Kiltless

by Melissa Blue

  The door swung open. A shirtless man glowered at her, but that description couldn't quite encapsulate him. Her smile faltered while she lost a few IQ points at the full brunt of him. Shadows deepened the grooves around his mouth and eyes. Wind creeping in through the open door whipped his dark auburn hair into disarray. He was broad in the shoulders, solid in the torso and thighs. Every sinew in his tall frame inspired an itch in her palms to touch, caress, explore all of him. He fit into the scenery—stark mountains and moors.

  The furrows that hinted above his brows practically promised brooding—complete with a money back guarantee. His blue eyes narrowed. “Which Baird sent you?” His thick burr rolled the “r” in a way that prickled her skin.

  He definitely seemed to know Ian and Tristan. Ian was her boss. Tristan was her boss' brother who ran the sales division. To say they were like night and day was an understatement. “I'm—”

  He scoffed, cutting off her speech with the abrupt sound. “Ian,” he guessed with pinpoint accuracy. “Tristan wouldn't have sent a lamb to slaughter.”

  Her spine stiffened. A lamb would have curled up when she had mistakenly authenticated a forgery three years ago. A sheep would have willingly let the world put a hand over her eyes while it slit her throat to bleed out from shame, guilt and mortification. One simply didn't recover from the kind of screw up she'd made, but Victoria had found employment, convinced her boss to send her to Scotland, alone, for an all expense paid commission of a castle. This was her first job oversees for the Bairds and it damn sure wouldn't be her last.

  Victoria Burke was no one's goddamn lamb.

  She kicked her smile back into gear, stepped forward to crowd his space so he'd automatically pull back for room. When he did, she fought a grin. “I have the contract for you to sign. I'm looking forward to working with you.”

  Respect flickered in his gaze before irritation took over. “Aye. Ian sent you. Tristan would have sent a charmer.”

  Familiarity crept much closer to extremely knowledgeable of the two men. “I'm sure Ian informed you I was coming by—” she offered her hand, “—Victoria Burke.”

  He scowled at her hand as though it had teeth. Of course. Of course, her first job overseas would involve someone who woke up with a bug up his ass. His scoff was much quieter this time, but then he rolled his shoulders, dragging her gaze back to his wide chest.

  His nipples were a dark coppery-shade and erect from the cold. Maybe for the first time in her life she could almost understand the reverent description of alabaster skin. The only thing to mar his flesh was a tattoo that covered most of his right shoulder and pec. The design was both elegant and barbaric. Before she could really admire the view, the door slammed shut in her face.

  Her mouth dropped open. Her boss had made this sound like a done deal, and maybe it had been. This wouldn't be the first time a temperamental “artist” threw a fit about the business end of restoring antiques. This wasn't work but art and history. How dare she bring up things like deadlines, liabilities and conditions.

  The urge to put her foot into the door was strong, but she needed the “artist” complacent and happy. And to sign the goddamn contract.

  Tension wrenched through her and even her earlobes felt tight. Giving herself a few seconds to compose herself, she knocked again, and waited. After three minutes, she decided sleeping in her car would make her look desperate. So...she'd have to knock until her knuckles bled, which started to seem like a distinct possibility after eight minutes.

  The door whipped open again. He filled the doorway with those broad shoulders as he glared down at her. It felt as though she was trying to play chess against a master player with both hands behind her back.

  She sucked at chess.

  “I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” She kicked up her smile, now grateful for the dimple. Often times people found it hard to be mean with cute, and she would need everything in her arsenal.

  His furrowed brow deepened. “You must be masochistic.”

  Determined and desperate were the same thing, right? “I would like to—”

  “For fuck sake.” He turned into the home without closing the door.

  She took that as an invitation since a cordial one wasn't likely to come and stepped inside. She clutched the manila folder, trying to take everything in, because she had no doubt his next chess move would be epic.

  The scent of sandalwood permeated in the air. Jacob's cottage was too masculine for anyone else to have lived there, though the comfort and warmth of it surprised her. He didn't bother to flick on lights as he went. The fire crackling in the stone hearth and his broad back marked the way. The cottage was rustic right down to the stones that acted as a baseboard. Her heels clicked against the wooden floorboards as she followed him.

  She stepped over his discarded shirt in the hallway in front of the bathroom. So...she'd interrupted him. Yes, it was only mid-day but freelancers worked odd hours. This could easily be the end of his workday. Be nice. Apologetic. Don't call him a jackass.

  Still, annoyance dried the sweat on her palms as she continued to follow him. Jacob pushed open a door. A few more steps and then she could see past him. She would have never guessed a workshop was part of the home from the front. Smaller tables and benches ate up most of the space.

  She spotted a 1900s Chippendale table and her heart refused to pump for a second. He'd taken it apart. She almost choked from the need to gasp. In mint condition the table could easily run anywhere between $1,800 to $2,400. In the current condition...she felt dizzy. He gave the antique no attention as he picked up his phone from one of the work benches. That movement knocked some sense into her.

  “Jacob—”

  “Callan,” he corrected in a dismissive manner. “I only let my mother call me Jacob. And why Ian sent a Yank to Scotland to talk to me, I don't know.”

  There it was again—that niggle that she'd been snowed somehow. Ignoring her own unease, she softened her tone. “I think, somehow, our wires got crossed.” She paused to pick her words carefully. “You didn't agree beforehand to do this job, did you?”

  A five o'clock shadow framed his jawline. He scrubbed at the facial hair in an absent manner. “Ian offered the work, aye. I told him to go fuck himself in the arse.”

  Victoria blinked in shock at the blunt words. She'd heard the way Ian and Tristan talked to each other. Well, when they thought no other employees were around. The brothers threw insults and curses at each other and made them seem like Scottish endearments. But a potential consultant saying the same thing? Even a Scottish one? Dread pooled in her stomach. The “important” thing she was missing could be her best bargaining chip.

  Still, she placed the manila folder over his phone and flipped open to the contract. Her boss had given her bargaining power with a limit—one she'd push if she had to. She needed this contract signed; she needed to not just finish this job, but succeed.

  Despite his initial surly rejection, he'd let her in. She'd take that inch and make it three miles. “What do you need in order to sign this?”

  His brows rose at the question, probably surprised she'd bothered to ask. “More time. My time. Something both Ian and Tristan don't give one fuck about.”

  Tension strummed through his frame, giving her another excuse to let her gaze roam. Apparently working as a wood craftsman could carve a man into thick, biteable appendages. His forearms flexed gracefully and showcased the fine dark hairs and veins that traced the smooth muscles. Wide palms. Long fingers...Victoria's mind strayed far from a solution for a moment.

  He took measure of her as she did him. The intensity of his stare sparked a flush along her skin. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she couldn't blame the cool temperature in the workshop. His lids lowered as something raw and untamed flashed in his eyes.

  She mentally smacked herself and got back on task. Callan sounded tired, annoyed but genuine. The fastest way to get him to agree was to give him exactly what he wanted. “If I coul
d give you more time, would you sign?”

  “I need someone who can cook and clean.”

  He wouldn't sign a contract because he didn't like housework? She kept her face blank, and stopped covertly ogling him. “I see,” her voice turned tart. “I'm sure it's within the budget to hire a maid while you work.”

  “Ian and Tristan would go for a maid. They're not the problem.” He tilted his head, calculation clear in his demeanor. “You'd do though.”

  So he thought she was gullible. Unfortunately she was desperate and walking out wasn't an option. Trying a different angle, she said, “I'll be as busy as you. I'm not sure taking the time to clean and cook for you would do you much good.”

  “Not me.” He scoffed. “For an elderly relative. He gets lonely, eats shite and if left alone long enough, his flat could be featured on one of those hoarder shows.” His chest rose with a deep inhalation. “I can't take on this job and still take care of him.”

  She softened at the sincerity in his words. He clearly cared about this person. “I'd do but a maid wouldn't, J-Callan?”

  “Believe it or not, aye.” He met and held her gaze. “Agree and I sign right now.”

  And what would she tell her boss if Callan didn't sign? I know you flew me all the way to Scotland but I couldn't get the consultant to sign. So I wasted another six weeks scouring both Scotland and England to find a replacement. Ian would have to pay for that consultant's room and board, meals too. Whatever it cost to get them to do the job.

  But Callan's reason for wanting her to do the grunt work didn't make sense. “Why me?”

  “Because there are always strings attached when dealing with a Baird.”

  “That doesn't sound like my boss.”

  “Did Tristan ever say how he ended up working for Ian?”

  She blinked, confused by the question. “No.”

  He chuckled in a poor-sweet-idiot way. “Aye, right. Leave.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Victoria's heart skipped in a panicked staccato beat. “Let's not get hasty.”

  “Now I'm sure of it. You are masochistic.” Callan shifted.

  Her gaze snapped lower. Was that another tattoo peeking out from below the waist of his jeans? He dropped his hands and stuffed them into his pockets, making the denims ride lower. Yup. A tat. She could see the top of the Celtic knots at his Adonis line. She forced herself to look into his eyes, but a feverish heat rushed to her face.

  His blue irises darkened. The tension within him shifted to her. “You seem distracted by other things, lass.” A note of desire leaked into his teasing words.

  “I'm trying to figure out a solution that would please us both,” she managed to say with a straight face.

  He tutted at the obvious lie. The room suddenly felt too small, too filled with him and the scent of sandalwood. She reached beneath the stack of papers to pull out the pen.

  Victoria arched her brow before offering it to him. “You just tried to make a deal with a stranger to watch your elderly relative. Do you do that often?”

  “Ian wouldn't have hired you if he didn't trust you, and you seem like a lass with good taste.” He said the last without a hint of a smile before taking the pen.

  He'd noticed the ogling and refused to let it slide. She sighed and looked at the sheaf of papers. This situation was of her own making. She could have waited until the next day to try again. She could have called her boss and given him this headache. But, no, she had barreled into Callan's home with a half-assed plan to convince him. If Victoria left now, she'd lose all the ground she'd gained.

  Well and truly screwed, Victoria pushed back her shoulders like she was about to face a firing squad. “This is all for an elderly relative?”

  “Aye.”

  Her grandfather was easy to appease. A good meal and conversation usually had him snoring in his recliner. What she wanted in the long-term would outweigh this momentary hit to her pride. She needed that black mark off her reputation or at the least, slightly forgotten. She was tired of people saying her last name and then, Oh, that Burke. So if Victoria had to make casseroles in her spare time, she would make fucking fantastic casseroles. She'd made peace with her ambitious nature a long time ago.

  “I'll look in on your relative,” she agreed.

  He bent down to the paperwork. She sucked in a breath and held it, excitement fluttered in her stomach. He poised the pen right above the highlighted areas. A mischievous glint filled his eyes. “You're holding your breath. Why?”

  Subtle had never been her strong suit so she could lie until she was blue in the face and he'd know. Never mind that she'd just agreed to his form of blackmail. She grasped hold of what was left of her pride and glared at him. “I'm at your mercy and you know it so just sign the papers, Callan.”

  The muscles in his shoulders rippled as though he'd shuddered at the truth of her words, but he signed the contract. Her breath eased out in relief. Later she could go over how she ended up being someone's candy striper—and how not to ever end up in this situation again—but for now the contract was signed.

  He straightened, placing his hands in his pockets again and giving her another sneak peek of his tattoo.

  Callan waited until she met his stare to say, “You should know, I planned to say yes after I slammed the door in your face. You're cute as a button, and I felt bad.”

  Victoria glanced at the floor so he wouldn't see the flash of murder that likely flickered in her eyes. She waited until the urge faded to look back up. “I'm glad we were able to come to an agreement. Let me know your relative's name and his address. How many times a week am I supposed to drop by?”

  He ripped a piece of the manila folder off, wrote down the information and handed it to her. She did a double take at the name.

  “Douglass Baird,” she murmured.

  Scotland was a small country. She could probably stand on a crowded street, throw five rocks and each time hit a Campbell. So the surname Baird could very well be commonplace, but given this whole horrible and humiliating exchange, Victoria seriously doubted it. Callan's elderly relative bore her boss' last name and that meant Callan...

  If defeat had a distinctive noise, she made it in that moment of realization and really looked at the man who had turned her day to shit. The first time she'd met her boss he had intimidated the crap out of her too. His dark stare had been quite foreboding. When he spoke it was with the slightest hint of a burr, and he came across very cultured. Tristan was completely different in almost every way. He smiled often, cracked jokes and sometimes she got the hint he could charm a roomful of enraged rattlesnakes if he put his mind to it.

  But Callan...He smiled with all his teeth in a predatory-like manner as though he knew every unkind thought she had had about him. “Papa Baird's my uncle. When Ian and Tristan left for America, they entrusted me to take care of their father.”

  Cousins. Heat rushed into her face again. Nope. She never called any of her cousins by their first and last names. Yup. When she couldn't check in on her mother, she did ask one cousin or another to drop by. Occasionally, she'd reciprocate. So Ian, Tristan and Callan's agreement made complete sense.

  But fuck me. She'd just agreed to take care of her boss' father. Of course that couldn't go wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You look a bit green.” Callan Baird stilled, impatiently waiting for Victoria's reaction.

  A flush crept up her slender neck. “I'm just thinking I might be overstepping my bounds with my boss.”

  It worried him that he was turned on by the blush on her beautiful brown skin. The hint of vanilla, her scent, mixed with the ever present smell of sawdust in his workshop. She was taking up too much room and too much brain space just by being there. All of her lush curves were the kind of trouble he didn't need, and he planned to keep making her pay for the discomfort.

  “Well then, Victoria—” his voice came out harsh, “—you have two choices: Don't tell him or inform him you let yourself get blackmailed i
nto being a part-time caregiver.”

  He wanted her gone as much as he wanted her to stay. If she told his cousin what had transpired today, Ian would likely order her back to America. “It's up to you,” he added.

  She bit her lip, but a laugh spilled out. The sound was husky, yet still feminine. Need pounded in his veins.

  “You're good,” she said the compliment like it hurt to admit it. “You're kind of ruthless.”

  Why wasn't she running in the other direction? Any other woman would have told him where he could put his conditions or cowered, but she got what she'd come for. She'd laughed at his bark, ignored it, or given it back in equal measure. “Have to be when it comes to my cousins.”

  “Cousins.” She shook her head and shifted.

  “Do you have family?” he asked.

  “My mom, my dad and sister.” Her features softened and he knew she loved them. “Cousins, too. Yup. I have enough family to know you were probably emotionally blackmailed into taking care of your uncle. And as the saying goes, shit rolls downhill. I was just dumb enough to get caught in the crosshairs.”

  Aye. His cousin knew his situation. Knew Callan would refuse a blatant offer of financial help. Callan should have known that wouldn't be the end of it. Ian, likely with urging from Tristan, had sent a wolf in lamb's clothing to get the contract signed.

  A single look at her and he'd been too daft to see the trap sprung. Auch. His cousin had been right. In less than twenty minutes, she'd scored his signature. That wasn't something he'd thought her capable of when he first opened his door. He'd spent six straight hours in his workshop disassembling and prepping a table for repair. Exhaustion fogged his head, and then someone had knocked on his door. Even a nun would have received the blunt edge of his temper.

  “You're not a victim,” he pointed out. “You weighed your options.” He needed to know, though he could guess the answer. “You would have done anything to get me to sign.”