“Ms. Gallagher?”
Shiloh jumped. She almost screamed at the man’s low, deep voice coming from behind her. Heart leaping like a wild thing in her chest, she whirled around, her eyes huge with fear. Her gaze shot upward to look into the man’s craggy, weather-lined face. Mouth going dry, she felt mesmerized by his pale gray eyes, the pupils large and black, glittering with intelligence. He wore a set of jeans, a white cowboy shirt, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, a gray Stetson hanging loosely between his long fingers. His hands were large and work worn. There was nothing soft about this man. The word tough came to mind. Not only that, he was tall like a New York City skyscraper, his shoulders incredibly broad. She looked at his forearms dusted with hair, the muscles taut from a lot of work. Gulping, she said, “Yes, I’m Shiloh. A-are you Mr. Roan Taggart?” Her heart nearly melted when he gave her a slight smile, warmth replacing his icy gray gaze.
“Yes, ma’am, I am. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. May I get your luggage over at the carousel? If you’ll point out the bags to me?”
Now her heart was swelling in her chest and it wasn’t from fear. Sexuality oozed off this man like rain being soaked into thirsty, dry ground. Her lower body felt suddenly hot and needy. When he swept his gaze across her face, lingering on her breasts beneath the pale green tee she wore, to her chagrin, her nipples began to harden. Oh! Embarrassment! She saw a flicker of some emotion in his narrowing gray eyes for a split second, and then it disappeared. Her pulse leaped.
The man was not pretty-boy handsome. Rather, he was stoic-looking and simmering with closeted power she felt tightly wrapped around him. The elements had sculpted his flesh and as he had lifted his hand to place the cowboy hat over his short brown hair, she saw the calluses across his palm and fingers. An unexpected warmth sizzled through her, easing her nervousness. Did she see concern in his eyes? Shiloh wasn’t sure as she wove in and out of the crowd toward the carousel where luggage was arriving.
“I’m afraid I have a lot of bags,” she apologized.
Roan deliberately cut his long stride in half for her. Damned if Shiloh Gallagher wasn’t twice as good-looking in person as in that photo of her. She had long red hair and when they crossed a slat of sunlight, Roan saw the gold and ginger highlights among the strands. Tall and willowy, she was small-breasted. He liked the natural sway of her rounded hips, thinking her butt was one fine piece of real estate. Roan wasn’t immune to an attractive woman. He always appreciated them. Shiloh, however, for being a best-selling author, looked more like a young woman who was a hiker and outdoors person, not some stuffy, famous person. She wore comfortable jeans and had on a pair of tennis shoes. No one would ever look at her and think she was a writer, used to sitting at a computer. Roan smiled to himself. Looks were always deceiving. Or? What was the saying? Don’t judge a book by its cover?
As a Special Forces operator, his life depended upon being observant. He was ruthless in his observation of Shiloh Gallagher. Some of her red hair was in a long, thick braid, falling between her shoulder blades. He could tell she was working out by just her graceful walk. Her hands were supple, fingers long, nails blunt cut. The only scent around her was her own, unique feminine scent that stirred up lust in him. Glad she didn’t wear perfume; in the house it would be hell on his sensitive nose. He did pick up a subtle honeysuckle fragrance, figuring it was probably the soap she used either on her hair or her skin.
More than anything, he liked the freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. It made him feel good that she didn’t try to cover them up with makeup. She wore pink lipstick, but he could discern no other cosmetics. It seemed that Shiloh, despite being a bona fide city slicker, liked to be au natural.
Roan wondered if her mother, Isabella, had been the same way. Maybe he’d find out later because Shiloh seemed shy. He sensed a lot of vulnerability about her and wondered if she was able to protect herself. Could she defend herself if needed?
Shiloh had walked ahead of him and Roan watched as she halted and helped a gray-haired lady among the travelers who had accidentally dropped her purse. Roan stopped, assessing the interaction. Shiloh was the only one who seemed concerned. She quickly picked up the purse, smiling at the woman, chatting with her, helping her place the strap back upon her rounded shoulder. She asked if she needed more help. The woman said she did, so Roan walked over and cocked his head toward Shiloh.
“Can I be of help here?” he asked her.