The Dark Highlander Read Online Free Page B

think was that Security might let some bimbo up, just as they had her, and said bimbo might tear a page out of the priceless text to wad up her chewing gum in, or something equally sacrilegious.
    So, sighing, she smoothed her hair and tried one of the double doors.
    It slid silently open on—heavens, were those gold-plated hinges? She caught sight of her gaping reflection in one. Some people had more money than sense. Just
one
of those stupid hinges would pay the rent on her tiny efficiency for months.
    Shaking her head, she stepped inside and cleared her throat. “Hello?” she called, as it occurred to her that it might be unlocked because he’d left one of his apparently myriad women there.
    “Hello, hello!” she called again.
    Silence.
    Luxury. Like she’d never seen.
    She glanced about, and
still
might have been okay if she hadn’t spotted the glorious Scottish claymore hanging above the fireplace in the living room. It drew her like a moth to the flame.
    “Oh, you gorgeous, lovely, splendid little thing, you,” she gushed, hurrying over to it, promising herself she was just going to place the text on the marble coffee table, take a quick glance, and leave.
    Twenty minutes later, she was in the midst of a thorough exploration of his home, her heart hammering with nervousness, yet too enthralled to stop.
    “How
dare
he leave his door unlocked?” she grumbled, frowning at a magnificent medieval broadsword. Casually propped against the wall in a corner. Ripe for the plucking. Though Chloe prided herself on sound morals, she suffered a shocking urge to tuck it beneath her arm and make a run for it.
    The place was full of artifacts—all Celtic at that! Scottish weapons dating back to the fifteenth century, if she didn’t miss her guess, and she rarely did, adorned a wall in his library. Priceless Scots regalia: sporran, badge, and brooches in mint condition lay beside a pile of ancient coins on a desk.
    She touched, she examined, she shook her head disbelievingly.
    Where previously she’d felt nothing but distaste for the man, she was growing fonder of him by the moment, shamelessly seduced by his excellent taste.
    And growing more curious about him with each new discovery.
    No photos, she noticed, glancing around the rooms. Not one. She’d love to know what the guy looked like.
    Dageus MacKeltar. What a name.
    Nothing against Zanders,
Grandda had often said,
it’s a fine name, but it’s as easy to fall in love with a Scotsman as an Englishman, lass.
A weighty pause. A harumph. Then, inevitable as sunrise,
Easier, actually.
    She smiled, remembering how he’d endlessly encouraged her to get a “proper” last name for herself.
    Her smile froze as she stepped into the bedroom.
    Her desire to know what he looked like escalated into obsession territory.
    His bedroom, his sinful, decadent bedroom, with the enormous hand-carved, curtained bed covered with silks and velvets, with the exquisitely tiled fireplace, the black marble Jacuzzi in which one might sit sipping champagne, gazing down over Manhattan through a wall of windows. Dozens of candles surrounded the tub. Two glasses had been carelessly knocked over on the Berber carpet.
    His scent lingered in the room, scent of man and spice and virility.
    Her heart pounded as the enormity of what she was doing occurred to her. She was snooping through a very wealthy man’s penthouse, currently standing in the man’s bedroom, for heaven’s sake! In his very lair where he seduced his women.
    And from the looks of things, he had seduction down to a fine art.
    Virgin wool carpet, black velvet draping the monstrous bed, silk sheets beneath a sumptuous beaded velvet coverlet, ornate museum-worthy mirrors framed in silver and obsidian.
    Despite the warning bells going off in her head, she couldn’t seem to make herself leave. Mesmerized, she opened a closet, trailing her fingers over fine hand-tailored clothing, inhaling the subtle, undeniably sexual scent of the man.