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As kisses went, this one was fairly chaste. After all, we were in the midst of a roomful of people. Finley’s lips were warm and firm on mine. Soon I was drunk with the sheer pleasure of kissing him back. He wasn’t touching me at all except for the joining of our lips. Still, I felt myself being seduced.
In retrospect, I think I knew what this would be like from the first moment I saw him ride up on his fancy bike, all black leather and badass. Finley Craig was sexy man candy…impossible to resist.
I was parched, gasping for air, burning up from the inside out. Despite our position, someone was watching, because I heard catcalls and teasing from Finley’s friends. Someone yelled, “Get a room.”
I didn’t even know that saying translated across the pond.
Pulling back, I broke the kiss and put a hand to my mouth. “It’s a little early in the relationship for those kinds of decisions, don’t you think?”
He expression was disgruntled, all thwarted male. “For kissing?”
“For keeping,” I said, referring to his earlier comment.
“True. Lucky for me, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
I suspected this was a line he used with many women. The man was gorgeous, single, and comfortably well off…or at least it seemed so. His clients probably paid well for Finley’s one-of-a-kind motorcycles.
“We came here to dance,” I reminded him. “If you’re done, we should go. People are staring at us.”
He shrugged. “Let them look. I’ve barely touched you all night, which should probably qualify me for sainthood. You are a stunningly beautiful woman, Duchess.”
The nickname to which I was growing accustomed brought me back to his comment about women who were blond and loaded. Did I remind him of someone in his past? Was he living out a fantasy, using me as a stand-in for a relationship that had gone wrong?
The thought left a bad taste in my mouth. The evening, which had bubbled with all the effervescence of fine champagne, went flat.
“I could use a drink,” I said, moving past him to escape the bubble of intimacy.
Finley held my arm. “What did I say? One minute you were leaning into me, and the next I’m getting an Arctic vibe.”
I wouldn’t make a scene. I knew he would release me if I pressed the issue. The problem was I didn’t want him to let go. Not really. “I don’t think this is the time or place for fooling around. These people know you.”
“So?”
“So they’re probably thinking about every other woman you’ve brought to one of these ceilidhs.”
Both of his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. A broad smile covered his face, and his eyes sparkled. “You’re jealous? I’ll take that as a good sign, my haughty little Duchess.”
“I’m not jealous,” I said, my voice stiff. “You’ve lived here a decade. You’re several years older than me. I assume you’ve had other relationships.”
“Is this where we exchange our sexual histories?” he asked wryly.
I looked into his eyes, searching for the essence of the man. Was I being strung along by a pro? Or did the dark angel really have a thing for me?
“Maybe we should,” I said. If we went back to his house right now, I was almost certain we were going to end up in bed. While that thought made my stomach curl in a good way, I was not a naïve babe in the woods. There were things I wanted to know.
As I retrieved my purse and wrap, Finley said goodbye to many of his friends. Clearly he was well liked. Just as clearly, he had been accepted into this small community as one of their own.
We made our way down the narrow staircase and stepped out into the street.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Finley said. “Are you up for a stroll?”
“That would be nice.” We had walked down the big hill for the party. Going back up would be more challenging. I might as well postpone that for a few minutes. My panting and huffing was going to be embarrassing either way.
We made our way over to the water’s edge and looked out at the wine-dark sea. “I like it here,” I said softly. “I can feel the presence of the past so clearly. Not in a creepy way. But as though I’m standing on one side of a veil and those other centuries are just beyond my fingertips.”
“Forget photography,” Finley said. “You should be a poet.” He leaned his forearms on the railing, his profile painted by moonlight. He was a beautiful man. I sensed a darkness in him, and that darkness made me cautious.
After a few moments, we found a wooden bench and sat down. Even though I hadn’t worn stilettos, my feet hurt from all the jigs and reels. I slipped off my flats and wiggled my toes.
