"We both know that you want me to finger-fuck you, right here, right now. But saying it aloud would be crass."

Damn, did he have to look so good, smell so good? And did the rough sound of his voice have to turn her on? "Didn't your beloved mthair Chrona teach you any manners?"

"None...None whatsoever," he added cheerily. "Which means I have no qualms about kidnapping you."

"Doesn't much matter what the country is, kidnapping is pretty much illegal."

"Pack your bag. You're returning to Eire with me."

"You really don't care at all about niceties."

"Not at all," he agreed.

"If you think I'm going anywhere with you after...after that, you've lost your senses. If you ever had any to begin with. Unlike you, I have responsibilities to my family. I intend to finish my tour first."

"Your part of the tour is over."

Infuriated by his arrogance, she reacted by shoving her forefinger into the centre of his chest. Not that that was such a good idea. She felt his strength. He was solid. All muscle and tendons and sinew...and man. This close, she inhaled the scent of sea and land and determination-close to a millennium of determination. "You see here, Mr High and Mighty, Lord of All He Surveys, I am going nowhere with you." In her anger, she continued, "I know it's completely impossible for you to understand, but my family needs the money I make on tour. Aye, I love playing with the band, but I do it mostly because I have to. I need to."

"Sinead, I'm not the monster you'd have me be. As my wife you'll go short of nothing."

"This isn't about me, you thick-skulled Neanderthal. This is about my family, my mother, my cousins and their children."

"I'll see them short of nothing, either. Now pack your bag," he repeated. "Else you'll leave here in your robe"-he reached for the tie, fingered the end-"or, better, completely naked."

"Have you not heard a word I said?" Tipping her head back, she looked at him through narrowly slit eyes. "You really are an arrogant bastard."

"Right, then." He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Within a few steps, they'd reached the door. He slid the safety lock open. Then he opened the door to step into the hallway.

Her cheeks heated. Anyone could see her. "Stop!" Blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy. The world, the entire fecking world, had gone mad. His shoulder, softened somewhat by the buttery leather, dug into her. She grabbed hold of his belt loops to maintain her balance.

The soft, sad keening came again. She shivered. She was well aware of the comb, ominously dominating the middle of the carpet. "Please."

"You'll get dressed then?"

She wanted to be back in Ireland. In spite of her mother's reassurances, she wanted to be home. Truthfully she'd well and truly decided to abandon the tour. And this way, she wouldn't have to pay the airfare. "Put me down this instant."

Time stood still. And so did the blasted Irishman.

"I'm waiting for an answer."

She thought she was stubborn. But this man could out-stubborn a mule. "Yes. I'll get dressed and pack my bag. Now put me down."

"You might want to be trying on some manners, Missy."

Or beat the hell out of his back, for all the good that would do her.

"Put me down. Please."

Before he did, he flipped up the hem of robe and delivered a sharp slap across her bottom.

She yelped with far more effect than the smack warranted and she tried to tell herself he hadn't just fulfilled a fantasy. "You're a complete arse, Quinn."

"Manners, Ms O'Malley, manners. Be lucky you didn't get more. You earned it."

Through gritted teeth she said, "Please put me down."

He did, and not gently at all. Breath whooshed from her and her knees wobbled.

Sinead made a mad dash for the bathroom, taking care to avoid the blasted comb.

"Earlier, at the pub," he called out, "you were generous enough to give me two minutes. Now I'm returning the favour."

She slammed the door behind her. Before she could turn the lock or smile triumphantly, he shoved the door open, nearly knocking her off her feet.

"Happy to help, if'n you need it."

"Piss off."

"Leave the door open."

"I need a little privacy."

He allowed his gaze to sweep down her body. "I've already seen your lovely self."

"I need a few minutes' privacy," she repeated. "I have some personal things to attend to."

"Do it with me standing here or not at all. You'll not be getting any privacy. You haven't earned it."

"Earned it? How dare you?"

He grinned, a man with the upper hand.

"You'll be getting no quarter from me, wife-to-be. You've given me the shrift through half a dozen American cities, and it was fecking hot in Chicago. I got drenched in rainstorm in Portland. I nearly got mowed down by a taxi in New York. You dashed out the back of a pub, and another of your bloody fans in the kitchen tried to hold me back with a knife."

She blinked. "He did?"

"And that wide-eyed pup Brandon gave me a false hotel for you. If you think you're shutting another door on me, think again."

The man might be infuriating, but he wasn't stupid.

"Two minutes, Sinead."

Saying nothing else, he looked at his watch.

She sighed in utter frustration. She'd spent her adult life dreaming about being with a man who was her match, a man who wouldn't put up with any nonsense, a man who was big and strong and capable. Now that one stood here, his foot positioned so she couldn't slam the door a second time, she was finding the reality wasn't nearly as appealing.

She gathered her toiletries from the marble countertop and dumped them into an oversized cosmetic bag. If he seriously had his own aeroplane, she probably didn't need to worry about making sure the liquids were kept in a separate plastic bag. And if they were flying commercial, he could bloody well wait while she dealt with security. "If you'll excuse me." She swept past him.

She grabbed her suitcase from the floor and tossed it on the bed. She'd flown in earlier from Kansas City, and she'd played a couple of sets. She was tired, and she didn't want to deal with this overbearing male. "Can't we leave in the morning? This is ridiculous, starting a transatlantic flight so late at night."

"If that's what you want," he said. "I'll make the arrangements."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she looked at him.

"I am trying to be reasonable.,"

"What's the catch?"

"No catch," he said. "The bed is perfectly big enough for both of us." He shrugged out of his bomber jacket and dropped it on the edge of the mattress. "And the room is paid for."

"Never mind," she said. In his tight black T-shirt, he was even more dangerous. And when he pulled the hem of that T-shirt up, she all but salivated. But, Christ, did he have a nice, tight-looking abdominal area.

"Never mind?"

"We can fly tonight," she said.

"Or we can fuck in this big bed. Not saying you'd get much sleep."

She grabbed a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt from her case.

He picked up her discarded clothes from the floor where she'd left them scattered.

She tried not to be embarrassed by him handling her bra and knickers. After all, he'd had his hand between her legs, and he'd brought her to a shattering orgasm. She grabbed her tartan and T-shirt from him, but he held onto her underwear. Could this day get any worse? "I can pack my own clothes," she said.

"I'd wondered," he said quietly.

She looked at him.

"If you had on a bra beneath that T-shirt while you were onstage. I could see your nipples from halfway across the pub. Do you know how many men were lusting after you?"

Their eyes met.

"Aye, lass. Including me. I couldn't wait to get my hands and my mouth on you."

While he put her laundry in the zippered part of her case, she pulled out a pair of black knickers and a clean bra. This whole situation was bizarre, surreal. Her enemy was packing her bag while she was pulling out fresh clothes. They stood close enough that their arms brushed and she inhaled that clean, crisp scent that was uniquely him.

She thought of trying to wriggle into her knickers while she was still wearing the robe. Then she decided against it.

She placed all the clothes she was going to wear on the bedspread.

She tried not to notice that her hands shook as she fumbled with the belt. It took three tries to unknot the blasted thing.

He collected her dance shoes from the floor and stuffed them into her case then yanked the zip closed before folding his arms across that broad chest and shamelessly watching her.

She shrugged and allowed the thick terry cloth to fall to the carpet.

"Lovely. You've the body of an athlete."

Under his appreciative gaze, her nipples had once again hardened. Her pussy was still damp. No matter how they fought or how much she intellectually hated him, her body responded to his masculinity.

She grabbed the bra from the bedspread.

His eyes darkened and he reached out, taking her by the shoulders.

"You're mine," he said.

"Never."

He cupped both her breasts. Then he stroked both nipples with his thumbs. The nipple he'd squeezed earlier felt tender, but in a way that made her instantly respond.

"Damn, but you've a responsive body."

Her knees buckled. Instinctively she grabbed for his wrists to hold herself steady.

She hated this push and pull of emotions. She wanted him, and she desperately wanted not to want him.

He stunned her then by kneeling in front of her. No.

She kept her legs together.

"Don't deny me."

"I will." Again and again. No matter what her traitorous body wanted.

He released her breasts and she released her grip on his wrists.

Then determinedly he worked his left hand between her thighs. "Your pussy is drenched."

"A natural enough reaction."

"So that's the way it's to be?" He slid a fingertip across her clit. Then he pushed, hard enough to wring a gasp from her. "Means nothing to you, Sinead?"

"Sex is sex. You can get it on any street corner."

"And this?" He began to rub.

She forced herself to stand still instead of swaying with the motion. Damn there was something appealing about having such a large, forceful man on his knees, his mouth a whisper away from her cunt.

Abruptly, he slid a finger inside her.

Christ. He shocked her, but he didn't hurt her. It felt...

He inserted a second finger inside her.

He looked at her, then pulled them out and showed her his fingers, glistening with her juices. "Means nothing," he repeated.

"Are you trying to prove a point? Trying to prove that the Big Bad Evil Quinn is a lady's man? Is that what this was about? Fillean meal ar an meallaire." Evil returns to the evil doer.