She folded her arms while she waited. "Whenever you need something, it's on the bottom. I have the same problem with my purse."

He shot her an irritated look. "This is no' a purse. 'Tis a fine, manly tradition amongst the Scots."

Aha. She'd found a weak spot. She gave him a wide-eyed Bambi look. "Looks like a purse to me."

He gritted his teeth. "'Tis called a sporran."

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. No wonder she found this guy appealing. He made her smile, and it had been a long time since she'd acted happy and playful. Her mission dominated her life, and she had to take it seriously. The enemy was deadly. "So, what do you keep in there? Besides the whisky. Do you have any shortbread or leftover haggis?"

"Verra funny," he grumbled, although his mouth was curling into another smile. "If ye must know, I have a cell phone, a roll of duct tape—"

"Duct tape?"

He arched a brow. "Doona mock a man's duct tape. It comes in verra handy for binding wrists and ankles."

"Why would you bind someone?" She gave him a sympathetic look. "Oh, poor baby. Is it that hard to get a date these days?"

He grinned. "'Tis also good for covering up a saucy mouth." His gaze lowered to her mouth. And stayed. His smile faded.

Her heart stuttered. His gaze moved back to her eyes with an intensity that squeezed the air out of her lungs. And made her nerves tingle. Even her toes were curling under.

There was more than desire in his dark green eyes. There was a sharp intelligence. He wasn't drunk at all, she realized. And he saw a lot more than any man she'd ever encountered before. She suddenly felt as exposed as the flasher.

He stepped closer. "And yer name?"

Name? Good heavens, the way he was looking at her, her pulse was taking off at warp speed, but her brain was barely on life support. More power to the engines, Scottie. "I–I'm Emma." She decided to play it safe and give only her first name. He'd done the same.