“Her scent filled his nostrils. He was shocked to feel his throat tighten with a primal hunger. She smelled like her mother, but fresher, sweeter somehow. Some primitive male instinct warned him this was a bloom still on the vine, fragrant and tender and ripe. He scowled. She might be nectar to a another man, but to a MacDonnell, Dougal Cameron’s daughter would be more deadly than nightshade.”

“Her scent filled his nostrils. He was shocked to feel his throat tighten with a primal hunger. She smelled like her mother, but fresher, sweeter somehow. Some primitive male instinct warned him this was a bloom still on the vine, fragrant and tender and ripe. He scowled. She might be nectar to a another man, but to a MacDonnell, Dougal Cameron’s daughter would be more deadly than nightshade.”

— Teresa Medeiros