The Trouble with Temptation by Shiloh Walker Page A

words, were like fresh gouges in his heart. She couldn’t remember telling him that, or the fight, or anything else but there was still caution in her eyes when she looked at him.
    She’d dropped it for a moment when she’d been looking at his mouth and he wondered what she’d do if he went to her, touched her, kissed her.
    Would she still love him if—no, when she remembered?
    He didn’t know and the only thing he could think to do was make sure she understood that he wanted her, needed her. That he had messed up. He wanted her with him in so many ways, in all ways.
    She hadn’t answered him about grabbing some food, so he pushed off the counter and moved closer to her.
    “Come on,” he said, smiling easily. “We can grab a burger or some soup, or whatever. If that doesn’t sound good, you can tell me what does and I’ll have them figure something out.”
    “Just like that, Mr. McKay?” Something fired in her eyes.
    She wanted to pick a fight for some reason.
    He wasn’t going to rise to the bait. “I figure if a pregnant woman can’t make a special request, then who can?”
    “The man who owns half the town?”
    “I don’t own half the town,” he said. “And whatever I do own—it’s not just me. My sisters own equal parts. And what does that have to do with anything anyway? Are you hungry or not?”
    On cue, her belly grumbled. Brannon lifted a brow.
    She flushed.
    “Well, I guess that answers that.”
    “Fine,” she said, a flush crawling up her cheeks. “I’m hungry. We can go eat.”
    She glanced at him and again, her gaze dropped to his mouth.
    Heat gathered inside him, a storm raging to be loosed.
    Then, slowly, her eyes lifted and their gazes locked.
    For a few seconds, heat and need threatened to drive him insane.
    She was the one who broke the eye contact and when she pushed her hair back, he saw the faint tremor in her hands.
    Maybe it wasn’t a fight she was in the mood for.
    He was tempted, so damn tempted, to touch her, see if he couldn’t do something about the energy he could all but feel burning through her.
    Patience, Brannon .
    *   *   *
    “Well, well, well…”
    The voice sent a whisper of warning down her spine.
    Hannah had been studying pictures on her phone, hoping something would remind her, but it was proving to be an exercise in futility. Brannon had gone to the restroom and in an effort to dissuade anybody from talking to her, she’d fixated on the phone.
    As a shadow fell across her table, she slowly lifted her gaze to see a tall, rail-thin man studying her, a cruel smile twisting his mouth. Nothing about him jogged her memory, although he stared at her as though he knew all sorts of secrets.
    He also stared at her as though he wanted to cause her all sorts of hurt.
    Hannah casually reached up and put her hands on the table, one of them covering the napkin—and the knife tucked inside it. “Hello. Can I help you?”
    “I heard you was out of the hospital.” Opaque brown eyes ran over her. “Looks like you’re healing up good enough.”
    “I heard you were out of the hospital,” she corrected. “And yes … I am healing up fairly well, thank you. Mr…?”
    He snorted. “You’re a jumped-up bitch, Hannah.” Then he leaned down, bracing his hands on the edge of the table.
    She surged upward, her hand closing around the knife.
    But it wasn’t necessary.
    Brannon appeared at her back even as a tall, bearded man came up to grip the man’s elbow. “Mr. Hansen, it seems you’ve gotten lost on the way to your table.”
    The hot guy with the beard was Ian. Brannon had reminded her of his name. Ian ran the pub and he was dating Brannon’s sister, Neve. He was big, bearded, and Scottish. Although he was smiling, the grin on his face had a hard edge as he moved to put his body between the skinny man and Hannah.
    “I’m not lost, you stupid foreign fuck.”
    “Then you’re not hungry,” Ian said, his voice going hard.
    “Are you okay?” Brannon