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prayed he didn’t notice the tremble in her voice.
    He regarded her with a dark, dangerous glint in his eyes and said, “To stop you from publishing your book.”
    There was no way she would let him or any soul control what she wrote. Who does he thinks he is? Maybe he was the dominant on this island, but she’d be damned if she’d let him control, scare, or manipulate her. So far, she’d been a well-behaved guest, but now he was pushing the wrong buttons. She would not tolerate his request, or any threat, for that matter. She maintained her nerves and anger in a steely grip.
    “And why is that, Mr. Wardlaw?” she asked. She rose to stand in front of him, her hands crossed over her chest, challenging his staring eyes. They were like blue diamonds, pale and infinitely faceted. She didn’t care that she’d used his family name. A bit of distance and propriety between them would be welcome.
    “I will pay ye triple whatever yer publisher is payin’,” he drawled in a Scottish accent thickened by anger.
    She knew he wasn’t going to tell her the truth yet. But he didn’t know she was one tough cookie. After all the years she lived alone, digging through the obstacles so that her books could accomplish what they had, he wouldn’t be able to make her sell her soul. Others had tried and failed. So would he.
    “Well, in that case, Mr. Wardlaw, I will have to excuse myself and get to the bed and breakfast at once.”
    His eyes flickered with anger and his brows drew together into a frown. He sat and shifted in his seat. “I wouldn’t be so hasty to brush aside my offer, Miss.”
    She turned to leave and he whistled. The sound of trotting paws, scratching across the pathway stones, reached her ears. Two black Doberman pinschers appeared in front of her, their ears erect and alert. They immediately spotted her, the stranger, then curled their lips back, exposing sharp, shiny teeth. She was pinned in her spot, swallowing the hard lump in her dry throat.
    Miranda barely turned her head to look over her shoulder at Mac; he was not alarmed, but walked confidently to the dogs. “Heel. Down.” He knelt beside the dogs and patted their heads. “Look at her.” Their vicious gazes followed his pointed finger toward Miranda. He turned to her, as well. “That beautiful face.” He looked at them again, then again pointed at her. The dogs’ eyes followed his finger. “Protect,” he ordered. They whined and sat on the ground, their heads bowed between their long forearms.
    Mac repeated his command in a calm voice and pulled something from his pocket, then gave it to them. The dogs seemed to enjoy grinding and swallowing the treat in a flash. Mac stood and walked to Miranda and stood with his legs parted and his hands in his black trouser pockets. “I apologize for the fright I caused you,” he said with no trace of any accent. “I promise you they will never hurt you. I had to let them become familiar with your scent.”
    She wrapped her hands around her waist and wished she had daggers in her eyes to shoot at him. “Oh, are they now kittens, too, as you described your guards?”
    “You might say that,” he mocked with a half-smile curling his lips.
    “I find it hard to believe you, Mr. Wardlaw.”
    “Push me with both hands, then,” he encouraged her.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Do it.” He signaled for her with his hand to advance on him.
    She stood there, not believing what he was asking her, looking at the dogs then at him. She shook her head in refusal. He then advanced on her, intruding into her personal space, and she stretched out her hands and pushed him on the chest, her palms open, fearing she would weaken and pull him even closer. She looked at the dogs; they stood alert, ready to attack, but remained where they were. Then they whimpered and took a step backward. “See? They will not harm you,” he assured her, although her eyebrows arched in disbelief.
    “They know I’m with you, so they won’t