Unwrapped (12 page)

She’d often wondered what it would feel like to have him direct all that focused intensity toward her and her only, but she hadn’t thought it would render her a babbling idiot.

“You . . . need me?” he repeated, slowly, as if uncertain he’d heard her correctly.

And she heard a note of . . . alarm, was it? Which was when she realized how her blurted declaration might have sounded. “Oh! Not like that—I meant I need to
see
you, not that I need you as in like I
need
a man—” She broke off and could feel the flush of mortification steal up her neck and tinge her face. A face she well knew to be pale enough that, even in the growing dusk, the blush would appear as two rosy splotches, staining her cheeks in a way that wasn’t remotely becoming, but made it look as if she’d just finished some arduous task. Such as plowing a field. Oh . . . dear. This
so
wasn’t how she’d thought this would go. “I probably shouldn’t be bothering you here, now.”

“It’s fine,” he said, quite clearly even more concerned now. “Is something wrong, Kira?”

“Wrong?” Damn, the word had come out like a squeak. But he’d said her name, and it sounded so . . . good. Really good. And she’d so badly wanted to have her femme fatale moment, to be all alluring and enticing as she basked in his smoldering gaze. Instead, his only thought was probably that she might need immediate medical assistance. Lovely. “No,” she said, quickly, wishing she could start this conversation over. “It’s . . . business, actually.”

Now he looked surprised again, and perhaps a little . . . disappointed? Surely that was her own imagination at work. Her quite overactive imagination.

“Regarding?” he asked, his demeanor all solicitor now, no smolder.

Any chance at a femme fatale moment was officially over. As was any chance she might have with him. Kira took a breath and fought down her disappointment in herself. She’d finally found her way back to wanting a man to notice her, and this was how she’d handled it? Truly, she was a disaster. The reality of which allowed her to finally get hold of her ridiculous self. “I’ve stopped in at your office once or twice over the past fortnight, but have managed to do so when you’ve been on the mainland. I kept meaning to call and schedule an appointment, but then I thought today—we’re both here—so I’d have a chance to mention it directly. I realized after the ceremony that once we get to the pub it will be too loud, so I waylaid you. But I’m sure you’d like to get on to the pub so you can toast Roan. Tessa is likely wondering where I am as well.”

“I’m sure Roan and Tessa will survive with only the rest of the entire village to toast them.”

She smiled at that, well imagining the chaos that the pub had surely become by now. “Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m not normally one to accost folks as they go about their business.”

“You didn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t in when you stopped by.”

He sounded so sincere. She could only imagine that grave earnestness was what made him such a successful lawyer. “Will you be in this week?

“I may have to go to Edinburgh early on, though I’m trying to skirt around it. Regardless, I’ll be back by Thursday. Would that be soon enough?”

“Aye, that would be fine.” Perhaps by then she’d have found the dignity she’d somehow managed to lose completely during the past five minutes. “Sometime that morning, then?”

“I’m not certain of my schedule, but just drop ’round whenever it’s convenient. I’ll make the time.”

Her smile came more naturally now. “Thank you,” she added, then stuck her hand out.
What, like you need to shake on setting up a simple business appointment?
Honestly, what was wrong with her?

He looked down at her hand with a moment’s confusion, or at least it seemed so, from the way he frowned at it. But just when she was about to snatch it back, he took her hand in his.

And that femme fatale moment came roaring back in full force. At least, on her end, it did. His palm was warm and surprisingly a bit rough for a man who earned his keep inside an office and various courts of law. It took a moment longer for her to realize that he was neither shaking her hand . . . nor letting it go.

Her gaze lifted to his and that focused intensity was back, but with an additional edge that made tiny hairs of awareness lift all along her arms, up to the back of her neck. The sensation was disconcerting in its intensity . . . and entirely, wonderfully pleasurable in its exclusivity.

“Thursday, then,” he said, at length, that very grit and gravel causing yet another skittery cascade of tingling awareness.

“Thursday,” she echoed. He was still holding her hand, so she forgave herself the breathless note even she could hear.

And then his hold tightened, and for the briefest of moments, she could have sworn he was going to pull her closer still. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, and she felt a distinct wobble in her knees. Was he—could he be actively contemplating . . .
kissing
her? Had she gone off into some kind of dream state at some point? Because surely it was a moment out of her own private fantasies. Though none of them had done this reality one whit of justice.

Her lips parted and the most delicious shiver of anticipation raced through her. It had been a very long time since she’d felt a man’s lips on hers . . . and yet it felt as though she’d waited a lifetime for his.

A split second later, just when, perhaps, her eyes might have been fluttering shut, his hand was sliding away from hers and reality came thunking back in as his expression returned to one of active concern.

“The sun is setting. You’re cold. Had I more than this short jacket—” He broke off and began to quickly undo the silver filigree buttons that adorned the front of his formal jacket, matching those on the cuffs of the sleeves.

“No, that’s—dinnae worry,” she hurried to say, a bit mortified now. How silly she was. How very, very silly. To think, for one second even, that he . . . “I’m fine,” she said, more calmly.

“You’re shivering.”

How to tell him that the very last thing she was at the moment was cold? Much less that he was the cause of all the shivering . . . none of which required his jacket as a cure. Still, as the reality of her surroundings crept back in, she did pull her shawl more tightly around her, noticing as she did so that all the other cars had now departed and that the sun, indeed, was dipping low on the horizon. “I should be getting into town—we both should, I suppose, before the toasts are all made and the ale gone. Wouldn’t be right for the rest of the wedding party not to show.”

“Let me see you to your car,” was all he said, in his typical man-of-few-words way. In fact, she had no idea at all what he was thinking. Which was possibly just as well. No need to add insult to injury.

“It’s right there,” she said, nodding across the single track to where her tiny red Fiat sat parked just opposite his. Not a coincidence, but he never need know that. “I’ll see you in town.” She’d already been backing up, but stumbled a bit as her low heel caught on the rough edge where the grass met the road.

Shay sprang forward, hand out to steady her, but she managed to steady herself on the flat of the road before he could round the back of his old jitney. She’d always thought it a whimsical choice of vehicle for a man who seemed anything but, and who could certainly afford far better now. She knew he’d had it forever, and it was likely a sentimental thing, but she’d been away back when they’d come of driving age. In fact, he’d come to Kinloch at age seven, and she’d gone off to boarding school shortly after, returning only after her divorce, so she didn’t know much more about it. Or that much about him, really. She’d never asked him about the car. Maybe now she would.

“I’m fine,” she assured him as she started to cross the road, then quickly made her way to her car, feeling his gaze on her back, which set off another round of sparks she was going to have to start getting over. “No time like the present,” she said, crossing around to open the driver’s side door. She did her best to slide her voluminous frock into the tiny, aging two-seater with as much grace as possible, and waved as she rattled off down the track towards the village. Hopefully the pub would be so crowded she could lose herself in the mob for a bit, gather herself, then slide out after the bride and groom made their departure.

“So you can go back to your cottage. And your weaving room. And hide,” she muttered. She had work to do, yes. And she had to go over the plans she intended to show Shay on Thursday as well. Plans for the basket weaving school she wanted to open, on the island. Weaving artisan basketry was an ancestral Kinloch tradition, as well as the sole foundation of the island’s economy, so there were likely to be some complicated, centuries old laws to untangle and work around to bring her vision to life. “But, at least you have a vision now,” she said, as she pulled around past the pub and began the search for a place to park. “You have a purpose.”

The only real question was—or had been—would Shay just play a legal role in that vision? Or the more intimate one she’d hoped he would. She’d thought that perhaps the time spent together, hammering out the legal details for launching the school, would give her a chance to figure that out.

“Och, well, now you’ll simply be able to devote all your time and energy to getting the school up and running.” It was just the recent weddings and people running around falling in love that had gotten her thinking about romance again, which wasn’t a bad thing. It was good to want to feel something again, wasn’t it? It was a sign of healing and growth, having optimism about her future. So what if it wasn’t going to be with Shay Callaghan? She’d get his help with the school, and . . . eventually she’d expand her horizons where other men were concerned. Somehow.

The idea didn’t invigorate her spirits as she’d hoped it would.

And it wasn’t thoughts of building on auld Conal McAuley’s croft, which Roan and Tessa had already singled out when they’d proposed the school idea to her in the first place, that dominated her thoughts as she drove into town.

No, it was the memory of those whisky-gold eyes staring intently into hers, the feel of his warm palm . . . and how he’d tightened his hold on her hand . . . just as he’d dropped his gaze to her mouth . . .

She shifted in her seat, gripping the steering wheel more tightly . . . and pressed her thighs together against the ache that built there as she replayed that moment through her mind again. And again.

She hadn’t really imagined that part . . . had she?

Chapter Three

T
he following morning Kira was in her weaving studio bright and early. Well, it was early. She wouldn’t vouch for how bright it was. Inside or out. But it was get to work or thrash about in her bed another hour or two, pretending to sleep. She was tired, more than a wee bit cranky, and not feeling particularly creative, but she needed to occupy her mind with something other than Shay.

“And wouldn’t that be a nice change?” she muttered as she picked up her current work in progress from the basin of water where she’d been soaking the spokes. It was a small basket, or would eventually become one, that incorporated both the colorful waxed linen strands that the Kinloch clans were known for in their artisan basketry, as well as thicker and tougher lengths of willow, and a few other natural odds and ends she’d gathered on the island. The idea of pushing the boundaries of their ancient traditions to create work that didn’t exclusively use waxed linen was seen by some on Kinloch as innovative and just the thing their island industry needed to remain vibrant and relevant in the global market. Others, namely the clan elders, saw it as a sacreligious breach of their cherished and much celebrated heritage and weren’t shy about making their displeasure known.

Kira respected the elders’ sentiments. She’d trained at her grandmother’s knee and held the old ways in deep regard. But she had to stay true to her own vision and creative calling, something her grandmother would have championed. To that end, Kira had made it clear when she’d first introduced her new design ideas to Roan, who controlled the marketing and sales of their baskets, that if there ended up being no market for them, that would decide the matter. She’d continue to make them for her own creative outlet, but would find a way to celebrate old traditions in a more pure form for the baskets she wove for market.

However, Kira’s baskets had gained immediate notice. In fact, she’d recently completed an exclusive order for a famous Italian shoe designer to use in his Milan showroom. She smiled privately as she remembered his recent, brief but colorful visit to Kinloch. Next to the wedding plans, Maradona—just the one name—had been the focus of conversation island-wide. Still was. He’d been quite a flamboyant and colorful figure on their otherwise quiet little isle. The fact that he’d brought some of his amazing shoes and handbags as well, and made gifts of the former to the younger weavers and the latter to the island’s oldest clan elders, had gone a long way toward creating a grudging détente between Kira and the traditionalists.

Kira smiled, thinking that the road to winning approval would be long, but all roads could be traveled. She just had to take it one step at a time. That was how she’d gotten this far. She let out a little sigh, forcing her thoughts away from Shay, away from the painful divorce that had sent her back to Kinloch, away from all of it. The only thing she had to think about was how to make the new pattern work. She’d already worked the slenderest of willow spokes into the base and had woven the initial rows with slender willow weavers interspersed with other organic material. Now she began to weave the thickest ply waxed strands in an intricate braided pattern in and around the unwieldy willow spokes, tucking them in and through the other material as well as she went.

The result was a rustic, uneven weave, with irregular gaps and an unwieldy, wild shaping to the basket itself, but the very earthiness of it called to her artistic soul. She probably wouldn’t rim it, but band it with a few rows of handdyed round reed at the top, then leave the spokes bending and twisting up and outward. Not a functional basket, but an art piece, a talking point. It was both harsh and beautiful, wild and barely tamed into shape, much like the island they lived on, which grew both the rugged willow, and the flax that was spun into such gorgeous, beautiful, and pliant waxed threads. She still wasn’t sure this particular idea was going to work because the elements involved were so dramatically different, and willow was a beast to work with, but so far, she was liking the results well enough.