Maggie Shayne: Weddings from Hell

He reached out and took her hands in his. "Aye, I found myself quite distracted as well. Have been since I first heard your voice on the telephone, lass."

She smiled shakily, as he held her eyes with his.

"Your Aunt Esmeralda—she's warned me nothing is to…transpire, between us."

"Ian," she whispered. "Are you really going to let my Aunt Esmeralda tell you what to do?"

His gaze lowered, focused on her lips. "I donna think I could, even if I tried. An' I've no desire to try, Kira."

"I'm very glad to hear that, Ian."

He leaned closer, and she did too, their faces, their mouths, moving nearer, and still nearer, until at last, they touched. The kiss was tender, barely more than a whisper, at first. And then it changed as his arms crept around her waist, his hands tugging gently. She slid off her seat, and onto her knees, between his thighs. Her arms hooked around his neck, and his tightened around her waist, pulling her against him until the only thing between their bodies was their clothing. And she resented even that thin barrier.

He kissed her more deeply, more passionately, his mouth parting, his tongue dancing and plunging. Her hands buried themselves in his hair, holding his face to hers as she opened to receive him. God, this was good, Kira thought. This was insanely good.

It was as if she'd known him forever.

It was as if she'd been waiting, just for him, all her life.

When they finally came up for air, he stared into her eyes, panting, breathless. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer in her chest, and she was dizzy, giddy, and her skin, she was convinced, had become hot to the touch.

"I've never felt anything this powerful before," she whispered.

His eyes were utterly sincere as they stared into hers, more emotion swirling in their depths than she had ever seen before. "Nor have I. Not ever, lass. And I don't mind tellin' you, I want you so badly right now I can barely contain myself."

"I want you, too, Ian."

He nodded. "I'm…I'm not an American, lass. This isna the sort o' thing I take lightly."

"Ian, I may be an American, but that doesn't mean I take sex lightly."

"I didna mean to suggest—I only wanted you to know I'm not like other men you may have known. When I make love to you, Kira, it'll mean somethin' to me."

Her heart was melting in her chest.

"An' it will'na be today," he went on. "We have to give it some time, to be sure this is real. 'Tis far too soon, and far too powerful a feelin' to be treated lightly."

"It's also," she said, staring up into his eyes and imitating his brogue, "far too powerful a feeling to be ignored."

"I won't be ignorin' it," he promised.

She nodded, though she wanted to push a little harder. A little harder, hell, she wanted to push him down in this boat and climb on top of him.

And yet, something held her back. She didn't know what this feeling was, burning her up from the inside out. It wasn't like her. It was almost as if something beyond her were feeding the fires.

He pulled her across his lap, and snuggled her close in his arms. She nuzzled his neck, and relished feeling more cherished than she ever had. "I can wait for you, Ian. But please don't make me wait too long," she whispered.

"If I wait too long, Lassie, I think I may well die from the wanting." And then he lowered his head and kissed her again.

The great room was crowded with strangers. Family, Kira thought, but strangers to her. She wanted to stick close to Ian, would have felt a little more comfortable at his side, but he was at the front of the room with his father.

The aunts had set things up as if this were some kind of a party. Every surface of the great room, all of the ornate tables and stands, were laden with food. Trays of finger sandwiches and hors d'oeuvres of every imaginable sort lined one. A five-tiered silver serving tray held fresh fruits, with dishes of sweetened cream for dipping. Serving platters overflowed with raw vegetables and a variety of dips. Crystal punch bowls with fountains spewing in their centers stood at the room's four corners. The dishes were fine china. The napkins were linen.

They'd dragged in more chairs than had been in the room previously, though there had already been plenty, sofas and love seats and thickly cushioned easy chairs and the like. Now there were several rockers and some folding chairs added to the mix. And there were people in every one of them, and others standing, nibbling from their oversized plates, and sipping from their crystal punch glasses.

The focal point was the fireplace, at the front of the room. Gregory and Ian sat in easy chairs that were situated at angles on either side of a small table. In the center of that table was a large manila envelope.

As Aunt Esmeralda led Kira from one group of strangers to the next, introducing her with lists of names and family connections she would never remember in a million years, she looked his way every little while. Not so much for reassurance—she wasn't the shy type. But more because she so loved looking at him. And every time she did, she found him returning her gaze, his eyes always smiling, the dimples in his cheeks always there. There was more, too, in the way he looked at her—more than just a smile. There was desire, and a tenderness with it that tended to make her throat want to close up a little, and her heart to race a bit faster.

Gregory cleared his throat, and the steady hum of voices fell instantly into silence. "If you would all find a place to sit, we can begin."

People moved, then, meandering around, finding chairs or convenient corners in which to stand, refilling their glasses one last time, or snatching a few more snacks from the offerings to carry with them to their places. Within a few more moments, everyone was quiet again, and still, and all eyes were riveted to Gregory.

He reached for the envelope, tore it open, and extracted from it a sheaf of papers, their length longer than the standard size. He tugged a pair of bifocals from his breast pocket, perched them on his nose, and then looked out over the tops of them. His steady gaze skimmed everyone there, lingered for a long moment on Kira's aunt Emma, but when it finally settled, it settled on Kira herself.

"Being that I was Iris's personal solicitor, I already know the contents of her will. But I am the only one who knows it. She assured me of this." He glanced at his son as he said that, and Kira saw a tiny frown appear between Ian's brows. As if he were suddenly worried.

But why would he be?

"Iris was," Gregory went on, "something of a rebel. I'm sure those of you who knew her are aware of that. She resented some of the restrictions placed upon her by MacLellan family traditions and certain—er—beliefs. And in her final act, she attempted to strike a blow against them."

Esmeralda tensed. Kira saw it from the corner of her eye. Rose and Emma both moved closer to her, standing on either side as if they'd appointed themselves her personal protectors.

"I, Iris MacLellan," he read, "being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath all of my worldly possessions, assets and wealth, indeed everything that I have accumulated throughout my lifetime on this planet, to my great niece, Kira MacLellan."

A gasp went up. Every eye turned to Kira. She blinked rapidly, shooting a questioning look from her mother's sister Emma, to her Aunt Rose, and finally sliding her gaze past them both to see Esmeralda. She didn't look shocked or stunned or disappointed. She looked as if she was still waiting. Her face was an impatient, troubled expression of expectation.

"But I thought she was going to divide her assets among all of her relatives," Kira said. "That's what you told me, when we first spoke on the phone, Ian, isn't it?" She met his eyes, saw his solemn nod.