Page 28 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Hertake no prisonersplan stalled.

A chair scraped the floor. Mr. West stood up, his mouth quirking as if her presence on his doorstep was inevitable.

“How nice to see you,” he said. “Please come in.”

She didn’t budge. She couldn’t.

Mr. West was rounding his desk when an orange tabby trotted out of the shadows, leaped up, and plopped down on a pile of papers in the middle of the desk. Mr. West stopped to pet the cat.

“This is Mr. Fisk. He requires my attention in the morning.” He added a heartwarming, “The old cat likes to think he owns the place.”

His quip was the perfect opportunity for polite excuses and a hasty exit, but the sight of him, stroking the orange tabby, glued her feet to the floor.

“Do you like cats?” he asked.

“I do.”

A silly flutter invaded her chest. She was ensorcelled by his long fingers ruffling, then smoothing the cat’s fur. Judging by the rumbling purr, Mr. Fisk approved. She wouldn’t mind Mr. West ruffling and smoothing her.

“Independent creatures, cats.” Mr. West lifted his head, his green-blue eyes incandescent in sunlight. “One must be patient to earn their devotion.”

Her stomach flip-flopped.

“Yes, patience. A true virtue.”

“And one must proceed with caution. Otherwise, they dart off—especially from doorsteps late at night.”

She was dry-mouthed and snared by his potent stare. “They are quick... cats.”

“Very quick.”

Mr. West’s smile was gently wicked.The ruinous man. He was stringing her along flirtation’s path.

“But when coupled with time and the right touch,” he said, “anything can happen.”

He illustrated this with more tender strokes.Oh, to be that cat.Her own back twitched, her senses muddling. Morning light flooded her, but the office seemed to transform itself before her eyes. Mr. West could’ve pulled back the curtain on a life she didn’t know existed. The scene filling her mind, startling. Something to make her breath catch. A hazy, domestic future—the two of them by a cozy fire with a cat curled up on a pillow. Their conversation was light. The mood, sweet. The contentment, devasting.

The sea wolf tamed, as it were.

She put a hand on the door frame to steady herself.

“Aren’t you coming in?” he asked.

Wistful seconds passed before she found her voice.

“I—I can’t. A wherry is waiting for me.” She fished for the key and held it up to ward off his enchanting appeal. “I brought the key to Neville Warehouse.”

“I see.”

Mr. West advanced on her, bringing his devastating musk and cedarwood scent with him.

Why was she such a ninny about the scent of his skin?

Eyes like weatherworn glass studied her. Humor glinted in their depths, she suspected, as much for her delivering the key as for himself at being profoundly pleased that she had.

“Thank you.” He took the proffered key, and she wished she were gloveless today.

To feel his skin on hers...