When romance writer Catlynne Falconer attends a renfaire with her cat, Jack, the last person she expects to run into—literally—is James Douglas Kinloch, the mouthy book critic who has trashed her last dozen books. Fur and sparks fly, but how long can she resist a man with lavender eyes?
Well, best defense was an offense. He stared into her kissable face, raked his eyes down her made-for-sin body, reveling in every delicious curve, then slowly traveled back to lock eyes with her. "Pity. I guess the chances of me getting you into bed tonight just dropped by half."
She jerked up to her feet, acting as if he just asked her to go down on her knees before him and and do the wild thang. The lass had a temper. Went with that auburn hair. Why did he find that so…ah…stimulating?
Catlynne shifted her stance, as if balancing her weight to one leg, prelude to delivering a stiff kick. James held up his hands, flattened palms to her. "First kick was getting acquainted. Kick me again and I'm going to turn you over my knee, Catlynne. Hmm, Cat," he growled. "Your mum named you well."
All sorts of images sprang to mind. Here, kitty kitty. He wondered if she'd purr when he stroked the curve of her spine with his tongue. Would she hiss and flex those claws when he'd enter her body with a sure thrust?
"Your mum named you after one of Scotland's greatest heroes. How did she muff it so?" she snapped.
"So, that means you won't sleep with me tonight?" James suppressed the grin fighting to escape. He wasn't usually a jerk, but he enjoyed teasing Ms. Catlynne Falconer. "I promise to make you purr, lass."