A Scot Is Not Enough
Scottish Treasures Book 2
by Gina Conkle
Genre: Historical Scottish Romance
Her hems covered his shoes. Heat bounced between them. His, hers. Emotions boiling. Miss MacDonald looked as if she’d come fresh from a tussle, cosmetics smudging smoky lines around her eyes, and her lips faded carmine. A proud, glorious, passionate mess. A woman who didn’t like needing a man.
Her brows pinched, the fight fading from her eyes. “I . . .”
He waited, but whatever needed out wouldn’t come easily.
“Let me refresh your memory. You said, ‘Come with me, please.’ I detected a note of desperation in your voice. A woman who didn’t want to be alone.” A pause and, “Or are you about to tell me how mistaken I am?”
Composure rippled through her. She stood tall yet older as if the day had aged her.
“You’re right. I don’t want to be alone.”
Her voice was loneliness and a whiff of despair, the sound reaching into his heart.
Honest hazel eyes met his. “When I’m with you, I feel . . . safe.”
“Miss MacDonald, you’re not alone. With me, you never have to be.”
Her eyelids quivered shut as if he’d delivered a healing elixir and she the dying woman who needed it. Blue shimmered seductively on her shoulder. A gap showed between skin and silk, a fragile shadow. An opening. He touched it and won her sharp inhale. Miss MacDonald trembled when he slid the fabric off her shoulder. The hat she held slipped to the floor.
His gaze dipped, fascinated by two hard nubs straining against silk.
He dragged both sleeves down her arms. This was heady, the sight of her skin intoxicating. Miss MacDonald wavered, a flush spreading up her chest and neck. She gripped his waistcoat, twisting the cloth in both hands.
Mere inches separated them when she said a resentful, “I don’t want to want you like this.”
He crushed her sleeves in both hands.
“You mean the unceasing need to breathe the same air as mine, to hear my voice as I crave yours, the anticipation, hanging on what you might say or do next because you are the most irritatingly captivating creature.” He exhaled long, his breath stirring her hair. “That kind of not wanting to want someone?”
Her lust-black gaze enthralled him.
“Now you know how badly I want you.” His voice was hoarse, primitive.
Her mouth was inches under his. “Why?”
Desire unspooled, maddening carnal layers of it. He slid both hands into her hair. Bright red earbobs slanted on his wrists and hairpins clattered to the floor. His fevered hands roamed over her neck, her shoulders, and her hair.
Her grip on his waistcoat was unyielding.
“Why, Mr. Sloane? Why me?”
fate was sealed when her mom read aloud the poem, The
Highwayman—the perfect historical romance hook. But, Gina grew
up in California where no dukes or Vikings live. She always did
prefer stone castles over sand castles and books over beaches.
Years ago, she fell in love with her favorite hero, Brian, and they eloped to Vegas at midnight. Together, they raised two sons who like history almost as much as their mom.
Nowadays, Gina pens sparkling Georgian romance with a dash of Scots or Viking romance with heat and adventure. When she's not writing, you can find her wandering a museum or with her nose in a book.
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