought he was a troglodyte.
Not that he’d done anything to dispel that notion.
“Aren’t you afraid some rising politician in Augusta will go after her?” Kee asked.
Duncan turned back to his friend. “Not really,” he quietly admitted. “Willow’s in love with me.”
Kee lifted a brow. “A rather arrogant assumption, don’t you think?” he asked softly.
Duncan tamped down another flush edging up his neck. “Not arrogant. Confident. There’s a difference.”
Kee studied Duncan through narrowed eyes. “What makes you so sure she loves you?” he asked. “She’s been going out of her way to avoid you for the last eighteen months.” He snorted and started to take a sip of his drink, but stopped and said, “That doesn’t sound like love to me.”
Duncan grinned and shook his head. “No? Then why do ya think she’s working so hard to stay away? Because Willow is scared of her feelings for me,” Duncan answered before Kee could. “And why do ya suppose none of those three-piece suits in Augusta have caught her eye yet? She’s looking, I know, but according to Rachel, Willow can’t seem to settle on anyone.” He turned serious and leaned closer to Kee. “I didn’t imagine what happened between us eighteen months ago. Willow Foster was definitely a woman in love when she spent the night in my bed, and she’s still in love. She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“Dammit, Ross,” Kee snapped, leaning on the bar. “Then quit playing games while waiting for her to come to her senses. Show her you’re not really a caveman and sweep her off her damn feet!”
Duncan said nothing as he pulled a worn leather box from under the bar, opened the delicate silver clasp, lifted the small tulip-shaped glass out of its tattered velvet nest, then half filled it from the bottle they’d been drinking from. “It’s troglodyte,” he calmly corrected, stepping out from behind the bar. “And the game stops when Willow decides it does.”
Willow kept waiting for her sister to quit laughing, but when that didn’t seem likely to happen she leaned over the table and said, “I mean it, Rae. Every time I think the chemistry might finally start to happen with someone I’m dating, my libido suddenly heads south. I’m in a sexual drought,” she quietly hissed, clenching her fists on the table. “And if it keeps up much longer, the statute of limitations will run out and I’ll legally be declared a virgin again.”
Rachel’s eyes glistened as she tried to stifle her laughter behind her hands.
Willow leaned closer. “I’m so frustrated I’m ready to jump the first breathing male that crosses my path. I can’t go—”
Willow snapped her mouth shut the moment she noticed the change in her sister. Rachel’s eyes were no longer laughing, but dancing with mischief. “Then here’s your chance, Willy,” she said, looking past Willow’s shoulder.
Willow dropped her head with a groan. “Tell me he’s not coming over here,” she muttered.
“He is breathing and he’s definitely male.”
“Dammit.”
“And I doubt chemistry scares him.”
“Damn.”
“Actually,” Rachel continued, canting her head. “I don’t think anything scares him. Not even you. Hi, Duncan,” Rachel said, her eyes still bright with mischief as she slid deeper into the booth to make room for Kee. “Where’s Ahab? My sister is looking for a breathing male to attack, and I thought he might be interested.”
“Ahab’s sworn off women for at least another month,” Duncan said, sliding in beside Willow and setting a small glass of pale amber liquid on the table in front of her. “I might be interested, though,” he continued. “If she promises to be gentle with me.”
Willow found herself trapped between a hard oak-paneled wall and an even harder male body. The air thickened with a heady masculine warmth, just as it always did whenever Duncan Ross got close, and Willow fought the urge to squirm.
The memory of their one night together immediately sprang forward with images of their naked bodies entwined, Duncan’s broad, powerful hands moving over her heated skin with gentle urgency…his intense, forest green eyes gathering intimate knowledge with each response she made…the feel of his sleek-muscled body covering hers, building her to a fevered pitch time and again throughout their nightlong, hauntingly carnal dance.
Damn, this sexual drought was hell.
She was sorely tempted to take him up on his offer.
Instead Willow turned her own brilliant smile on the man responsible for every damn one of her salacious dreams of the last year and a half. “Thank you, Dunky, but I’m afraid my intentions aren’t the least bit honorable, and I just can’t bring myself to crush your…ah, delicate sensibilities.”
The devil himself winked out from the sparkling green eyes locked on hers. “What a sweet woman ya are, Willow Foster,” he said, placing an arm on the booth behind her and letting his hand drop to her shoulder, “to not take advantage of me.”
His other hand slid the glass of amber liquor toward her.
Willow remembered the last time she’d shared a drink with Duncan Ross. It had been eighteen months ago. He’d just signed the papers to purchase the run-down Drop Anchor Bar, and the ensuing celebration had ended with her waking up the next day in an equally run-down farmhouse—in Duncan’s bed—wonderfully satisfied and appropriately horrified.
Things had gone downhill rather abruptly from there.
Before she’d even been able to find her clothes, much less scramble into them, Duncan had started making plans for her to move in with him. Seemingly oblivious to her shocked silence, he’d held a one-sided discussion on how they would handle the logistics of her working a two-hour commute away.
“I’m so glad you understand,” Willow said, patting his arm and then wrapping her fingers around the stem of the iceless drink. “Because our friendship is very important.” She lifted the glass, sniffed its contents, then looked up at him. “Single malt,” she guessed, “aged fifteen or twenty years.”
“Thirty,” he clarified softly, nudging the drink to her mouth. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this bottle to arrive. Tell me, counselor, if my patience paid off.”
Willow took a small sip, and just as Duncan had taught her, she let the rich, peat-flavored liquor bathe her senses before letting it slide down her throat.
“Mmmm,” she hummed, closing her eyes as the whisky settled in her belly like summer sunshine. “It was definitely worth the wait.” She looked up at Duncan and smiled. “So that’s what thirty-year-old Scotch tastes like.”
He took the glass from her, repeated the same sipping ritual as she had, then held the glass up to the light and gazed into the tawny liquid. “Aye. It’s hard to believe I was a mere lad of five when this Scot’s gold was casked.” He handed it back and nudged the glass toward her mouth again. “And it’s not just single malt,” he continued as she sipped. “It’s single-barrel Scotch, which means it was taken from only one cask rather than vatted with others from the same distillery.”
Willow savored the second wave of heat washing through her, then turned in Duncan’s casual embrace and lifted an inquiring brow. “You know an awful lot about expensive whisky for a troglodyte.”
Willow heard Rachel gasp and Kee choke on his own drink.
Damn. She’d forgotten they had an audience.
Duncan’s grip on her shoulder tightened, drawing her close enough to
meet his stare of glittering amusement. “I know quite a bit about a lot of things, counselor,” he whispered. “Including how to survive a full frontal attack.” He leaned closer, until his mouth was only inches from hers. “And it’ll take more than a sassy little brat like you to crush my delicate sensibilities.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Kee growled from across the booth. “You’re like two teenagers with more raging hormones than sense. Willow, put the man out of his misery and take him to bed.”
Willow blinked across the booth, undecided if she was scandalized by Kee’s command or shocked by his vehemence. Her brother-in-law was supposed to be her defender, not her pimp. She suddenly narrowed her eyes. “How much did you wager?”
Two flags of color darkened Kee’s cheeks.
Willow nodded. “Well, I’ve placed five hundred on myself, and I intend to use my winnings for a nice vacation in Bermuda.”
“Five hundred?” Rachel squeaked. “You dropped five hundred dollars into the pool?”
“Most of Puffin Harbor is placing wagers on this imaginary wedding,” Willow said, lifting her chin. “Why shouldn’t I get in on the action?”
“Maybe because you are the action?” Rachel asked, darting a quick glance at Duncan before looking back at her. “Isn’t that unethical or something? Sort of like insider information?”
“Nay,” Duncan said with a chuckle. “Willow is actually bettering the odds so we can use our winnings to go to Tahiti on our honeymoon instead of Bermuda.”
If it had been anything other than thirty-year-old Scotch in that glass, Willow would have tossed the drink in his face.
Duncan obviously read her intent and pulled her against his broad, laughing chest. Raw, sizzling heat consumed Willow with the suddenness of a matchstick flaring to life, and she couldn’t stop the shudder of awareness that shot through every drought-ridden nerve in her body.
The Dangerous Protector Page 1