Beyond the Highland Myst(350)

Before she'd indulged in her Great Fit of Rebellion, she'd dutifully dated a few of her father's choices. Dry, intellectual men, they'd regarded her more often than not through eyes red-rimmed from constant peering into a microscope or textbook, with little interest in her as a person, and great interest in what her formidable parents might do for their careers. There'd been no passionate declarations of undying love, only fervent assurances that they would make a brilliant team.

Gwendolyn Cassidy, the sheltered daughter of famous scientists who had elevated themselves from stark poverty as children to esteemed positions at Los Alamos National Laboratory doing top-secret quantum research for the Department of Defense, had had a nearly impossible time getting a date outside of the cliquish scientific community in which she'd been raised. At college it had been even worse. Men had dated her for three reasons: to try to get in good with her parents, to see if she had any theories worth stealing, and, last but not least, for the prestige of dating the "prodigy." Those few who'd been attracted by her other endowments (translated: generous C cups) hadn't lingered long after learning who she was and what courses she was acing while they were hardly managing to skate by.

She'd been frighteningly cynical by twenty-one.

She'd dropped out of the doctorate program at twenty-three, carving an irrevocable schism between herself and her parents.

Lonely as hell by twenty-five. A veritable island.

Two years ago, she'd thought changing jobs—taking a nice, normal, average job with nice, normal, average people who weren't scientists—would fix her problems. She'd tried so hard to fit in and build a new life for herself. But she'd finally realized it wasn't her career choice that was the problem.

Although she'd told herself that she'd come to Scotland to shuck her virginity, the small deception was how she concealed her deeper and much more fragile motives.

The problem was—Gwen Cassidy didn't know if she had a heart.

When Drustan had spoken so passionately of what he was looking for in a woman, she'd nearly flung herself at him, madman or no. Family, talking, taking quiet pleasure in the simple lush beauty of the Highlands, having children who would be loved. Fidelity, bonding, and a man who wouldn't kiss another woman if he were wed. She sensed that Drustan was a bit of an island himself.

Oh, she knew why she'd really come to Scotland—she needed to know if love really was an illusion. She was desperate to change, to find something to shake her up and make her feel.

Well, this certainly qualified. If she wanted to become a new person, what better way to start than to force herself to completely suspend disbelief, throw caution to the wind. To toss aside all that she'd been raised to believe and plunge into life, messy as it was. To rescind control over what was happening around her and entrust that control to a madman. Raised in an environment where intellect was prized above all else, here was her chance to act impulsively, on gut instinct.

With a gorgeous madman, at that.

It would be good for her. Who knew what might come of it?

She could feel a perfectly vicious cigarette craving coming on.

* * * * *

"Come," he said, when she returned. He'd built a fire in her absence, and she considered asking for her lighter back but was too exhausted to summon up the energy for a potential ownership dispute. Violating her privacy utterly, he'd rummaged through her pack and created a paltry bed by strewing her previously clean clothing upon the ground. A recent acquisition—a vibrantly crimson thong, adorned with black velvet silhouettes of romping kittens—poked out from between a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. She spent a moment calculating the odds that he would pull out the only thong she'd bought but never worn—the thong she planned to wear when she lost her virginity.

Inconceivable. She glared suspiciously at him, certain he'd displayed her panties on purpose, but if so, he was the picture of innocence.

"I cannot procure food for you this night," he apologized, "but we will eat in the morning. For now, you must sleep."

She said nothing, merely cast an irritable glance at her clothes, strewn across twigs, leaves, and dirt. Further irritating her, he was standing at the perimeter of the light cast by the flames, making it difficult to see him clearly. But she didn't miss that lazily sensual, lionlike toss of his head that sent his silky dark hair falling over his shoulder. It screamed come hither, and pissed her off even more.

He met her glare with a provocative smile and gestured toward her clothing. "I made you a pallet upon which to sleep. In my time I would spread my plaid for you. But I would also warm you with the heat of my naked body. Shall I remove my plaid?"

"No need to bother," she sputtered hastily. "My clothes are fine. Wonderful. Really."