Bound by Dreams. Christina Skye

he seemed different.

      “What?”

      “I asked if I could sit down. Is that a problem?”

      “Sit here with me, you mean?” Kiera took a short, irritated breath. What was wrong with her? “It’s just—clearly every other table is available. So why sit here? I don’t even know you.”

      He leaned over and refilled her teacup calmly. “I’ll take a chance if you will.”

      Way too smooth, Kiera thought. She should wave him off and be done with it.

      But she didn’t. Couldn’t.

      “You may have noticed that this place is empty.”

      He just kept waiting, polite but firm.

      She still didn’t ask him to sit down. Kiera was pretty sure that if he sat down, it would be dangerous to her peace of mind.

      “All I seem to notice is you. And for the record, that isn’t a line. I’ve been watching you from the doorway ever since you took out your wool and needles. I like how you work. You’re slow and thoughtful, but there’s sensuality in your hands.”

      Boom. This went way off the pickup-meter. He had watched her knit and called it sensual?

      “Nice try.”

      “Beg your pardon?”

      “Something tells me you’ve scored with lines like that before. Some women might even be fascinated. Not me.”

      “I simply told you what I saw.”

      She’d give him points for delivery, Kiera decided. But that didn’t mean he was going to sit down. A man like this could turn a woman inside out if she let him.

      “I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for someone.”

      “Then I’ll keep you company until he comes.”

      He.

      Kiera didn’t bother to correct him. “You don’t seem to take no for an answer, do you, Mr.—?”

      “MacKay.” His brow rose. “You’re right. I don’t like wasting time. If I want something, which isn’t very often, I go after it.”

      Heat swirled through her, working slowly up her chest. “Is that a warning?”

      “Not at all. I’m just explaining what could appear to be rudeness. But it’s the practical thing to do. You’re alone. I’m alone. Why not share this beautiful morning, even if we both just read the paper? The waiter will have less work, and we’ll have companionable silence.”

      Kiera shook her head. “I know one thing. This is way too good to be true. All of it.”

      “I don’t understand you.”

      “Sure you don’t.” Frowning, Kiera stood up and began to gather her notebook and papers. “I’m not in the market for conversation or companionable silence or anything else. Goodbye, Mr. MacKay.”

      When she turned toward the lobby, Kiera was surprised to see him move in front of her. A crease ran down his forehead. “Don’t go.” His hand rose, then fell back.

      Almost as if he was afraid to touch her. As if he was searching for a way to put something difficult into simple words.

      “Give me one good reason to stay.”

      “I can’t explain it but it feels important that we get to know each other.”

      “And talking with a stranger over breakfast is important? Why should you possibly care about sitting here with me, someone you’ve never met?”

      Something swirled through his eyes. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself. I’m hoping by the time breakfast is over I’ll have an answer. Maybe both of us will.”

      More of that smoky Scottish accent. Each sound teased at Kiera’s prickly defenses. She didn’t have to believe him. She didn’t have to pay attention at all. She could simply listen to him talk.

      “You’re a frightening man, Mr. MacKay.”

      “Calan.” He didn’t move. His air of controlled concentration seemed to deepen. “And why would you think that?”

      “Because you make everything you say sound sincere. You make a woman believe…” She ran a hand through her hair, shoving the short curls back off her face. “Never mind.”

      “No, go on. Believe what?”

      His low question seemed to play over every inch of her skin.

      “It doesn’t matter.” Kiera lifted her bag, her decision made. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’m leaving now.” As she turned, two balls of her favorite red tweed yarn spilled free, rolling over the table.

      He twisted and caught them both, long, powerful fingers curved around the wool. Gentle but expert.

      Just a way a lover would touch. Madness, Kiera told herself.

      “Nice ply. Not Scottish, though. I’d say this wool was made somewhere else.”

      She closed her eyes, feeling her cool decision fade fast. “Don’t start talking yarn ply to me. That’s really hitting beneath the belt.”

      After a moment he laughed. The sound started low, almost a rumble, then grew, spilling free from his chest and filling the whole patio. The sound made him seem younger, less controlled. “So I have a secret weapon now.”

      “I mean it. That is truly low. Men don’t discuss yarn. It’s a sacred law. It makes the world a safer place.”

      “I think you’d have liked my aunts.” He looked up, watching a bird soar along the horizon. Emotion threaded his voice. “Many a winter night I spent before the fire, helping them wind their handspun wool. Each knitted cable and rib had a meaning. I used to think that the whole world lived within the space of those waves and cables.”

      Something dark crossed his eyes. Then his smile faded. Kiera was stunned at how fast the transformation came.

      “You miss them.”

      “Every minute of every day. And looking at that yarn of yours…” He seemed to shrug off bad memories.

      Kiera felt her last bit of resolution fade. You couldn’t turn away a man who knew yarn.

      She dropped her bag back on the table. “I give up. Have a seat.”

      He moved behind her with the casual grace of a man who used his strength and reflexes for a living. Tennis star? Golf pro?

      No, she guessed it was something more exotic.

      He refilled her teacup. “The keemum smells excellent. I’ll track down more hot water.”

      He turned the silver pot, using that same spare grace that made every movement fascinating. She couldn’t help watching him cross the patio and then vanish inside. When he returned he had a new pot and steam played around the spout.

      Fast, she decided. Competent at whatever he did. But there was more at work here than politeness or competence. She just couldn’t figure out what.

      “So what do you do? Butler? Purveyor of hand knits?”

      He smiled a little and shook his head. “Afraid not.” Kiera could have sworn his eyes changed color again, azure flashing into rich gray.

      Curious, she slid into her favorite game, studying the strong, broad hands and the small scars on his fingers. No rings. No jewelry. Not even a watch. “How do you know what time it is?”

      He followed the angle of her eyes and pointed east. “Right over there.”

      “The sun?” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you an anthropologist? Wildlife photographer?”

      He shook his head.

      “You’re