“Forever,” he said, with a chilling smile. “And you will.”
“Argh! Can’t I just not dream about that man one freaking night?” Chloe cried, rolling over in bed and pulling the pillow over her head.
He was on her mind incessantly when she was awake. She didn’t think it was so much to ask to be able to escape him in her dreams. She’d even dreamed about him when she’d dozed on the airplane! And all the dreams had been so intensely detailed that they’d seemed almost real. In this one, she’d been able to smell the spicy man-scent of him, to feel his warm breath fanning her face when he’d informed her he was going to keep her.
As if!
What did her dream Dageus think? she brooded irritably. That such a barbaric, utterly Teutonic declaration would melt her to her toes?
Wait a minute, she thought, backtracking mentally—it had been her dream, which meant that it wasn’t what he thought, but apparently what she was subconsciously thinking about.
Oh, Zanders, you are so not politically correct, she thought dismally.
It had melted her. She’d love to hear such words from him. One teeny declaration of that sort and she’d be stuck on him like superglue.
She sat up and flung the pillow across the room in frustration. The Gaulish Ghost in New York had been fascinating enough, but the glimpse of emotion she’d seen last night when he’d been reunited with his brother had made him even more dangerously intriguing.
It had been one thing to think of him as a womanizer, a man not capable of love.
But she couldn’t think that anymore, because she’d seen love in his eyes. Love that she wanted to know more about. She’d glimpsed depths to him that she’d convinced herself he didn’t have. What had happened between the two brothers to make them so estranged? What had happened to Dageus MacKeltar to make him so tightly guard his emotions?
She was doing it—wanting to be the woman who got inside him. Dangerous want, that.
She hugged her knees and rested her chin atop them, brooding.
A significant part of the blame for her dream, she thought peevishly, could be attributed to Gwen. Last night, after Chloe had finished showering, Gwen had brought a dinner tray to her room. She’d stayed while Chloe had eaten, and the talk had turned, as it was wont to do when women got together, to men.
Specifically to Keltar men.
Facts that Chloe had known about Dageus prior to Gwen’s little visit: He was irresistibly seductive; he had a fantastic body—she’d seen it when he’d dropped his towel; he wore condoms for the “Extra-Large Man.”
And now—thank you Gwen MacKeltar—she knew that he was a man of both immense appetites and stamina, and had been known to spend, not a few hours, but days in bed with a woman. Oh, Gwen hadn’t actually come out and said those things, but she’d made her point clear enough in bits and pieces that she’d dropped.
Days in bed? She couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would be like.
Oh, yes, you can, a snide little voice poked, you dreamt about it a few nights ago, in shocking detail for a virgin.
Scowling, she pushed her curls out of her face and swung her legs over the side of the massive, antique bed piled with down ticks. Her toes dangled a foot above the floor and she had to hop to get out of it.
Shaking her head, she grabbed her clothes and headed for the shower. She didn’t really need to, having showered late last night, but this morning she suspected she might benefit from a cold one.
When she stepped out into the corridor a half an hour later, she stopped abruptly, bristling. She’d taken a chilly shower, forcing herself to think about the artifacts she might get to see, and what she’d like to explore first. It had taken her nearly the entire half an hour to get him off her mind, and now he was right back on it.
“What are you doing?” she asked grumpily, feeling that dratted, instant surge of attraction that demanded plaintively (and incessantly!), Would you just jump on him and to hell with the consequences? The man of her dreams—literally—was sitting on the floor, leaning against the door across the corridor from hers, his long legs outstretched, his arms folded over his chest. He wore black trousers and a charcoal crew-neck wool sweater stretched over his powerful torso, showcasing his perfect physique. He’d shaved, and the skin on his face looked smooth and soft as velvet. Coppery eyes met hers.
He rose, towering over her, his sheer masculinity making her feel small and feminine.
“I was waiting for you. Good morrow, lass. Did you have pleasant dreams?” he inquired silkily.
Chloe kept her expression bland. He looked immensely pleased with himself this morning, and there was no way she was letting him know she’d had even one nocturnal thought about him. “I can’t remember,” she said, blinking guilelessly. “In fact, I slept so deeply I don’t think I dreamt at all.”