“Oh, you’ve got a title, too? Well, of course you do. That’s the way this day is going.”

“It’s Laird Kilcurt.”

“But your name is Kilcurt. Isn’t your title supposed to be completely different? Like Alec Kilcurt, laird of Toll House? Or something?”

He laughed. “Something. But my family does things a little differently. Too bad…I like the idea of being laird of chocolate chips.”

The waiter came, refreshed their drinks, and put down the two dozen oysters she’d ordered. She pulled her hand away, not without major reluctance. She figured this was her first and last date with the man, so she’d ordered recklessly. He’d probably flip out when the bill came. He probably spent all his money on clothes and, given his trim waistline, only ate porridge once a day.

Wrong again. He nodded approvingly at the ridiculous size of her appetizer. He was leaning back in his chair, studying her. He had, if it was possible, gotten even better looking since morning. The expensive coat was off, revealing a splendid build showcased to perfection in a dark gray suit. His brogue, she noticed, came and went, depending on the topic of conversation.

“You haven’t lived in Scotland your entire life,” she observed, sucking down her second daiquiri. Normally not a big drinker, she felt the need for booze today.

“No. My family often had business on Cape Cod, so I spent a lot of time in Massachusetts. And I went to Harvard for graduate school. I’ve probably lived in America as many years as I’ve lived in Scotland.”

Titled, gorgeous, rich, smart. Was she on Candid Camera, or what? “That makes sense…I noticed your accent comes and goes. I mean, sometimes it’s really faint, and sometimes it’s pretty heavy.”

“It’s heavy,” he replied, “when I’m tired. Or angry. Or…excited.”

“Okay, that’s it,” she said, slamming down her glass. “Who are you? What do you want with me? I made eighteen thousand dollars last year. I’m poor, plain, cursed with childbearing hips—and ass—and I’m prospect-less. What the hell are you doing with me?”

His eyes went narrow. “I’ll have to find the people who convinced you of such things. And have a long chat with them.”

“Answer the question, Groundskeeper Willie, or I’m out of here.”

He looked puzzled at her pop culture reference, but he shrugged and answered easily enough. “I’m planning to spend the day getting you into my bed. And I’m thinking about marrying you. That’s what I’m doing with you, my charming little chocolate treat.”

She felt her mouth pop open and felt her face get red. If this was a joke, it was a pretty mean one. If he was serious, he was out of his fucking mind. She seized on the one thing she could safely question. “Chocolate treat?”