Her Irish Rogue. Kate Hoffmann

“She’s definitely worth a shag or two, Will. I think I’ll just be going now.” She walked over to Will, straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. “Just remember to be nice and to use a Johnny. Good sex is safe sex.”

      “Get out,” Will muttered.

      She grabbed her mackintosh from the coat tree in the hall and slipped into it. “Have fun, Wills. You can thank me later,” she said.

      Will walked back to the kitchen to fetch some rags, then cleaned up the mess Claire O’Connor had made in the entry hall. Her shoes were ruined, but he dried off her suitcases and carried them upstairs.

      Her door was slightly ajar and he knocked softly. “Miss O’Connor?”

      There was no answer. Will peeked inside and found the room empty. He placed the suitcases next to the bed, and turned back to the door. As he did, he glanced into the bathroom and his breath caught in his throat. The door was open just far enough for him to see her lying in the tub.

      He froze, unwilling to invade her privacy. But then Will realized she was sound asleep, her arms draped over the sides, her head resting on the edge of the old clawfoot tub as water still poured out of the faucet.

      Her pale hair was brushed away from her face and he found himself transfixed by the simple beauty of her profile, her upturned nose, her lush lips. He noticed a tiny sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. His gaze drifted down, to the soft flesh of her breasts, rosy from the rising water in the tub.

      Desire warmed his blood and he fought the impulse to step closer. Innkeepers had certain standards they kept to and spying on a female guest while she was in her bath went way beyond acceptable behavior. But then, what if Sorcha was right? What if this woman was meant to be his anyway?

      She stirred slightly, then sighed, her lips parting as she sank a bit deeper into the bath. Will backed up and grabbed the suitcases, setting them closer to the door. When he reached the hallway, he drew a deep breath and leaned back against the wall. If the tub overflowed, he’d have a reason to return, but for now, he’d keep to the hall.

      The image of her naked body whirled in his head and he felt himself growing hard at the thought of touching her. Will groaned in frustration. Sure, it had been a while. And there had been the occasional fantasy about a sexy female guest, a beautiful woman with no inhibitions intent on seducing him, the inn quiet and empty, as it was now. But he had never once considered making the fantasy real.

      Perhaps she’d only stay for one night. Or perhaps her boyfriend or fiancé or husband would be joining her tomorrow. Besides, he didn’t believe Sorcha Mulroony had even an ounce of mystical power. He’d be polite and accommodating and hospitable to Claire O’Connor. Nothing more.

      THE BATH WAS LUKEWARM by the time Claire crawled out. She wrapped herself in a thick cotton towel, then walked into the bedroom. Her suitcases had been placed next to the door, and for a moment, she wondered how the innkeeper had slipped into her room without her noticing.

      An image of the man flashed in her mind and Claire recalled her reaction when she first looked into his eyes. There were obviously handsome men scattered all over the world, but somehow, the fates had blessed the Isle of Trall with a truly beautiful specimen. But why was one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors living here?

      She smiled as she sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping the towel more tightly around her. Back at her job, she’d stared at thousands of images—male models, everyday guys, celebrities—trying to figure out what it was that made one man merely attractive and another devastatingly sexy.

      Will Donovan belonged in the latter category. He possessed features that were in perfect balance. He wasn’t pretty, he was gorgeous. And it wasn’t the straight nose or the expressive mouth or the eyes that were an odd mix of green and gold. It was the way he wore his looks, so casually, as if he weren’t aware of the effect they had on women.

      He hadn’t shaved in two or three days and it looked as if he preferred his fingers to a comb when it came to fixing his hair. Everything about him was comfortably rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, even the lazy way he looked at her with half-hooded eyes.

      Claire retrieved a bottle of scented lotion from her suitcase and rested her foot on the edge of the bed as she rubbed some of the product over her legs. With any other man, she might not have given him a second thought. After all, it had been just one day since her relationship with Eric had ended. And she’d come to Ireland to save that relationship.

      She was in a foreign country, so of course she’d find a guy like Will Donovan…interesting. Maybe even a bit exotic. That accent, the sound of her name on his lips, the way his gaze drifted between her mouth and her eyes. Lusting after another man now would be a waste of precious time. As long as she was here in Ireland, she’d do what she came to do—save her relationship with Eric. After all, she and Eric were meant for each other.

      Claire had known from the moment she’d met him. All her life, she had waited for the perfect man. She’d even made a list of all the attributes she sought in a husband and Eric had fulfilled every last one of them.

      Careful planning and detailed lists had been Claire’s specialty since she was a young girl. A shrink would probably tell her that it was simply a way of coping with a chaotic childhood. She’d grown up in a tiny three-bedroom house, with five older brothers, and parents who did little to control the boys. It was noisy and messy and she was almost always ignored when competing against their boisterous antics.

      So Claire often escaped to her grandmother’s house, where it was quiet and pretty, and she could talk about important matters, like all the things she was going to do with her life. Her grandmother had encouraged her to write it all down in a little journal. “Only when you write it down will it become true,” she had said. Later, as each of her dreams were fulfilled, Claire would tick them off in the journal.

      Claire tossed the lotion on the bed and grabbed her bags. As she unpacked, she neatly arranged her clothes in the antique dresser against the far wall. She found her birth control pills in a side pocket and popped one out of the package and into her mouth. She and Eric would be together again. She had to believe that.

      As she passed the leaded glass windows that lined one wall, a draft chilled her, goose bumps prickling her arms. She found a match on the mantel and lit the crumpled paper beneath the oddly shaped logs. Warmth from the fire began to seep into her skin and a sharp scent hung in the air. But at the same time, the room started to fill with smoke. Claire realized she hadn’t opened the flue and scrambled to find a knob or a lever.

      It wasn’t on the outside of the fireplace and she couldn’t see it on the inside through the smoke. She ran to the window and threw it open, then tore off her towel and began to fan the smoke out the window.

      The smoke continued to pour out of the fireplace and Claire realized she’d have to smother the fire to make it stop. She beat at the flames with the damp towel and the fire was nearly out when the smoke alarm went off.

      Frantically, she searched the room for the alarm, hoping to disable it before Will Donovan responded. But a moment later, he burst into the smoky room, a fire extinguisher in his hand. Claire screamed and held the scorched towel up to her naked body.

      “What the hell is going on?” In three easy strides, he reached the fireplace and smothered the remainder of the fire with foam from the extinguisher. He turned to her, a look of concern etched on his face. “Are you all right?”

      “Yes,” Claire said. “I just—why would someone lay out a fire and not open the flue?”

      He stared at her, his gaze raking over her body. Claire clutched the towel more tightly to her chest, fumbling as she wrapped one end around her hip.

      “Why would someone put match to peat without checking the flue first?” he asked.

      “It’s—it’s freezing in here,” she countered.

      “The window is open.” He walked across the room and closed it, Claire scampering to stand against the wall. Will grabbed the bedspread from the