I’m no’ a good man, he’d said. He was right. He wasn’t. He was a man who lived by his own rules. He stole other people’s personal property—though he insisted he was “borrowing” and, oddly, left more valuable items. He held her captive—though he cooked scrumptious meals and, frankly, she’d agreed to cooperate for a bribe. Criminal at worst, at best he existed on the fringes of civilized society.

Then again, since she’d accepted his bribe, she supposed she was on those fringes now too.

Still, she mused, a truly bad man wouldn’t bother warning a woman that he wasn’t a good man. A truly bad man wouldn’t stop kissing a woman when she said stop.

What an enigma he was, and so strangely anachronistic! Though his penthouse was modern, his demeanor was distinctly old-world. His speech also was modern, yet he lapsed, at times, into an infrequent, curious formality, splashed with old Gaelic colloquialisms. There was something more to him than she was seeing. She could feel it dancing just at the edge of her comprehension, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bring it into focus. And there was definitely something about his eyes . . .

She might not be as worldly as New York women, but she wasn’t completely naïve; she could feel danger in him—a woman would have to be dead not to. It dripped from him as liberally as testosterone oozed from his pores. Still, he tempered it with discipline and restraint. He had her at his complete mercy, and he’d not taken advantage of it.

She shook her head. Maybe for him, she thought, as easily as women must fall for him, it was the chase he enjoyed most.

Well, she thought, bristling, he could chase all he wanted. She might be on the fringes, but that didn’t mean she was just going to up and fall in bed with him, no matter how much she might secretly long to be initiated into the exotic, erotic, mysterious Dageus MacKeltar club. Salient word there being “club”—as in, with lots of members.

With that resolved, she shampooed her hair twice (she’d never gone without a shower for two days straight before) and stood under the pulsing spray until she felt squeaky clean. And then a bit longer. Those massaging shower heads were to die for.

Wrapping herself in a luxurious towel, she dislodged the chair and unlocked the door.

When she opened it, she gaped. Half her wardrobe was piled neatly on the bed. She blinked. Yup, there it was. In tidy piles. Panties (uh-hmm, and those were staying firmly on her butt), bras, dresses, sweaters, jeans, a lacy little nightie, socks, boots, shoes, the works. They were stacked in “outfit” piles, she noted, bemused. He’d not just grabbed clothing, but had matched things together as if envisioning her wearing them.

He’d even brought some of her books, she noticed, wandering over to the bed.

Three romance novels, the dastardly man. Scottish romance novels. What had he done? Poked through all her stuff while he was there? Right on top was The Highlander’s Touch, one of her favorite novels about an immortal Highlander.