Ready to heal her broken heart, 28-year-old Sarah Williams can’t face the anniversary of her husband’s tragic death, so she flees Chicago and heads for Scotland. Sarah’s best friend asks her to deliver some gifts and letters to some of her Scottish relations. This puts Sarah face to face with her best friend’s brother, the bitter, isolated, but incredibly handsome Duncan Mackenzie, a man haunted by a tragic past of his own.
When Duncan promised his sister that he would welcome the American widow to Scotland, he’d expected to meet a grandmotherly type. Instead, he discovers a beautiful, willowy, irresistible blonde who’s far too young to have faced such a tragedy. Suddenly, his own difficult past seems moderate in comparison. At least he survived. And now he wants to live again, really live, and it’s all because of Sarah.
So she snuggled against his solid chest, there at the top of the spooky staircase, and whispered into his ear, “I’m not scared anymore. All my ghosts have gone away.”
“Ah, Sarah, I hope you mean that.” He wanted so much for it to be true. If she meant it, if her ghosts really had gone away, then he might have reason to hope.
He might have the freedom to kiss her, too. And more.
She felt so good in his arms, light and warm. Then way she curled into his chest, almost like a kitten, and the way her silky hair brushed against his throat–he needed her to mean it.
“Yes.” Her fingertips toyed with the hair at the back of his head. “I mean it.”
His self-control shattered. His body came alive with passionate need, and his face turned toward hers. This was what he wanted. This was what he needed, her warm breath against his cheeks and then her lips. He kissed her softly at first, wanting to draw her in. He needed to savor this moment.
But then he felt her reaction, almost like a sigh rippling through her body, and his yearning to taste her turned to something else. Something greedy. Something demanding and insistent. He wanted to crush her against him, to feel every inch of her pliant flesh pressed against his length, to touch her and hold her close. He kissed her deeply, his tongue tasting hers, and almost without realizing it, he sat on one of the benches lining the hall. She was in his lap now and he didn’t have to hold her up. His hands were free to trace the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, and the length of her thigh. Her fingers were buried in his hair, and even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t have pulled away from the kiss.
This was what he wanted. A week ago, he hadn’t even known that this was possible, and now here she was in his arms, and he never wanted to let her go.