He might have been the prince of any woman’s imaginings. Or the dark angel of her most secret dreams. His hair was black as a moonless night and flew around a face lightly gilded by the sun. A face of strong, sharp bones, of firm, unsmiling mouth, of haunting male beauty.

He was tall. She had only a sense of height as her head reeled. For he had the eyes of the wolf she’d thought she’d seen—tawny and gold, unblinking and intense—under arched brows as black as his hair. They stared directly into hers, making the blood rush hot through her veins. She felt the strength of his hands, as he’d yet to release her, thought she saw both impatience and curiosity flicker over that gorgeous face.

But she might have been wrong because he continued to stare, and say nothing.

“I was— You startled me. I didn’t hear you. You were just there.” She nearly winced as she heard herself babble.

Which was his own fault, he supposed. He could have made her aware of him gradually. But something about the way she’d been lying on the rocks, gazing out at nothing with a half smile on her face had muddled his mind.

“You didn’t hear because you were daydreaming.” He arched one sweeping black eyebrow. “And talking to yourself.”

“Oh. It’s a bad habit of mine—talking to myself. Nervous habit.”

“Why are you nervous?”

“I’m not—I wasn’t.” God, she’d tremble in a moment if he didn’t let her go. It had been a long, long time since she’d been this close to a man other than Alan. And much too long since she’d felt any kind of response to one. She’d never experienced a reaction this strong, this violent or this disorienting, and put it down to nearly tumbling over a cliff.

“You weren’t.” He skimmed his hands down to her wrists, felt the jittery bump of her pulse. “Now you are.”

“You startled me, as I said.” It was an effort, but she glanced over her shoulder and down. “And it’s a long drop.”

“It is that.” He tugged her away another two steps. “Better?”

“Yes, well … I’m Rowan Murray. I’m using Belinda Malone’s cabin for a while.” She would have offered a hand to shake, but it would have been impossible, as he was still cuffing her wrists.

“Donovan. Liam Donovan.” He said it quietly, while his thumbs stroked over her pulse beat and somehow steadied it.

“But you’re not from around here.”

“Aren’t I?”

“I mean, your accent. It’s beautifully Irish.”