Off Kilter. Donna Kauffman

first. At the very least, consider that simply because I’m male and might enjoy charming a smile or two from folks I’ve spent my entire life around, doesn’t necessarily mean my ego and identity are linked directly and only to what’s under my kilt.”

      “I was just—”

      “Being condescending, patronizing, and a wee bit narrow-minded. After seeing your work—I did look at a fair share of it—that mentality doesn’t seem to fit. But what do I know? Maybe you’re great behind the camera, but face to face with people …” He shrugged, then turned around and started toward his bent-up motorbike, apparently done with the conversation. And with her.

      “You’re right.”

      He stopped, and turned back to look at her.

      Why … why was she prolonging the conversation? She held his gaze with equanimity, then finally sighed, and felt the starch go out of her just a little. What the hell was wrong with her, anyway? Well, besides the obvious. “I have seen a lot. More, maybe, than anyone should. And … I’ve developed some very strong ideas and opinions. About a lot of things. And … people, as well. I’m not shy about expressing them.”

      He held her gaze with seeming ease, but rather than looking disgusted with her—which would have been understandable, because she was a little disgusted with herself at the moment—he appeared … amused. “So,” he said, a flicker of that devilish twinkle sparking into his eyes. “How is that working out for ye?”

      He was relentless with the charm. And it was working. A smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. “Well, at the moment, I’m here shooting photos for a Highlander hotties calendar. Not to be patronizing or condescending, but that’s not my usual caliber of assignment.”

      He nodded. “I thought you were here on vacation.”

      “I did the shoot as a favor for a friend, true,” she said, purposely not responding directly to his comment. “But … I didn’t need to be pompous about it. Or take my frustration out on you.”

      “You were frustrated because you deemed shooting those photos to be that far beneath you? Even as a simple favor? Were you afraid to have word leak out? Your name attached to them? Now who has the unhealthy ego?”

      “No, of course not. I stand by all my work. Though it’s not something I’d have ever imagined myself doing, I was happy to help Kira. I’m frustrated because I can’t—” She managed to cut herself off just in time. She waved a hand, striving for the insouciance she used to have, but had lost over the past year. Actually, longer ago than that, if she were honest. She felt the sting of Roan’s casual observations once again. The sting of truth.

      “Because you can’t relax and enjoy time off?”

      “Something like that.”

      “I imagine there are always stories that need telling somewhere. That kind of urgency must be hard to turn away from.”

      His insight caught her off guard. She wouldn’t have pegged him as a man who bothered to notice much beyond his own charming influence on others. Clearly her powers of observation had completely failed her where he was concerned. She was seeing what she wanted to see—which was the worst possible thing. But then … that was what she did. She just hadn’t realized it was who she’d become.

      Instead of blowing him off with some smartass answer, she decided his sincerity at least warranted an honest response. It bothered her, more than a little, that she had to work at it. And not because it was him. She hadn’t been able to talk to Kira, either.

      “Let’s just say that I haven’t taken a vacation in a while. Perhaps I should have been better about scheduling them into my assignments.” That was about as much as she was willing to share. His savoir faire with the opposite sex might make him seem somewhat superficial on the surface, but she was quite aware there were greater depths to him than she’d anticipated. She didn’t want to encourage any more of his curiosity. To that end, she lifted the camera from where it hung around her neck, and continued before he could say anything else. “So, if you’re sure you don’t need or want my help with the bike, or”—she made a general gesture in the direction of his mud-coated self—“I guess I’ll get back to what I was doing.”

      “Which was?”

      “Taking vacation photos,” she said dryly. “For fun.”

      He flashed a grin and the dimple winked out through the drying muck. “You know anything about that? Fun, I mean.”

      She opened her mouth, fully prepared to shoot back an equally smart-ass answer, but instead just let the whole damn thing go and laughed instead. That’s what he made her feel like doing, and it felt surprisingly good. “I used to have a passing acquaintance with the idea, but possibly it’s been a while.”

      “With the kind of work you do, that’s not surprising,” he said, sincere, but not somber about it.

      She appreciated that, and felt shamed again for her rather shabby treatment of him. “Perhaps my journey today will reintroduce me to the concept.” Not true, but at least the intent was to be friendly. The last thing she would have told him was that she was technically on assignment … and while she was energized at the idea that she might have discovered the first step toward mental redemption, she would hardly call the day she had planned fun. Terrifying, portentous, intimidating, maybe. The day’s agenda was nobody’s business but her own.

      “Maybe,” he replied, but sounded dubious. “Where are you headed?”

      “To the shore.”

      “Ah, the abbey and the tower?”

      “In part.”

      “I’m sure you’ll do them better justice than most.”

      The compliment—sincere by the sound of it—caught her off guard. “I—thank you.”

      He shrugged. “Just because we started off on the wrong foot, doesnae mean we have to stay wrong-footed. Does it?”

      There was no charming smile or mischievous twinkle, just a plain, sincerely asked question. So she lifted a shoulder—casually—which belied the sudden pounding of her heart, and said, “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

      He laughed.

      “What?”

      “You’re a tough one, Tessa Vandergriff.”

      That stung a little, deserved or not. She was all done being under Roan McAuley’s microscope for the day. “Having seen my work, you’d understand that a softie would never make it out there, doing what I do.”

      He walked closer again, almost too close. He studied her for an unnervingly long moment, but she let him, determined not to allow him to get to her. Damn her racing heart. He’d rattled her good, but as soon as she moved on with her day, that moment in time would be forgotten—by her mind if not her body.

      “But you’re no’ as much a hard-arse as ye think.”

      Rather than bristle, she found herself swallowing a bit stronger than was absolutely necessary. “What makes you say that?”

      He lifted his hand toward her. She instinctively flinched away—and hated giving him even that much of a glimpse at just how messed up her instincts were. He wasn’t going to hurt her. Far from it, if his expression was any indication. His eyes widened momentarily, but he let his hand drop rather than push it. “Because you needed this vacation. Or break, or whatever this time here really represents to you. A real hard-arse … the time off wouldn’t have mattered, so why bother?”

      “Maybe that’s why I’m frustrated, because it’s precisely a bother.”

      “And maybe you just wish you were more a hard-arse than you actually are.”

      That was far too dangerously close to the truth she’d been forced to confront the past year. She definitely didn’t appreciate hearing it, ever-so-dismissively,