He snorts. “I’ve had lessons since I was a baby. Been hunting since I was old enough to walk.”
I stop right in front of him, giving myself a full view of his stunning face. I reach up to tap his cheek, then settle for his chin because it seems less intimate. “So.” I tap once. “Have.” Twice. “I.”
I give him a winning grin. And still, I’m not prepared when his hand comes over the back of my head, smoothing down my wind-tossed hair.
“I can see that, Lucy Rhodes.” His big hand smooths my hair again; my lips struggle to hold their smile. “You’re very good.”
I lick my lips.
“Too good,” he says in a low, soft voice.
I can’t move. Can only stare into his eyes. They blink. His face is slack. I feel his body lean toward mine and somehow I just know that Liam’s about to kiss me. I feel a buzzing start between my legs and spread outward. My eyes move over him frantically, lusting after his smooth, thick throat, the curve of pecs I can see through his shirt.
I don’t think first. I grab his neck.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
His eyes widen a little. “Don’t what?”
“Kiss me.”
Okay—and now they’re wider. Fuck me! I watch his mouth move—tight and nervous, morphing to amused, then charmed, then playing my game too: smirky. “What makes you think that I was going to kiss you, Lucy?”
“I could feel it.” It’s not too out of character for me to toss my hair over my shoulder, arch an eyebrow at him. We’ve been flirting for the last hour. I’m in the zone. I lick my lips again, a practiced move, and then I drag my gaze down his hard body. I find what I hoped I would: a tent in his pants.
He smiles ruefully as my eyes meet him there. His hand goes to my shoulder. “Lucille Rhodes. That’s not fair.”
I laugh softly. “Fair? Since when was anything fair, Prince Liam?”
He shuts his eyes, his hand still warm on my shoulder. “It’s you.” I see his jaw tighten around the words. His eyes stay shut. “You’re like a fucking drug, Lucy.”
Oh God, I want to touch him right now.
“Am I?” I whisper.
His eyelids lift a little, so we’re looking at each other.
“Aye.”
NINETEEN Lucy
His eyes are hot and earnest. Burning. All I want in the whole world is to lean up and find his mouth with mine. And equally I know I can’t. I need to tell him first. The mere thought sends a splash of terror through my bloodstream. I step back and take a slow breath. Fold my arms.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
Liam laughs.
“I’m great with compliments. I know.” I toss my hair again; this time it’s really bugging me. “I’ve got a good idea.” The words roll out before I think about them. “How about I stay for two more nights: this one and tomorrow night. And we hang out—as friends. Purely platonic, friendy friends, like…I don’t know. Platonic people. Middle schoolers.”
Liam snorts, then smiles.
I smile back. “Okay, maybe not like middle schoolers, but we get to know each other. We don’t even know each other really, right?”
He nods slowly. As he does, he folds his arms over his chest: something I’ve realized that he does when he’s feeling reserved.
“So, we get to know each other. All about each other. Except…that. Then the day after tomorrow, if we still…” I arch my eyebrows. “If we still. Then we can. We’ll both be going in with eyes open. It won’t just be a random hookup.”
“No random hookups for Lucille Rhodes, huh?” His lids are low again. I have to force my eyes to stay on his face when they really want to wander down.
I shake my head. “We Southern girls are more discerning.”
He laughs. “Are you?” His mouth twists skeptically.
“Are you saying that you don’t believe me? Are you questioning my virtue, Prince Liam?” I stab a fingertip at his chest.
His eyes shut. I feel his sternum rise and fall below my finger. “No touching,” he finally breathes.
“So…none of this.” I drag my finger down the flat plane in the middle of his sharp-cut abs. He exhales deeply. I can see his face tighten. “Teasing is just mean,” I whisper, stroking just under his pecs.
His eyes open. He takes a slow step back, giving me a confused look as he does. “Yes,” he rasps. “It’s mean.”
I can’t stop the giggle that bursts from my mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
His eyebrows lift as his mouth curves. “You’re finding this harder than I am.”
“Oh, it’s hard.” I snicker.
Liam laughs, his head dropping back, so I can see his yummy throat. I want to bite it like a vampire. When he looks at me again, his eyes are warm.
My cheeks are.
“I’m not usually this way,” I tell him, folding my own arms.
He moves closer to me, stopping with about a foot of distance between us. I can feel him want to touch me—but he doesn’t. He just smiles, the gentle smile, the one I like almost as much as I like his boisterous laugh.
“I know you’re not, Lucille.” The way he sounds—it’s like he really knows. It’s like he knows me.
“You better stop using that dirty word, or I’ll use yours.”
“Willahelm?” And bless my thudding heart, that voice of his makes it sound sexy.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Lucille and Willahelm.” He smiles again. I smile back.
“Maybe we should carve it in a tree.”
“We should. Speaking of trees…” He glances at the castle. “Heath is scheduled to be back tonight—from polo. He’ll be bitchy and hung-over and he might have some lady friends with him. I texted him to tell him not to bring a posse, but he hasn’t texted back. Would you want to…go somewhere? Sleep somewhere not the castle?”
“Somewhere not the castle,” I tease. “This sounds like a riddle. Where would we be going?”
His lips flatten out. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Just an island near here. It’s got cabanas and a few tree houses. Sometimes we use it for entertaining. Hot springs too,” he says. His voice is low and quiet.
Something prickles in the back of my mind, firing for a moment before it triggers my memory.
“I live between the ocean and a…lake. In the lake, there’s an island. My mum used to call it Pirate Island. We would take a canoe there and bring a picnic.”
My chest and throat go hot. “Is that the island that you mentioned on the phone?”
He shrugs. “It’s just the nearest one. In Loch Haar.”
He starts walking toward Don Juan, and I follow. “What does Haar mean? Loch means lake, I think I’m right on that.”
“You are,” he says, collecting my arrows. “Haar means fog, or sea fog. This loch is often foggy, so the name.”
“So the name.” I smile, catching his eye as he puts the arrows back into the leather quiver.
His lips curve up, a little slower than other times. “So the name,” he says again, shrugging.
“You know, your accent isn’t as thick as some of the ones I’ve heard, but sometimes you say little things that sound really Gael-ish.”
“Gaelic?” he smiles.