“The air feels oily.”
“Oily and heavy,” he agreed. “And that weight is sitting on my shoulders like a
fucking albatross.”
She shifted her own shoulders, knowing exactly what he meant. It felt as though a
greasy blanket were clinging to her back. She put a hand to her chest. “Someone is
watching us and it’s making me very anxious. My heart is actually racing.”
“Some thing is watching us,” he corrected, and lowered his hands. “Go back inside,
baby.”
“Not without you,” she said. “If there’s something out there…”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of whatever it is.”
“But…”
He reached out to drag her into his arms, lashing his mouth over hers, parting her
lips with his tongue. The kiss was hard, thorough, and when it ended, Keenan’s heart
was thudding against her rib cage.
“Go. Inside,” he ordered, his tone brooking no challenge. “I don’t need my mind
divided right now.”
52
Dancing on the Wind
There was resolution in the way he stared back at her. Powerful, authoritative,
rejection of his words was not an option. She did as he demanded, watching him from
the doorway as he stepped off the porch and into the night.
“Close and lock the door, myneeast caillagh .”
She shut the door but defiantly did not lock it. Her eyes widened when the lock
secured itself with a firm snap and she heard the faint sound of laughter coming from
the man for whom she was beginning to develop deep feelings—against all odds and
good sense, she thought.
“Conceited prick,” she whispered.
“ But I’m your conceited prick ,” a soft voice came back to her.
“Maybe,” she acknowledged.
Pulling aside the window curtain, she looked out into the streaming moonlight and
realized a rolling fog had developed low to the ground. It was undulating like a restless
sea creature over the oyster shell driveway and reaching its ghostly tentacles into the
forest. So eerily quiet that she could hear the breath rasping in her chest, she strained to
get a glimpse of Fallon, to pick up any hint of sound coming from him. Putting a thumb
nail to her mouth, she nibbled on a loose cuticle—a habit she had often tried to break
but could not shake. To those who knew her well it was a sign of how acutely she was
stressed.
“Where are you, Fallon?” she asked, her breath fogging the glass.
By the time she saw him striding toward the cottage, an hour had passed—an hour
in which she had imagined all manner of terrible things befalling him. The sight of him
climbing the three short steps, his boot heels scuffing on the porch floor were such a
relief, she snatched back the lock and bolted out the door, flinging her arms around him
as he reached the doorway.
“Don’t you ever do that again!” she hissed.
His arms wrapped her. “Do what?”
“Scare me like that, Fallon!” she said in a voice that said he should have known
what had upset her. “I was worried about you.”
Her body was pressed tightly to his and she was shaking, so he bent his knees and
scooped her up in his arms, took her into the cottage and kicked the door shut. Once
more the lock engaged on its own.
He carried her to the bedroom without another word between them. There was no
need for words and both knew it. Once at the bed, he let her feet touch the floor then
took his time undressing her. He tugged off the pullover, unbuckled the trendy belt
circling her waist, unsnapped her fly then released the zipper. Tucking his fingers
beneath the waistband, he hunkered down before her as he peeled the slacks down her
long legs, reveling in her hand on his shoulder as she steadied herself while she stepped
out of the garment. His gaze lingered on the lace and silk panties that molded to her
shapely hips as he removed her socks then he stood, reaching behind her to unhook her
53
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
bra. The weight of her breasts caught and held his attention as they were
“Oily and heavy,” he agreed. “And that weight is sitting on my shoulders like a
fucking albatross.”
She shifted her own shoulders, knowing exactly what he meant. It felt as though a
greasy blanket were clinging to her back. She put a hand to her chest. “Someone is
watching us and it’s making me very anxious. My heart is actually racing.”
“Some thing is watching us,” he corrected, and lowered his hands. “Go back inside,
baby.”
“Not without you,” she said. “If there’s something out there…”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of whatever it is.”
“But…”
He reached out to drag her into his arms, lashing his mouth over hers, parting her
lips with his tongue. The kiss was hard, thorough, and when it ended, Keenan’s heart
was thudding against her rib cage.
“Go. Inside,” he ordered, his tone brooking no challenge. “I don’t need my mind
divided right now.”
52
Dancing on the Wind
There was resolution in the way he stared back at her. Powerful, authoritative,
rejection of his words was not an option. She did as he demanded, watching him from
the doorway as he stepped off the porch and into the night.
“Close and lock the door, myneeast caillagh .”
She shut the door but defiantly did not lock it. Her eyes widened when the lock
secured itself with a firm snap and she heard the faint sound of laughter coming from
the man for whom she was beginning to develop deep feelings—against all odds and
good sense, she thought.
“Conceited prick,” she whispered.
“ But I’m your conceited prick ,” a soft voice came back to her.
“Maybe,” she acknowledged.
Pulling aside the window curtain, she looked out into the streaming moonlight and
realized a rolling fog had developed low to the ground. It was undulating like a restless
sea creature over the oyster shell driveway and reaching its ghostly tentacles into the
forest. So eerily quiet that she could hear the breath rasping in her chest, she strained to
get a glimpse of Fallon, to pick up any hint of sound coming from him. Putting a thumb
nail to her mouth, she nibbled on a loose cuticle—a habit she had often tried to break
but could not shake. To those who knew her well it was a sign of how acutely she was
stressed.
“Where are you, Fallon?” she asked, her breath fogging the glass.
By the time she saw him striding toward the cottage, an hour had passed—an hour
in which she had imagined all manner of terrible things befalling him. The sight of him
climbing the three short steps, his boot heels scuffing on the porch floor were such a
relief, she snatched back the lock and bolted out the door, flinging her arms around him
as he reached the doorway.
“Don’t you ever do that again!” she hissed.
His arms wrapped her. “Do what?”
“Scare me like that, Fallon!” she said in a voice that said he should have known
what had upset her. “I was worried about you.”
Her body was pressed tightly to his and she was shaking, so he bent his knees and
scooped her up in his arms, took her into the cottage and kicked the door shut. Once
more the lock engaged on its own.
He carried her to the bedroom without another word between them. There was no
need for words and both knew it. Once at the bed, he let her feet touch the floor then
took his time undressing her. He tugged off the pullover, unbuckled the trendy belt
circling her waist, unsnapped her fly then released the zipper. Tucking his fingers
beneath the waistband, he hunkered down before her as he peeled the slacks down her
long legs, reveling in her hand on his shoulder as she steadied herself while she stepped
out of the garment. His gaze lingered on the lace and silk panties that molded to her
shapely hips as he removed her socks then he stood, reaching behind her to unhook her
53
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
bra. The weight of her breasts caught and held his attention as they were
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