In Mcgillivray's Bed

“Something the matter?” she asked, following him with her gaze.

“No!” The word came out more as a snap than as a word. “I’m just…making some coffee. Do you want some coffee?”

“That would be wonderful.”

He made a pot of coffee. And while he was doing it, he got a grip. He remembered again all the things he needed to say to make sure they both got through the next day or so unscathed. And when it had finished dripping, he poured two mugs and carried them over to the table.

He set one in front of her and took one to the other side of the table where he sat down opposite her with slow deliberation, intending to make sure she understood how very serious he was.

She took the coffee gratefully, then started in on the chicken again.

Hugh averted his gaze. “Rule number one,” he said.

She looked up, fork halfway to her mouth, which was shaped like an O. She blinked. “Rule what?”

He set his jaw. “We need some ground rules. So you don’t get any mistaken ideas.”

“So I don’t…” Her voice trailed off. She put the forkful of potato salad in her mouth, closed it again, then began to chew slowly as if she were chewing over his words as well as the food. All the while her very blue eyes never left his. He felt his blood pressure going up.

At last she swallowed. “Right,” she said finally. “Ground rules.” She set down her fork and folded her hands in her lap. “By all means.”

There was something in her voice—sarcasm?—that made him narrow his gaze. She smiled at him.

He scowled at her. “I don’t want you getting any ideas.”

“Ideas?” By God, she looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “About what?”

“About us,” he bit out.

“Us?” Her eyes grew like saucers.

“Yes, us. You and me.” He spelled it out. “On account of what happened before. In there.” He jerked his head toward the bathroom.