by Melissa Blue
“Not anything, but enough to put a dent in my dignity.” Her long lashes shadowed wide, amber eyes.
“You work for my cousins. You'll survive me.” He thought about that for a second. “Maybe.”
“Cocky. I don't know why I didn't see the family resemblance.” Her full mouth stretched into a smile that showed her dimple again.
No wonder he'd been blindsided. If she hadn't spoken, he would have never sensed the first sign of trouble. The soft cadence to her voice reminded him of finely spun sugar but the huskiness caught him off guard. She'd looked as though if he were to part her pussy lips, he’d find her cherry intact. Her seductive purr would tempt him to pluck it.
Sweet Mary.
It had been a long while since a woman had surprised and impressed him, but Victoria had done both within the first two minutes of meeting her. She wasn't anyone's lamb. Now he knew better and would stay on his guard.
Because he wanted to step closer, he rounded the table and pulled his laptop out of the drawer. There wasn't much room and hopefully that meant she wouldn't follow. Not expecting her to blindside him with how quick, smart and determined she was didn't mean he could fuck her. Callan had scanned the contract when Ian had sent it a month ago. His jaw clenched in annoyance. She'd be here for the next two months.
He fired up the computer and suppressed the thoughts of what else they could do besides work for sixty days. “I'm going to assume you can get around well enough since you didn't crash on your way here.”
“Getting up to my cottage had some dicey moments. I practiced driving on the other side of the road before leaving California. Different thing when there's another car barreling toward you.”
His fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Where is your cottage?”
“Less than a mile that way.” She pointed toward the Smith's cottage.
Aye. Right. The first opportunity that presented itself Callan would beat Ian bloody. Until then...He grunted in acknowledgment and typed Papa Baird's address into the computer. She picked up his mobile and brought it to him. He did his best to ignore her, but he could feel the heat of her stare on his chest again. He had no doubt she'd never cross a real line. Could he say the same about himself? Fuck no, because her hungry gaze felt like a touch—eager, slow. He stretched his neck from side to side in hopes that would loosen the suddenly tense muscles.
Callan put his hand out for his mobile. “What's your number?”
She told him. He sent off a quick text with Papa Baird's number. “Now you have mine too. I'll phone him later to let him know you'll drop by sometime this week.”
She shifted closer to him, frowning at the map displayed on the computer. Her breasts were at eye level. If he were a weaker man...
“Why me?” she asked, angling her head toward him.
She'd leaned against the worktable. Sawdust peppered the edge of her jacket and shirt. She splayed her hand next to his laptop. He balled his hands. “My cousins—the bastards that they are—had the insight to know you wouldn't take no for an answer. That is exactly what my uncle needs.”
Victoria had needed him to say yes and would have probably stopped short of criminal activities to get just that. He'd use her stubborn determination to his advantage because Papa Baird was unruly. No one but family had the ability to somewhat rein him in. There would be no way the man could get around Victoria, but he couldn't tell her that.
She narrowed her gaze and rolled her hand as though to encourage him to speak. “And?”
Her scent wafted up and drifted over his senses. He unclenched his fists and then clenched them again. “You're a woman,” he answered, knowing a flush of anger would darken her cheeks.
Victoria's eyes widened. “It's amazing that you're able to stand upright since you're clearly a Neanderthal.”
Her comment cut through his frustration and he wanted to laugh. Instead he kept his tone dry, “Just consider me a miracle.”
She looked at him as though she wasn't quite sure what to make of him. “I won't be able to go tomorrow. I have to get up early and head to the castle. I'll verify all the items that need to be repaired and email you the list.”
He tutted. “I'll meet you at the castle then. I have to see it for myself.”
She bit down on her lip, probably to choke back a cutting remark. “Is this going to be our next two months? I lay out a simple and easy plan. You say no and make it complicated.”
“Likely.” She couldn't curtail all the bite, and he took note. “We'll go to Papa Baird's the day after. I'll introduce you, check on him myself and then it's up to you.”
She sucked her teeth. “You can go the day after tomorrow but not more than that?”
“It's an hour and half there. That's three hours out of my day gone. There's always something that needs fixing. Straightening up his place and spending time with the old bugger. So what should be eight hours turns into a full day.” He pointed to the table he would have to spend at least another week or so restoring. “That's another few days if I do nothing but tinker on it. I have three possible jobs lined up after that. I don't have the time.”
“But I do?”
“You'll make it.”
Guilt wanted to settle in. Sending her felt like breaking his word, and Papa Baird was family. In a perfect world, Callan would make the time, too. He knew intimately how easy life could be snuffed out.
And though Callan hated to admit it, he needed the money Ian would pay him. This one job could replace having to work two. He'd choke down a bit of his pride and take it. Victoria would be a means to an end. Nothing more.
He clicked the print button and heard the machine in the next room warming up. He rose, assuming she'd move since there was no way for him to pass without touching her. She realized the same a second later. Her eyes widened. They did an awkward dance to move out of each other's way.
Finally, he placed his hands along her hips. “Be still, lass. You're skittish.”
She smiled. “First I was a lamb, now I'm a mare. I've heard rumors about goat-fuckers in the Highlands. I didn't take them seriously until now.”
A pretty woman with a dirty mouth and sharp ambition was his kryptonite. “Auch, you've got a mouth on you.”
She laughed, but leaned back on the workbench giving him more room to pass. The problem was he hadn't let go of her hips. She filled his hands nicely. A buzz started in his head. She licked her lips in a nervous gesture, but it drew his attention to that mouth. His fingers flexed, and he was a twitch away from pulling her closer, lifting her up until her sex was a warm promise of oblivion along his cock. Reminding himself of the complications wasn't working, not when she sucked in a breath that jostled her breasts beneath her silk blouse.
Maybe she wasn't as cute as he first thought, but a woman who looked like her wanted more from her men than a quick fuck. He didn't have the time and definitely didn't have the heart left to give.
Still he trailed his hands down, taking in his fill of her soft, full curves until his fingers fell away. “Let me get you that printout. It'll have clear directions to Uncle Douglass'…place.”
“Thanks.”
The added husk in her voice gripped him. There was no mistaking her desire. Callan wanted to taste her mouth and stoke that emotion.
Ten grand. That's all you need to hold you over. Walk away.
Callan cleared his throat. “Beg your pardon.”
He strode out of the workshop to the small office. It would take less than ten seconds to grab the printout, but he needed time away from Victoria and the scent of vanilla. He needed to list the litany of reasons why he couldn't get a taste of her.
It only took five minutes for his head and cock to get the message.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning Victoria glared at the cottage's ceiling, kicked off the cover and accepted the sexual frustration that gnawed at her. She couldn’t enjoy the coziness of the bedroom. The owners had even equipped the bed with one of those perfect duvets. The wh
ole night she'd never felt hot or cold while wrapped under it. No. She couldn't enjoy any of that because of him. He kept creeping into her thoughts and turning those wanderings into naughty visions. Those visions of him made her wet and...unbelievably frustrated.
Her two choices were to dig out her traveling boyfriend to relieve some of the tension knotting her stomach or go for a long, hard run.
“Buck the hell up,” she muttered her sorry ass battle cry.
If she pulled out her traveling boyfriend, she'd only make the situation worse. Her mind would drift to Callan's wide palms gripping her hips, him slamming his pelvis down into hers. Her body would crave his mouth. And that would naturally lead to her wanting his tongue to lash her clit until she came.
Heat crept from between her thighs to her face. Crossing her legs, she rolled into the pillow and screamed. If Ian could look past her getting conned into looking after his Dad, he'd definitely hold some prejudice against fraternization between consultants. The man had a thing about it. Thin ice...she was doing somersaults on it.
She'd just avoid Callan—whatever she had to do to finish this job with her virtue intact. The next week or so would be the most precarious as they'd have to work in pretty close proximity. She could go a week without giving into temptation. Fortified, she dragged herself out of bed, got dressed and continued to mentally map out all the ways she could avoid him for sixty days.
The second she stepped outside wind smacked her in the face, and that vow to never let him touch her again flew into the frigid air. Soft sunlight crept over the rolling hills, slowly waking up the purple heather. That alone was a sight to behold, but of course it was the sight of him that stole her breath.
Callan stood on the moors, likely with the wind tousling his hair, making him sexier and the world an unfair bastard. Victoria considered running in the opposite direction, but she'd bowed enough in the last twenty-four hours. She'd run where she wanted, temptation be damned.
“Buck. Up. Burke,” she told herself and found an easy rhythm.
By the time she cleared the mile between them, he'd moved outside his gates to lean on them. Steam rose from his cup. He notched his head in a hello as she passed. She did not notice how he watched her breasts as she ran. Definitely didn't look back to see if he watched her ass with the same kind of hunger.
Okay.
Actually, she had and almost tripped and fallen off the hill. Served her right. He was gone by the time she made it back to her cottage. The four-mile run hadn't killed the sexual frustration.
Fucking windy moors, making Scottish men sexy for centuries.
*****
Two hours later Victoria pulled up the MacDougal Castle's long driveway. She allowed herself a moment to gape. All the places she'd traveled to in America, all the precious antiques she'd held in her hands, not even her hours of obsessive research had prepared her for a castle.
It didn't seem real as she drove up the dramatic cliffs and hills. More like someone had blown up a postcard of Scotland and superimposed the image on her windshield. She had to lean forward and crane her neck up to get the full brunt of the tower, the stone and wood. The history.
Built in 1206, the castle had many owners. Battles had been fought over it, on it and there it still stood. The castle should have appeared drab with all the gray stones but she couldn't breathe because of the beauty of what those stones represented—history, roots...
She wasn't a person who believed in love at first sight but her heart pitter-pattered and her palms grew damp. She'd thought the church in Inverness breathtaking. Victoria practically ripped her car door off its handle to get inside the building.
Callan stood in the entrance hall, near a writing table. Behind him light spilled through a small window framed by more stone. He'd only corrected what the wind had done to his hair with his fingers. She'd been close enough to him to know the strands were dark auburn but under the low lights, his hair appeared black. He fit in this ancient castle. Didn't take much to imagine him in a kilt, the wooden end of an ax rising above his head, a sword on his hip and a dirk hitched in his boot.
As she sized him up, he did the same. Her skin prickled. There was no mistaking the flash of desire darkening his blue irises. Just as it passed he once again wore an expression caught between disinterest and annoyance.
“Good morning, Mr. Baird.”
He scoffed. “I'd rather let you call me Jacob.” He gestured toward the long hallway as though to say move it along.
She checked down the empty corridor and it was just them. Goddammit. “Where's Logan MacDougal?”
“An emergency popped up and he had to go to London. We're friendly with the family so he's given us permission to look around on our own, do what we need to.”
She stared at him as her stomach dropped. Sooner or later she'd just have to get of course tatted on her forehead. “I—”
“Are we going to stand here all day?”
She took in a deep breath to stamp back her temper. “I'd planned to find everything on the list and scout out other antiques.”
He made a noise that she could only assume was agreement with her plan. So, yesterday wasn't a fluke—his default was rude. It should have killed her attraction to him, but of course it didn't.
Resigned, she led the way down the corridor and she had to stop again. Swords, axes, dirks and other weapons decorated the main room. They'd proudly hoisted their family crest above the display.
He shook his head likely taking her moment of reverence as confusion. “You should have done your research. The castle was built—”
“In 1206,” she finished for him and then pointed to a horn that sat below the swords and crest. “Would you mind taking that down? It's not on the list, but that doesn't mean I can't talk my way into getting it included.”
He took it down but didn't hand it to her. “White metal mounts—”
“German silver was used for the mounts. I'm going to assume, until I can do further research, that it's from the 19th century. The thistle etching along the neck is a bit worn, but the domed cap is intact.” She squinted. “It seems to have the original chain. Based on what I know, this style wasn't actually used to hold gunpowder. They were mainly worn as decoration as part of the Highland dress.”
“Show off,” he muttered but she caught a twitch of his lips.
That set the tone for the next two hours as they roamed room to room. She'd find something of interest, either he or she would give the full break down, and then the loser would mutter an insult. So the first opportunity she had to ditch him, she did—he'd gone to the bathroom. With three wings and a tower, it was fairly easy to lose him.
When Victoria finally reached the tower, she had to take a pause. The tapestries decorating the circular wall kept out most of the cold, but this room, unlike the rest, was meant only for storage. Yet, it was another room filled with heirlooms and antiques.
Her notebook brimmed with at least three pages worth of other items they could score for another exhibition. She even had to dig out the reading glasses from the bottom of her purse. The constant strain on her eyesight had given her a light headache. Her brain refused to process the magnitude of not only the job she had to do, but the living history in MacDougal's “home.”
She collapsed into a Windsor rocking chair and put her head between her knees. To think a few hours earlier her only worry had been one-upping Callan. She balled her hands. They shook like she’d had too much coffee, because despite the low burn of excitement in her gut, she was in charge of taking care of all of it. Mistakes in her job meant a piece of history was destroyed—a career was destroyed.
Ian had trusted her with this. She must have oversold herself to him. There was no way he'd let someone who felt this overwhelmed, who had screwed up, a chance to deal with all these antiques. She could stick to the list, but if Logan was impressed, what more would Baird and Associates ask for the next time?
And that all depended on her, the woman who had let love
and a good piece of ass ruin everything important in her career three years ago. When it had happened, she'd tucked her tail between her legs, sulked for months and then bucked the hell up. Wallowing in heartbreak couldn't pay back her Stanford student loans, and no matter how much she adored her parents and sister, bouncing between their homes while unemployed was not ideal. Little by little she had put her life back together, her heart under lock and key and had moved on. It all led to this moment where she had her knees cradling her head.
She'd get it done and do it well, Victoria had no doubt of that, but first the room had to stop spinning.
Footfalls sounded on the stone steps. She rose much too fast and her head spun some more. Expecting to see one of the many servants she'd run into, she managed to scrounge up a smile.
Callan strode through the archway. Victoria fought the urge to put her head between her knees again. He wasn't a pretty boy but the stark angles of his face, his blue eyes and full lips made him breathtaking. No, she hadn't forgotten his behavior from earlier, but that was the epic power of smoldering bedroom eyes.
“You wear glasses,” he said, almost sounding defeated. “I'm starting to think you make sure you look harmless so no one expects you to turn into a barracuda.”
“Another animal.” She sat down stiffly in the chair on high alert. His calm was the eye of the storm. “It's a step up from a lamb, though I'm not sure why you think I'm a barracuda.”
He strolled around the room in a lazy manner, picking up things and putting them down. Streaks of dust marred his hands and the thighs of his jeans. “Barracudas use surprise to hunt their prey.” He paused at one of the tables from her list of items that needed repair. “You abandoned me downstairs right when I was winning our little game, but now here you are where there's only one exit.”
“Only someone like you would feel the need to keep score.”
“Aye.” He lifted the small table and turned it upside down. Though all his focus appeared to be on the table, she knew his attention was on her. “And that presents a problem.”