Dammit, this was madness. He couldn"t let matters progress any further. She stirred up feelings that were far too powerful and the timing was all wrong.

Ian stared over her shoulder. "Jamee, I don"t know if this is a good idea." He ran one hand over his jaw. "Hell, Iknow it"s a bad idea."

"You"re probably right." Her hand settled over his and she stared at his mouth as if it were a chocolate sundae she wanted to take her time over. Her fingers dug gently at his chest.

Ian felt like wreckage left from a tsunami. How did she manage to shatter his control this way?

He cleared his throat. "I think I"d better check around outside."

She made a soft, breathless sound and tugged at the top button on his shirt. "You just did that."

Ian swallowed. "If I stay, I"m going to do something I"ll regret and you will probably hate me for." He couldn"t keep the edge from his voice. Jamming his hands deep into his pockets, he pulled away from her. "So I"m going to put what just happened out of my mind. Not because I want to, Jamee. Because it"s the only sane thing to do."

IAN MANAGEDto put Jamee out of his mind for exactly twelve and one-half seconds. He knew because he was staring at his watch.

God, what a mess.

With fog swirling around him, he circled the cottage, searching for footprints or signs of intrusion. He listened for suspicious noises and checked the locks on all the windows and doors.

Nothing was amiss, but the knowledge didn"t make Ian feel the slightest bit better. Only getting away from this enforced confinement with Jamee would help. Meanwhile, he had work to do.

He moved to the back of the cottage and checked the trip wire he had set earlier that morning.

Strung seven inches above the ground, the copper wire would be invisible in the fog and a perfect height to send any intruders flying. The tin cans tied on both ends were a bonus in the form of a primitive, but effective alarm system. A second set of wires ran along both sides of the house, extending his defense system. At the front, Ian had been even more inventive, zigzagging half a dozen wires in a random pattern over the sloping hillside.

It wasn"t Fort Knox, but it would have to do until he had backup.

Cursing softly, he pulled the cellular phone from his pocket and dialed the number of Dunraven Castle.

Just as when he"d tried earlier, static broke in shrieking waves.

"-Castle..."

"This is Ian McCall calling for Lord Dunraven."

"Dunraven-" Static crackled again. "Hello? Hel-" The voice was swallowed by a metallic whine.

Ian muttered in Gaelic. There was no hope of getting a message to Dunraven or anyone else, not with this static.

Muttering, he pocketed the phone and stared out at the blanketing white mist. No telephone.

No car. No radio.

Only Jamee.

He took a deep breath. Took another. Time to go back inside. He was a man, not a teenager.

He could deal with his feelings for her.

When he pushed open the door, the first thing he saw was a pair of slender legs below an incredible silken skirt that stopped at the middle of her thighs. "What is that?" he rasped.

"My new skirt, a blend of silk and mohair. I just finished it." Her voice was breathless. "Do you like it?"

Did he like it? Did he like breathing or whiskey or fishing on a silver loch at dawn?

The skirt was short and silky and clung like a second skin to her softly rounded hips.

Did helike it?

"It"s...different." Ian managed to sound calm.

"I found the silk noil on my last trip to Asia. I bought all I could find." She spoke in a rush. "I think maybe I can even sell some of these."

If she modeled a skirt like that, short and sleek and gorgeous, knit so that it shimmered and clung, she would have women lining up to purchase one.

And men would be lining up to watch.

Ian scowled.

"You don"t think it will sell?"

"I think it will sell. In fact, I think women from Terre Haute to Timbuktu will be clamoring to have one. Maybe two or three."

"You do?" Jamee eyed her legs thoughtfully, then turned, a pan of steaming water balanced in her hands. "Just a minute while I-" As she spoke, the pan struck the edge of the table. The metal edge swayed dangerously, sloshing hot water onto the floor. "Oh, damn."

Ian leaped for the handles just as the pan went flying. Quickly, he swung it up onto the table, ignoring the water that had splashed on his jacket. Rescue complete, he turned to Jamee.

She was bent low, wiping the floor with a towel.

Dear God, the skirt had almost vanished. All Ian registered were long golden legs and bare feet. Even herfeet were beautiful, he thought blankly. Any minute, he was going to be grinning like a bloody fool, kneeling beside her and tasting that glorious mouth of hers. "No," he rasped.

"No, what?" Jamee looked up. "It"s just water."

"No, I-Let me help," Ian muttered as he strode around the table and bent down beside her. As he did, one hand caught the edge of a copper frying pan, which went flying onto his head.

Jamee gasped. "Ian, are you all right?"

He gripped the end of the table while red and blue lights flashed before his eyes.

"Ian?" Jamee was beside him, holding his shoulder. He caught the scent of her subtle perfume and the lights flashed all over again.

"Can you hear me? Can you talk?"

He eased one hand over the knot at his temple. Blood streaked his fingers. "I can talk. I might even live. If I"m lucky." But not if he had to watch her in that skirt much longer.

"Sit down at the table and let me help."

The last thing he wanted was Jamee"s fingers brushing his face. That pain would be worse than a dozen pans tossed onto his head. "There"s no need for you to-"

"Don"t be silly." She pushed him firmly into a chair, then carefully brushed back his hair.

Every movement sent heat straight to Ian"s groin.

"Jamee, I-"

"I doubt you"ll need stitches, though there is some blood. Sit still now. I have some dyeing alcohol in my bag."

"You have everything in that bag." Ian sighed and gave himself up to the pleasure of her voice and her gentle touch. There was no reason to deny himself. It was strictly a medical necessity.

"I"ve done this quite a bit, growing up with four brothers. One or the other was always limping inside with a scraped knee or a bleeding elbow." She bent her head and brushed his forehead.

"This may hurt."

God, how it hurt-every sweep of her hands, every nudge of her breasts. Her thigh pressed against his back. Ian tried not to think about what would happen if he turned around and explored the warmth hidden beneath that incredible skirt of hers.

"Okay?"

He was sweating. His body was rigid. "Just fine. You have good hands." The understatement of this or any other century.

"Adam tells me that. But he"s my brother, so he"s biased." She rubbed gently, then bent closer, blowing across his skin. "This should help."

Help? He was dying, swallowed alive by urges he had always been able to control before.

Nothing had been the same since Jamee Night had thrown him to the ground, determined to save his life. "What I really need is some whiskey," he rasped.

"There isn"t any whiskey in the cottage."

Ian couldn"t help himself. He snagged her wrist and brought her palm to his mouth. The slow kiss was edged with the slightest pressure of his teeth. "You"re sure you"re not an angel?"

"Positive," she said huskily. "Look, no wings."

Ian didn"t want to look. Ithurt to look at something he couldn"t touch. "Angels come in all shapes and forms, don"t you know? My nanny always said they could appear like the best or the least among us."

"What a lovely thought." Her breast nestled against his ribs.

Ian swallowed a curse. "Are you sure there"s no whiskeyanywhere in that bag of yours?"

"I"m afraid not. I don"t drink. Except when-well, the Big Three."

Ian took a slow breath. Her crooked smile played havoc with his pulse, starting guerrilla wars all over his body.

"Even if I had whiskey, I wouldn"t drink it with you. With you, I"d want to feel everything, remember everything."

Ian"s eyes closed. He tried to fight the hot fantasy her words invoked. Nothing helped.

"Maybe there is one way I can make you more comfortable," Jamee whispered.

Ian sat up rigidly. "As in the Big Three?" Nowhe was talking the same crazy language she did.

"You think I"d let you do something that intimate just to distract me?"

"Intimate?" She laughed in shock. "No, I meant something else."

Ian wasn"t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. "So a head wound doesn"t entitle me to the Ultimate Sacrifice?"

Her laugh filled the corners of the room and worked its way deep into Ian"s chest, cutting off his breath. "All you have to do is ask," she said huskily. "Around you, it seems I"m easy, McCall."

Ian closed his eyes and shook his head. This conversation was not happening. This situation wasnot going any further.

Something scraped on the wooden floor. Ian opened his eyes and found Jamee sitting in a chair beside him, her head cocked.

Ian sighed. "Just one glass, that"s all I ask. Two inches neat. Perfect single malt, with a smell like pine smoke and peat."

"Forget the whiskey, McCall. Let me try something. Turn a little to the left."

"What are you going to do?" he said suspiciously. "Nothing that involves tuning forks and New Age crystals, I hope."

Jamee chuckled as she pulled him sideways and slid her hands across his shoulders. "I think this may help."

Ian didn"t move. She did something to his neck, something slow and unbelievably wonderful.

She had marvelous hands, he thought, as she stroked down his neck and along his tense shoulders, tracing each knotted muscle gently.

But Ian couldn"t relax, not with the threat that waited somewhere in the fog. His physical reaction to her presence didn"t help, either.

"Why don"t you relax and stop fighting me?"

"That"s supposed to be my line," he muttered.

"Not this time, Braveheart."

Ian muttered darkly. But his whole body started to relax, beginning at the knot between his shoulder blades. Even the two inches of agony at his right temple began to feel fractionally better. "Where did you learn that?"

"I used to work for a man who was very tense. This was almost the only thing that could make him relax."

Ian sat up straight. "Almostthe only thing?" he growled. Something soft and firm pressed at his rib. He tried not to think what it was. "What else worked?"

Her fingers dug and feathered, stroked and skimmed. "Oh, this and that. Poetry sometimes. He liked me to play Chopin when nothing else worked."

"God bless Chopin." Ian groaned as her hands hit another pain point. "How did you learn the massage?"

"I picked it up in Japan and Asia. The Swedes have their own style, too. I"ve done a lot of traveling over the years."

He gasped as she worked the tense muscles in his shoulder.

"Sorry. You"re tied up in knots. Is that better?"

"Yes." His breath emerged in little puffs. "It feels-too good-to be legal."