She didn’t have to back out from under the bed to know she was in very, very deep shit.

• 3 •

A strong hand clamped around her ankle, and Chloe let out a little scream.

She tried for a big scream, but an inconvenient hiccup turned it into an imploded screech that left her gasping.

Ruthlessly, he tugged her from beneath his bed.

Frantically, she grabbed her skirt with both hands, trying to keep it from bunching up around her waist as she slid inexorably backward. Last thing she wanted to do was make an appearance bare bottom first. Her panty line showed under this particular skirt (which was one reason she didn’t wear it often, coupled with the fact that she’d gained a little weight and it was snug), so she’d worn hose with no panties. Not something she did frequently. Figured she’d have to do it today.

When she was clear of the bed, he dropped her ankle. She lay on her tummy on the carpet, hiccuping and trying desperately to gather her wits.

He was behind her, she could feel him staring at her. In silence.

In terrible, awful, disconcerting silence.

Swallowing a hiccup, unable to summon the nerve to look behind her, she said brightly, in her breathiest ditz voice, “Je ne parle pas anglais. Parlez-vous français?” Then with a stilted French accent (pretending to be dumb in Latin seemed a bit far-fetched to her), “Maid Service!” Hiccup. “I clean zee bedroom, oui?” Hiccup.

Nothing. Still silence behind her.

She was going to have to look at him.

Gingerly rising to her hands and knees, she smoothed her skirt, pushed herself into a sitting position, then managed to stand on trembling legs. Still too distraught to face the man, she focused on an empty glass and plate atop a table beside the bed and, determined to convince him she was Maid Service, pointed at it, chirping, “Dir-tee dish-es. Vous aimez I wash, oui?”

Hiccup.

Heavy, ponderous silence. A rustling sound. What was he doing?

Taking deep breaths, she slowly turned. And all the blood drained from her face. She noticed two things at once, one absolutely irrelevant, the other terribly significant: He was the most breathtakingly gorgeous man she’d ever seen in her life, and he was holding her purse in one hand, slipping the battery out of her cell phone with the other.

He dropped the battery on the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.

“M-M-Maid Service?” she squeaked, then lapsed into French again, too nervous to do more than babble her way through, amid hiccups, elementary weather conversation she’d learned in freshman French, but he wouldn’t know that.

“Actually, it’s no’ raining, lass,” he said dryly in English with a pronounced Scots burr. “Though admittedly ’tis one of the few moments it hasn’t been in the past week.”

Chloe’s heart plummeted to her toes. Oh, blast it—she should have tried Greek!

“Chloe Zanders,” he said, tossing her license at her. She was too stunned to catch it; it bounced off her and dropped to the floor.

Shit. Merde. Bloody hell.

“From The Cloisters. I met your employer a quarter hour past. He said you awaited me here. I would never have guessed he meant in my bed.” Dangerous eyes. Mesmerizing eyes. They locked with hers and she couldn’t look away.

“Under the bed,” she babbled, abandoning her overblown French accent. “I was under the bed, not in it.”

His sensual mouth curved with a hint of a smile. The mild amusement did not touch his eyes.

Oh, God, she thought, staring wide-eyed. Her life was quite probably in danger and all she could do was stare. The man was beautiful. Impossibly so. Terrifyingly so. She’d never seen a man like him before. He was her every darkest fantasy sprung to life. Scottish blood was stamped all over his chiseled features.

Clad in black trousers, black boots, a cream fisherman’s sweater, and a buttery-soft leather coat, he had silky black-as-midnight hair that was pulled back at his nape from a savagely masculine face. Firm, sensual lips, the lower one much fuller than the upper, proud, aristocratic nose, dark, slanted brows, bone-structure a model would die for. A perfectly sculpted dusting of a beard shadowed his perfect jaw.

Six foot four, at least, she’d guess. Powerfully built. The grace of an animal.

The exotic golden eyes of a tiger.

She suddenly felt like so much fresh meat.

“ ’Twould seem we have a wee bit of a problem, lass,” he said with silky menace, stepping toward her.

Her hiccups vanished instantly. Sheer terror could do that. Better than a spoonful of sugar or a paper bag anytime.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied through her teeth. “I just came to deliver the text and I’m so sorry I got distracted by all your lovely treasures, and I sincerely apologize for invading your home, but Tom is expecting me back, actually Bill is waiting just downstairs for me, and I don’t see any problem.” She gazed wide-eyed at him and concentrated on looking soft and stupid and feminine. “What problem?” Demure batting of the lashes. “There’s no problem.”