The Immortal Highlander

Aspirin and a long hot shower had scalded away the last of her hangover. Chloe had invited her to drop by her chambers before dinner so they could find her something to wear, as they were nearly the same size. She was looking forward to wearing something besides jeans. Okay, she was looking forward to looking pretty around Adam; there, she’d admitted it. Really, a woman would have to be dead not to want to look good around him.

She brushed on lipstick and ran her fingers through her hair, letting it spill down her back, tugging a few long bangs to spike softly around her eyes. A smudge of smoky shadow at her eyes, a dab of mascara. A hint of shiny gloss on her mouth, enough to catch the light and do interesting things with it. Enough to draw a man’s notice.

And that, she decided, eyeing herself in the mirror, was as good as Gabby got. Clothes would have to do the rest; she just hoped Chloe had something ultrafeminine and a smidgen provocative that she could borrow.

Opening the bathroom door, she stepped out into the adjoining bedchamber.

And froze.

Impossible, she thought, staring at the canopied bed.

Not that the velvet drapes were hung again or that the bed was neatly made—that was perfectly possible. A maid had obviously stopped in while she’d been in the shower, shaving her legs, smoothing on lotion, and fussing with cosmetics.

What wasn’t possible was the slinky black dress she’d spent long minutes sighing over so wistfully at Macy’s that was currently hanging between those drapes.

Nor, she thought, stunned, moving closer to the bed, the dainty heels she’d eyed so covetously.

Nor, she thought, eyes widening, that sinful bit of lacy bra and panties in her favorite shade of pale pink.

And, oh, my God, she thought breathlessly, is that a box from Tiffany’s?

Clutching the lapels of her bathrobe, she glanced around the room.

There was no sign of him.

But on the air, faint yet unmistakable, was just a hint of the exotic scent of jasmine and sandalwood and spicy, seductive man, and she realized he’d probably sifted out mere moments ago while she’d been finishing up her makeup.

She reached for the box with trembling hands, opened it, and gasped, so stunned that she fumbled and nearly dropped it.

Nestled on a bed of velvet was a diamond choker and matching earrings, and she knew exactly where she’d last seen them. It had been back in Cincinnati, the night he’d brought her dinner from Jean-Robert at Pigalls. She’d left the office late, taken her usual path past Tiffany’s to collect her car from the corner lot. There’d been a new window display up, and she’d been briefly captivated by the elegance of the simply set stones. She’d paused, gazing in the window at the matching pieces. Wondering, with feminine curiosity, what kind of man showered what kind of woman with such jewels. Wondering if she’d ever get so much as a diamond ring on her finger, or even a plain wedding band.

He must have been somewhere behind her, watching her.

Just as he must have been at Macy’s.

I take care of what is mine, he’d told her when he’d handed her the keys to the BMW.

Indeed.

As she lifted the glittering strand of diamonds from the box, a small slip of paper fell out. She caught it as it wafted toward the floor.

Four words in ancient script, an arrogantly slanted scrawl.

Accept these, accept me.

Well, she thought, blinking, that was certainly direct and to the point.

She held the glittering stones in her hands for a long time, looking at them but not really seeing them. No longer really thinking but opening her heart, feeling, wondering. Hearing an echo of Gwen’s words: Will you be able to live with yourself if you don’t let yourself have a happy-now, and end up having had nothing at all?

Eventually she placed the box back on the bed and slipped on the panties and bra.

Stepped into the clingy black dress, tugged it over her hips, and zipped the tiny side zipper.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she strapped on the dainty, sexy shoes.

Then she reached for the box, donned the earrings, and fastened the strand of cool stones around her throat.

Adam had just stepped out of the shower when he heard a soft tap on his bedchamber door.

He hoped like bloody hell it wasn’t another maid. When he’d returned from his ride, there’d been dozens of them loitering about in the great hall. While he was accustomed to women throwing themselves at him, he wasn’t accustomed to them staring with such unnerving intensity directly at his crotch. Hard. As if they were trying to see through the leather to what lay beneath, or rather, stood beneath, because the damn thing was never going to go down until he’d had Gabrielle beneath him at least a hundred times.