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Lake was standing in the street, in a T-shirt, oblivious to the icy wind coming off the loch.
“You,” she shouted as she strode towards him. “What the heck do you call this?”
He turned as she thrust the laptop under his nose. His lip twitched when he saw the pop-up window with his name and photo—on her website.
“Why Kirsty, how very neighbourly of you to help me out with my advertising,” he drawled.
She hefted the laptop.
“I wouldn’t use that to hit me,” he told her. “You’ll just have to find the money to replace it.”
Something stilled within her. It was the way he said it, as though he knew exactly how much money she had—or in this case, didn’t have. Her eyes narrowed. Meanwhile his face was doing that thing where no emotion got through that thick skin of his. He couldn’t fool her. Hi
s bloody eyes were laughing at her again.
“You did this.” She pointed at the screen.
“To quote your own words back to you, I’m not responsible, but I may know who is.”
“This is wrong. It’s mean. It’s underhanded.” She ran out of words.
“And the stuff you’ve been throwing my way is all above board?” He cocked his damn eyebrow.
“Stop that thing with the eyebrow. You’re not James Bond. You’re nothing like James Bond.”
“Funny you should mention that.”
He cocked his head towards the shop, where a work crew was putting up his new sign.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Kirsty said. “You named the shop after a Bond movie?”
Silver letters on a black background said For Your Eyes Only.
“Brilliant, eh? You’ll have to wait for tomorrow to see the rest of it. No peeking.”
Kirsty flipped the lid of her laptop shut, swung it hard and hit him in the stomach. He barely flinched.
“You’re going to regret that,” he told her.
“I’ve regretted every single thing that’s happened since I met you. This”—she pointed at the laptop—”is just the latest on the list.”
She lifted it to swing again.
His arm sprang out and hooked her around the waist. He pulled her tight against him, making the men chuckle.
“Stop it,” she hissed at him.
“There are better ways to get rid of that anger, Kirsty Campbell,” he told her.
“Like dynamite under your building.”
“I’d rather do this.”
Then the fool kissed her. And she stupidly let him. In the street. In front of the work crew, who didn’t help by wolf whistling and applauding. And damn if her body didn’t relax against him as his tongue slipped over her bottom lip. To make matters worse, he was the one to end the kiss and release her. Her eyes narrowed. Her leg shot out to kick him, but the tight ankle-length skirt made it impossible. Instead she almost fell over.
“Stop kissing me,” she told him.
“No.”
