The MacTaggart Brothers Trilogy

by Anna Durand

  "Mrs. Darroch said you were in here," he told me. "Thought I'd help you unpack."

  Giving up work time to be with me? Fist pump, whoop, fist pump.

  "I'd like that," I said, aiming for cool composure, like I wasn't ready to burst from the joy swelling inside me. I patted the floor beside me. "Have a seat and dig in."

  My large husband came over to squat beside me and flipped open the flaps of a cardboard box. One by one, he brought out items of my clothing. Sweaters. Blouses. Skirts. Jeans. The clothing was disheveled from the move. He sat back on his haunches and contemplated each item before folding it with care and placing it in a stack of like items — sweaters with sweaters, jeans with jeans. He even separated cardigans from pullovers.

  I sorted my books and sundry knickknacks, keeping some and dumping others back in the box once I'd emptied it.

  Rory cleared his throat with deliberate emphasis.

  As I chucked a speckled, polished rock back into my box, I glanced his way.

  He stared down at an item poised on his palm. A long, cylindrical item with a rounded tip and a battery compartment on the other end. He tipped his head side to side as he mulled the pink object.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "My vibrator."

  He snatched his hand away, and the device plummeted to the floor.

  "Don't break it," I said, picking up the vibrator. "Haven't you ever seen one before?"

  "No." Chin tucked, he crimped his lips.

  Charmed by his suspicion about a sex toy, I waved the vibrator in his face.

  His eyes tracked the object's movement.

  "It won't bite," I said, then draped an arm around his neck. "Can't promise I won't, though."

  "Yes, I'm aware of that." He touched his shoulder, the one I'd bitten on our wedding night. "You are a she-wolf."

  "Salvaged our wedding night, didn't I?"

  "You did."

  I tossed the vibrator on the bed, but its presence reminded me of something.

  "Got a question," I said. "Can you recommend a local doctor? I have a prescription that'll need refilling soon."

  Rory dropped the scarf he'd been folding. "Prescription? Are you ill?"

  "No, I'm on the pill."

  The spot between his eyebrows crinkled. "What pill?"

  "Birth control, Rory."

  He tugged at the collar of his shirt. "I see. I'll arrange an appoint —"

  "Uh-uh. I can do it myself."

  Annoyance flickered on his face, but he squared his shoulders and shook it off. "I will give you the number for my GP, Dr. Buchanan. He's in Loch Fairbairn."

  I kissed his cheek. "Thanks. You're the sweetest."

  He rolled his eyes.

  A shape in the box beside me snagged my attention, and I picked up the mini photo album. Its plain gray cover belied the racy content of the photos inside. Flipping through the pages, I got a wonderful idea.

  "Catch," I said, chucking the photo album at Rory, who caught it in one hand. "Think of that as your menu for excitement."

  With cautious interest, he thumbed through the four-by-six-inch pages. Each held a photo of me in a different costume. Greek goddess. Wonder Woman. Princess Leia, Return of the Jedi style. One picture intrigued him, and he stopped to inspect it.

  "Like that one?" I asked, leaning over to peek at it. "That's my ancient Egyptian dancer costume."

  "Are you naked?" he asked with wonder in his voice.

  "Not naked. I'm wearing a flesh-colored body suit." I swirled a fingertip over the image. "For you, I'd nix the body suit. You'd get me wearing nothing but a skinny belt and a long black wig."

  In the photo, the braided wig draped down to shield my breasts, the ends of braid weighted with beads. I also sported a snazzy white headband and sandals, the latter a concession to the hard floors in the nightclub where the picture had been taken. An authentic Egyptian dancer would've gone barefoot.

  "You wore this in public?" Rory asked, gawping at me.

  "Uh-huh. It was an office Halloween party held at a nightclub, organized by me and my work buddies. The two you met, Pam and Sabri."

  "Men saw you dressed this way?"

  "You betcha." I dragged my finger up his thigh. "For you, I'll even put on a belly-dance show."

  He petted the photo album with one finger. "You know how to belly dance?"

  "Sure do, baby." I shut the album and closed his fingers around it. "Look at the pictures. Take your time. Let me know which costume you like the best, and I'll make your fantasy come true."

  He studied the album for a moment, then tucked it in his pocket.

  We resumed sorting through the boxes. Though he kept glancing at the vibrator, we unpacked the rest of my stuff without incident. Once we'd finished, Rory scurried back to his office. I began the arduous task of finding the proper place for everything we'd taken out of the boxes. Thanks to Rory's meticulousness, I stashed my clothes in the closet in a jiff.

  My husband got a surprise that night, no doubt, when he walked into our joint bathroom to find my girlie stuff scattered throughout, including my favorite plush, pink towel hanging on the shower curtain rod and a furry pink bath rug on the floor. If he'd opened one of the cabinets, he would've seen packages of sanitary napkins and my leg-shaving accoutrements. He probably had a minor stroke over that.

  Well, he kept saying this was my home too. I had a right to give it the Emery touch.

  As I selected the right spots to keep my bedroom things, which drawer or closet space, I stumbled onto a box of condoms in the drawer of the bedside table. A sticky note attached to it, written in Rory's masculine and precise hand, said, "For later."

  How sweet.

  Not.

  Rory must've snuck the condoms in there before he committed to no sex for three weeks.

  Day two of our wager passed with no sign of Rory. I could've gone to his office to pester him, but I'd vowed to give him time to decompress. I'd never broken a promise to myself or anyone else, but I teetered so close to the line I might stumble over it any second. The day before, he'd skipped out on dinner with me. On this day, he was a no-show once again, despite me coaxing Mrs. D into reminding him I would partake of my meal in the dining room and would appreciate his presence. She told me he grunted in response without looking up from his desk.

  By the following day, the third since we made our bet, I'd gotten damn sick of having an invisible husband and eating meals alone or with Mrs. Darroch, sometimes Tavish as well.

  The whole time, I thought about Rory.

  He'd helped me unpack my stuff. I longed to believe that thoughtful act meant he cared for me, at least a little. Whatever his feelings, one fact had become undeniable.

  I was falling for him. After one week.

  Maybe that explained my sudden determination to win this frigging bet, and why I pushed open the door to his office shortly after lunch on day three without bothering to knock first. Dressed in my shortest shorts, the denim ones I'd worn the day after our not-so-one-night stand, I lounged against the doorjamb with a foot braced on it and my arms at my sides. Along with the shorts, I'd selected a powder-blue halter top, and I'd let my hair cascade in loose waves that kissed my bare shoulders.

  Rory glanced up from the files laid out on his desk. "No shoes again, I see."

  "Told you, I don't wear them in the house." I aimed a pointed glance at his feet, visible under the desk, covered in shiny leather loafers. "How can you be comfortable in those shoes? I mean, aren't you itching to kick them off?"

  "I dress for work."

  He wore his usual slacks and dress shirt with the top button undone. At least he didn't insist on a tie and jacket.

  "You work at home," I said. "Locked up in this office. Nobody will see if you ditch the loafers."

  He reclined in his chair, holding a pen between his thumb and forefinger, its tip planted on the desktop. "Did you pop in to chastise me for my choice of wardrobe?" />
  "No," I drawled. "I'm here to tempt you."

  "Are you." He tapped the pen on the desktop, seeming thoughtful but with a canny gleam in his eyes. "You mentioned you're shameless when it comes to winning our wager, but I don't have time to play with you. I have work."

  "You always have work." I slid my foot higher up the doorjamb, bending my knee more deeply, and stroked my hand along my exposed thigh. "Do you dream about files and cases and clients? Or do you dream about me?"

  The pen ceased tapping.

  He nailed his slitted gaze to the hand on my thigh.

  With one hand positioned at the hem of my shorts, inches from my sex, I trailed the fingertips of the other hand along the neckline of my shirt, down the inner slope of one breast. "That's a nice, big desk. Have you ever fantasized about stripping me naked, laying me over that smooth wood, and having your way with me right here in your office?"

  He gritted his teeth, his hand clenching around the pen tight enough to make sinews stretch taut on the back of his hand. Those amber eyes gravitated to my bosom where my fingers teased my own flesh.

  I pushed away from the doorjamb, padding toward him with my hips swaying. "You have. I can tell from the way you're devouring me with your gaze."

  His hand flew open, the pen toppled from his fingers. He clutched his thighs, his face tight, as if the erection hardening inside his slacks pained him.

  I perched my behind on his desk right in front of him. "Would you like me to sit on your lap the way I did the other night? This time, I'll take your cock in my hand and stroke you while I whisper your name."

  "Bloody hell." He ground the words out between his teeth.

  I fell to my knees between his legs, wedged inside his thighs. "You can have me anytime you want, anywhere you want, any way you want."

  He shut his eyes, gulped hard, and struggled to control his erratic breathing. "Not in the daytime, and not outside the bedroom."

  "Okay, baby, whatever you want." I uncoiled my body inch by inch, granting him a close-up view of my cleavage and my naked legs. With his face a couple feet from my groin, I tousled his hair. "If you change your mind, let me know."

  I skated my fingers down his cheek, over his chin, across his lips.

  He stopped breathing, his attention fixated on the fly of my shorts.

  Though my body thrummed with excitement, I could endure my unrequited lust for a little longer. No matter how much I wanted to yank down his zipper and mount him.

  Mission accomplished, I walked away from my highly aroused husband, hips undulating. Outside the doorway, my hand on the knob, I paused. "Oh, I forgot to tell you — because I haven't seen you since yesterday morning. Got a doctor's appointment tomorrow. I'm having lunch with Erica and Calli after."

  He ripped a sticky note from a dispenser but seemed to have forgotten what to do with it. "Tomorrow. Fine."

  "Have a good afternoon."

  He mumbled.

  I shut the door behind me. He couldn't see my smile.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I arrived home the next day in a better mood than I'd known in over a week. The stress of a quickie marriage, the invasion of the MacTaggarts, and my ongoing battle to loosen up Rory had trickled away. My appointment with Dr. Buchanan, a surprisingly young man with a kindly demeanor, had gone well. But it was my lunch with the American Wives Club that had reinvigorated my attitude.

  Much as Rory might want to, he couldn't understand my situation. I'd uprooted my entire life and become a transplant in a land where the people sort of spoke English. Rory's mercurial moods and numerous hang-ups had proved harder to sort out than I'd imagined.

  Sure, I loved Scotland so far. And I might maybe possibly be starting to fall for Rory. I couldn't discuss my relationship with him with him. I adored Mrs. Darroch and Jamie, but neither of them could talk me through the chaos of my new life. Only another American, another wife of a complex MacTaggart man, could comprehend my predicament.

  Erica and Calli were godsends and great ladies to boot. Lunch turned into the most fun I'd had since that weekend in New Orleans with Rory.

  Now, as the vestibule door clicked shut, I made my way upstairs to Rory's office.

  The door swung open, and Rory stepped out. He stopped dead when he spotted me.

  I trotted up to him. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

  He looked like a man caught doing something naughty, though I couldn't imagine what.

  "Everything okay?" I asked, peeking around his shoulder. "Were you getting your rocks off in there?"

  "What?" He executed a double take, his shock utterly lovable. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

  "Because you look guilty."

  He shuffled his feet and glanced toward the hall windows. "I, ah, wanted to… watch out the windows for you."

  "Waiting for me to come home? Aw, that's so —"

  "Do not say sweet or cute."

  "Endearing. How's that?"

  "Acceptable, I suppose." He turned sideways to the door, gesturing toward the nearest chair inside the office. "Come in."

  I flopped into the chair he'd pointed at, the one I'd come to think of as my chair. I expected Rory to retreat behind his desk, but instead, he perched on the desk's edge in front of me with his hands loosely linked.

  "Your visa has been approved," he said.

  "Wow, that was fast."

  "I have a friend at the Home Office. He had your application expedited." Rory did that almost-smiling thing. "Stephen Beckham is an old friend from university, and he was extremely grateful for my help in sorting out his father's estate after the old man passed away. His father had been senile and married an exotic dancer, then tried to amend his will."

  "Makes me look like a sane choice, huh?" I rocked back in my chair, the front legs lifting off the floor a smidgen. "Thought you couldn't talk about your clients."

  "The details appeared in newspapers. It was quite the scandal at the time."

  "Were you mentioned in the stories?"

  Rory lifted one shoulder. "A few times, but no one cared about the solicitor. Thanks to his venture capital business, the old man had been a celebrity of sorts even before Graham Oliver defamed him."

  "Graham? You mean the bod ceann?"

  "Very good," Rory said. "Maybe I'll teach you naughty Gaelic later."

  "Sounds like fun." Dirty Gaelic? I couldn't refuse that offer. "What did Graham do to your friend?"

  "He published a story about Stephen's father. Though there was a kernel of truth to it, Graham perverted the facts into a sordid tale worthy of a Roman emperor. A London tabloid latched onto the story."

  I nudged his leg with my sneaker-clad foot. "Never told me you're a famous solicitor."

  He closed a hand over the desk's edge. "I am not famous. No one would remember my name, it was years ago. The case did… elevate my financial standing, however."

  Elevate? I sat forward, hands on the chair's arms. "Are you saying you made a lot of money off this Stephen guy's case? Is that how you got so rich?"

  "In part." He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve. "Stephen was very grateful, as I said, and generous with more than his money. He recommended me to a few others in need of legal assistance, people who could afford to pay a high price for it and were more than willing to do so. Lachlan advised me on how to invest and grow my earnings."

  "At least that's one mystery solved." I leaned back, crossing my legs. "Damn, your first wife must really hate herself for dumping you. If she'd stuck around a little longer, she could've had the rich husband she wanted."

  He reached behind his body to retrieve a sheet of paper, which he held out to me. "Information concerning our bank accounts. You can access them online with my sign-in credentials, but you'll need to visit the bank with me in order to become a signatory. We can take care of that whenever it's convenient for you."

  "No rush." I took the paper. "Thanks. The way you're so on top of things makes me want you
on top of me."

  "After the wedding, Emery."

  "Whatever you say, Rory baby."

  He extricated a set of keys from his pocket. A plain metal ring held them together. He tossed it to me. "For the house doors, interior and exterior. We rarely lock the doors, no need to. You also have keys for the vehicles and the carriage house where they're kept."

  "Cool." I stowed the keys in my hip pocket. Then I got up and stretched, extending my arms above my head far enough my shirt rode up and Rory's gaze zeroed in on my belly. "I hope you won't be a grump about the wedding when my family's here."

  "I am not a grump."

  "You are, but I think it's cute." I eased between his legs, my hands on his thighs. "You could at least try to think of our wedding as a cause for celebration. Do it for me."

  He settled his hands on my hips, the gesture seeming unconscious. "I'll try. For you."

  "Aw, you're such a sweetheart."

  "Emery," he all but moaned.

  I raised my hands, palms out. "Sorry, sorry. Can't help it, though, you are adorable. Not a demon at all."

  "Who says I'm a demon?"

  "It was discussed over lunch." The American Wives Club had a bawdy sense of humor, for sure. I loved those ladies. "Erica said you must be a demon holding me hostage in your dungeon to do naughty rituals with me, and that's why I hadn't left the house since coming to Scotland. Then Calli wondered if you might have a forked penis. After that, we got distracted when Erica started grilling me about what it's like sleeping with an uptight solicitor."

  "Forked penis?" He seemed to cogitate on that for a moment until he processed everything I'd said. His hands tensed on my hips. "Did you tell Erica and Calli about — about our arrangement?"

  "I wouldn't do that. It's private."

  His hold loosened, and he tugged me a little closer. "How did you answer Erica's question?"

  "About our sex life?" I scooted even closer, gratified to feel his shaft swelling. "I told her you are a demon, but only in the bedroom. We have mind-blowing, earth-shattering, screaming-hot sex and you do me so hard all night long I can't walk or speak for two days after."