Scarlet Boa

Desmond Mershan's gaze narrowed on her, shocking B.A. to discover those ice-green eyes were capable of heat. They raked slowly over her face, the gold hair fanning about her shoulders, down to her breasts and lower in a path of scorching fire, before traveling back to lock stares. Appraisal finished, he watched her as if he knew things about her, secrets, things she was loath to admit, dared her to admit. The small, well-formed lips parted with his panther's appreciation, his jungle arrogance saying he'd put his mark on her.

Her traitorous body roared to life. Breasts heavy, tips sensitive, without glancing down she knew the thin silk of her blouse outlined the crowns of her nipples. Lifting her chin, she tugged the shawl around her in a blanket of armor.

He held out his hand. B.A. stared down at the long magician's fingers as if they were cobras. Something about his polished manner triggered warning-bells within her. It cautioned Desmond Mershan lied through those pearly white teeth—predator's teeth—saying he knew precisely who she was. Incisive, shrewd intelligence radiated through those pale eyes. That alone said, if he had business dealings with her grandfather, he wouldn't come to Falgannon without knowing every detail about the isle, about B.A. Montgomerie. He strangely played out this charade. Lying. B.A. tried to shake that impression, but it lingered.

Impatience lit his expression, yet even that struck her as having a thespian air. "This was arranged with Sean Montgomerie, the owner of this Isle—"

"I'm the owner," she informed.

He tried to evade the pesky feline, but finally scratched its chin. "I was about to explain my arrangements were with the old laird of the island—"

"I own Falgannon, not my grandfather, and I've heard of no arrangements."

Gently pushing away the persistent cat, he smiled. "I'm exhausted. Point us to where we're to lodge, the we can sort this out after I clean up, have a couple aspirins and a drink. Say over supper?" The penetrating eyes traced over her with a blistering sexual fire.

So the warlock was being charming? She almost huffed her doubt. Supper? Yeah right! Those soporific eyes promised a meal...a bedtime story, and then breakfast! "No one lands on the Isle without prior permission. I've no idea what business you think you have here, but you're mistaken if—"

Reaching inside his jacket to pull out a fat envelope, he sighed. "Permission to land. While you get up to speed, I'd appreciate a meal and a bath."

B.A. no more wished to accept it than she had to shake his hand. Maeve taught her to be wary of a warlock, distrustful of accepting anything from him. More importantly, never to pass him any object he requests—especially salt—you'd give away a part of yourself, empowering his control over you. B.A. never met anyone who qualified as a warlock, but she'd bet Maeve's silver torque she stared one in the face.