“I wonder, Abigail, would you mind satisfying a point of curiosity for me?” Jonathan smiled again, reaching across the table to brush his fingers across the back of her hand, his touch soft and smooth against her skin.
“If I can.” At least it would keep her from having to take another bite for a little while.
“One of the professors who submitted a letter of recommendation for you to join our team, a Dr. Oldham, indicated that you had an uncanny ability to find whatever you searched for.Magicalwas the word he used, if I remember correctly. Could you tell me more about that?”
Magical? Maybe so. That was what her dad had always said, too. All she knew was that when she searched for any object her mind just sort of connected with it, as if the item spoke to her. No way was she saying something as crazy as that out loud, though. Jonathan Flynn still had a week to cut her from the dig team and she wasn’t taking any chances by making him think he might have chosen some sort of crazy woman for his project.
“Dr. Oldham exaggerated, I’m afraid. Yes, I did have an exceptionally high percentage of finds when I interned under him, but honestly, that was only because I worked very hard and I put in a lot of time. There’s not much magic to that.”
“As you say, perhaps not.”
Jonathan’s eyebrow rose and then that smile returned, an expression that sent a shiver up Abby’s neck. Not a smile, she realized, but a mask of a smile, not once reaching his eyes. Silence reigned once again, stretching out as she toyed with her food, moving small bits around on her plate. Perhaps it was that uncomfortable lack of conversation between them that sent the frisson of heat dancing over her skin, setting all the hair on her arms to stand on end.
That or guilt over not eating what had to be an amazingly expensive dinner. Even now she fought an intense urge to take another bite, as if her mind tried to force her into doing something her mouth definitely did not want.
She laid her fork across her plate and grasped her water glass, surprised to see how her hand trembled in response to what had to be nothing more than nerves.
“Would you be terribly disappointed if we skipped dessert?”
Abby jerked her eyes from her hand to meet Jonathan’s gaze at his question.
“Not at all.” At the rate this meal was going, she had little desire to see what the officious waiter might deliver to their table next.
“My schedule is rather more hectic for this visit than I would have liked. If it’s acceptable to you, I’ll have my driver see you home.”
“Oh, absolutely. Of course.” The guy was a zillionaire or something. It only made sense he had more business in town than just having dinner with her. “I appreciate your making time for us to meet.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it, Abigail.” Their server appeared at the table, check in hand, and waited as Jonathan signed the slip. “Let me walk you out to the car.”
The trip from their table outside to the waiting limo was a blur. Abby’s only real awareness was of the sensation of Jonathan’s hand against her lower back, the gesture one of familiarity, almost possessive in nature.
As the driver hurried to open the door, Jonathan grasped her fingers and lifted her hand to his lips, flipping her palm up at the last second.
Abby fought the urge to pull away as his lips grazed over her wrist, lingering for what felt like the longest second of her life.
“We have many more dinners in our future, Abigail. Of that you can be sure.”
Forcing her mouth into a smile, she ducked inside the limo and scooted back in the seat, feeling a modicum of relief only when the vehicle pulled away from the curb.
She wiped a hand over her forehead and laid her head back against the soft leather. Maybe she was coming down with something. That might explain the bizarre way she’d felt back there in the restaurant.
Here she’d had the perfect evening. An evening women the world over would kill for. Chauffeured around in a limousine, wined and dined at maybe the most exclusive place in town, accompanied by an exceptionally attentive and handsome man; what more could she ask for?
As if in answer to her question a picture formed immediately in her mind. Auburn hair, not blond. Blue eyes instead of green. A rolling Scot’s brogue instead of a cultured British tongue.
It seemed that not even a Perfect Evening with a Perfect Man could drive that damned Highlander from her thoughts.
***
Flynn O’Dannan raked his bottom teeth over his tingling lips as he stepped back from the curb, watching the limo disappear into traffic. It was as though he could still feel the steady flow of blood through the delicate skin of Abigail’s wrist.
He brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead, smoothed one hand over his chest, and turned to reenter the restaurant, heading straight to the bar this time.
The Bloodlust gripped him like an addiction. An addiction he fully intended never to indulge in again.
“Cognac,” he demanded as he slipped onto the high padded stool.
He’d spent the last three years carefully planning, setting up the intricate web necessary for him to assume the identity of Jonathan Flynn, to put together this excavation. Finding the likely candidates, locating an abandoned stone circle, obtaining the proper papers and permission; all of it had cost him a small fortune.
