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“Oh, sit down,” she said impatiently. “I’m trying to apologize. I wasn’t at my best yesterday. I’m sorry. Of course I’ll feed you. But I don’t need your money. The number two bachelor in Great Britain is safe from me.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re not a warm fuzzy woman?” He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands with a little groan.
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She tapped his shoulder. “Tea?”
“Do you have coffee?” he asked, the words muffled. “I went to the States for one of my degrees, and I picked up the habit.”
“No problem. Did you hit the pub last night?” she asked, wondering if he really had a hangover.
“No.” He sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I had a hard time sleeping. The bed was perfectly comfortable,” he said quickly, “but I’m a creature of habit. I never rest as well on the road as I do at home.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Bella said. “It took me a full week to get over jet lag and to feel at ease in Finley’s room. Now I love it, though.”
Ian was quiet as she poured his coffee and prepared his plate. She had made an early morning run to the market for supplies. If a woman needed to grovel, a hot breakfast seemed an auspicious way to start.
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she joined him at the table. “Here’s the thing,” she said. “I have a chip on my shoulder about the whole women-as-homemakers thing.”
He shot her a sideways glance and gulped down half of the coffee. The man must have asbestos lungs.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?” she asked.
“Okay, nothing. You made a statement. I let you know I heard it.”
“Don’t try to handle me, Larrimore.”
He held up one finger, still drinking from his coffee cup as if he had found the elixir of eternal life. “I wouldn’t dream of it. And for the record, I don’t have a mother or sisters, so I plead not guilty to having preconceived notions about the female sex.”
“What about babies?”
He choked on his drink and coughed until his face turned red. “Babies?”
“You know. Loud. Poopy. Impossible to predict. If you and your wife had a baby, would you expect her to drop everything and play mama, or would you take an equal role?”
Ian set down his cup with exaggerated care and gave her a narrow-eyed look that indicated she might have gone a wee bit too far. “I’d say it’s a bit early in our relationship to be discussing something so personal, lass. For the record, we Scots are a hospitable people, but not that hospitable. All I need is a bed and breakfast. I’m not expecting you to bear my children.”
Bella gaped. It was her turn to blush. “We were having an academic discussion,” she muttered, unable to meet his eyes. “I was curious about your opinions.”
It seemed she has misjudged Ian Larrimore rather badly. Apparently, he was neither passive nor sexually repressed. The light in his eyes at the moment made her toes curl.
“Let me be clear,” he said. “Babies come from sex, so if a woman starts talking procreation, a man’s brain goes straight to the bedroom. If ye aren’t making any kind of serious offer, I suggest you change the subject.”
Unfortunately, she had used up all of her best conversational material. Now all she could think about was seeing Ian Larrimore in her bed, naked, ready to make babies with her. “I should get to work,” she said, standing so abruptly her chair wobbled. “Don’t worry about the kitchen. I’ll tidy up later.”
* * *
Ian finished his breakfast and lingered to enjoy a second cup of coffee. Often, when he was in the midst of a project, he became so engrossed he forgot to stop for lunch. That made the first meal of the day all the more important.
This morning, though, his thoughts were focused on something far more titillating than any experiment or computer program. He was fixated on Bella Craig. The way she smelled, like lavender and fresh air. Her rapid fire conversation that kept him on his toes. The delightfully feminine curves of her breasts and bottom. Head to toe, she was an exceptional female.
Too bad she was only here for a visit.
After breakfast, Ian retreated to the guest room, set up all of his equipment, and configured it to connect with the wireless network. Finley had spared no expense in this area, a decision Ian endorsed wholeheartedly. Good communication frameworks were a must in the twenty-first century.
When he had everything up and running to his satisfaction, he checked his e-mail, answered a few pressing queries, and then read the London papers online. In every instance, there were stories about Ian and his life and work. The invasion of privacy gave him indigestion. Why did anyone care?
He opened a program on his laptop and tried to concentrate, but he was disgruntled and frustrated. It was his custom to spend hour upon hour in isolation. Some of his best ideas and breakthroughs came when he was in the zone, all alone. Which made it all the more peculiar to realize he was curious about his American hostess.
