Haunted Warrior Read Free Page A

and ankles crossed, he also looked very comfortable, like he wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon.
    Kendra’s heart sank.
    She’d so wanted just one day of peace. Her only wish had been a walk along an empty strand, soaking in the tranquillity and recovering from weeks of grueling work counseling ghosts at the sites of lost medieval villages in England.
    Her energy was drained. The prospect of quietude had beckoned like a beacon.
    Now even a beach reputed to be among Britain’s wildest and least disturbed proved crowded. The man at the bunker might not be a throng, but he had enough presence to fill a football field.
    Kendra bit her lip, wondering if she could slip past him unnoticed and walk on to the other bunkers farther down the strand. Before she could make her move, he pushed away from the wall and turned toward her. As he did, she felt the blood drain from her face.
    He was the man from the dunes.
    And he was coming right up to her, his strides long and easy, his dark gaze locked on hers.
    “This is no place for a woman to walk alone.” His voice held all the deep richness of Scotland, proving she’d tipped right that he was local. “Sandstorms have buried these bunkers within a few hours of blowing wind. The seas here are aye heavy, the surf rough and—­”
    “Who are you?” Kendra frowned, not missing that hisdark good looks were even more stunning up close. It didn’t matter that he now wore his hair pulled back with a leather tie. The blue-­black strands still shone with the same gleam that had caught her eye earlier. “Didn’t I just see you on the dunes? Back there”—­she glanced over her shoulder at the long line of dunes running the length of the strand—­“no more than ten minutes ago?”
    “I’m often on the dunes.” A corner of his mouth lifted as he avoided her question. “And you’re an American.” His sexy Scottish burr deepened, as if he knew the rich, buttery tones would make her pulse leap. “A tourist come to visit bonnie Scotland, what?”
    “Yes.” Kendra’s chin came up. Hunky or not, he didn’t need to know her business here.
    No one did.
    She
was
interested in his business. Only Superman could change clothes so quickly.
    “Weren’t you in a kilt just a while ago?” She kept her chin raised, making sure he saw that she wasn’t afraid and wouldn’t back down.
    “A kilt?” His smile spread, a dimple flashing in his cheek. Then he held out his leather-­clad arms, glanced down at his jeans. “I do have one, aye. But as you see, I’m no’ wearing it now.”
    Kendra saw how he was dressed. She also noted that his jacket hugged his shoulders, emphasizing their width. How his shirt made no secret that his chest was rock hard and muscled. Her gaze slipped lower—­she couldn’t help it—­and then even the tips of her ears heated. Because, of course, his well-­fitting jeans revealed that a certain manly part of him was also superbly endowed.
    She took a deep breath, hoping he hadn’t seen that she’d noticed.
    “You did have one on.” If she didn’t know better,she’d swear he was trying to spell her. Use his hot good looks to fuzz her mind. “A kilt, I mean.”
    “You’re mistaken, lass.” He lowered his arms, fixing her with the same intent gaze as he’d done from the dunes. “I’ve been here at the bunkers awhile, listening to the wind and keeping my peace.”
    Kendra felt her brow knit. “I know I saw you.”
    He stepped closer, his smile gone. “You could’ve seen anyone. And that’s why I’ll tell you again, this is no fine place for a woman alone. Youths from the city come here this time of the evening.” He flicked a glance at the bunker’s narrow, eerily black window slits. “They dare each other to crawl inside and stay there till the moon rises. Such lads drink their courage. They turn bold and reckless. If a bonnie lassie then happened along—­”
    “I’m not a lassie.” Kendra wished he wasn’t standing so close. His