by Melissa Blue
“Burke.” Apparently, he'd reached the end of his short patience.
She hated that she liked that about him. Bothered. Right to her core. She needed to know why she liked his bark and loved his bite. Until she had that answer, going anywhere alone with him was probably a bad idea. “Do you, though? Rough women up? You have a temper.”
He sighed and released her. “So stubborn.”
“Such a jackass.”
He shook his head, his lips pulling together like he was fighting a smile. “Baird, pour me a pint. I'm going to need it.”
She laughed and turned to the man beside her. She offered him her hand. “I'm Victoria. Baird's new caregiver. You are?”
The man had to be in his late thirties. He wore a track suit and a gold chain around his neck. She could honestly say he'd be the first ginger she'd ever seen rocking a mullet. “A Yank can call me Bobbie. Where'd he find yer?”
She bit into her lip until she got it. “Oh. His doorstep. Callan hired me. Are you a regular?”
“This here is my spot. Never had such a good view before.”
She could believe it. Though the place was packed, women were slim. The ones she had seen looked closer to the Baird's age. She'd also noticed he'd winked at more than a few. If this is where Baird's boys grew up, she could understand why they suffered from a constant testosterone overload.
Callan shifted at her side and put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off, ignoring him. Glasgow was supposed to be her haven away from him and here he was grouching at her. But she couldn't say he was wrong about the booze at least. Her fingertips and earlobes had started to tingle like crazy. Baird's moonshine was bound to kill her in a few hours.
She decided to make the most of the time she had left on this earth and continued to have a semi-coherent conversation with Bobbie. Unfortunately at the end of his pint, he decided talking wasn't good enough. He placed his beefy, moist hand on her knee.
She smiled and knew her dimple would give him the impression of being sweet and kind. “Bobbie, are you fond of your hand?”
He gave her knee a squeeze and winked at her. “I like where it is right now. You're a soft lassie.”
“I'm giving you five seconds to move it.” She leaned back, giving him her best bitchy glare. She felt Callan tense and then move behind her. “If you choose not to, then I'm going to get mean.”
His face turned an impressive shade of red. His fingers dug in. “You teasing cu—”
A fist flying over her left shoulder ended his sentence. Bobbie fell ass over teakettle in the chair. Victoria's mouth dropped down. She knew who had hit him and could even guess the reason why, but shock stilled her and seemed to slow down time.
Silence suddenly filled the pub. Several patrons turned in their seats. She could only imagine what this scene looked like. Her mouth wide enough to catch flies. Callan moving from behind her and rolling his shoulders. Bobbie laid out on the pub's floor. Two more beats filled with silence passed and then the quiet was punctuated with a roar. It took her a few seconds to realize it was applause of all things.
“The bastard deserved worse,” a woman's voice piped up.
Victoria turned to see it was the woman helping Baird behind the counter. Her green eyes were bright as she smiled. “He gropes me when he thinks no one is looking. Thank you, Callan. Pint on the house.”
“Not a problem, Davina.” He sounded calm, almost jovial. “He should have been worried about what Burke would have done. I've seen her mean.”
Everything had happened so fast, and Callan didn't even look ruffled. Victoria stammered, still a bit stunned. “You punched him.”
A rustle came from the floor and then curses floated in the air. Bobbie rose with his fists raised and ready for round two. She took in Callan's lazy stance and broody brow. On the surface he appeared unfazed. The problem was she recognized the intensity in his stare. This wouldn't end well.
“Stay down, you idiot,” Victoria urged Bobbie. “He came in spoiling for a fight and you gave him a good excuse. Sit and apologize to Davina. If not, she just might encourage him to hit you harder this time.”
Bobbie spat out blood near her feet. “Fuck you, lassie.”
Victoria huffed. Some people. “Well, I tried,” she said without an ounce of remorse.
Callan stepped around her fully. She couldn't be sure, but it looked like money changed hands between many patrons right before Callan grabbed Bobbie by the collar and dragged him outside. Some people had no shame and followed them. She turned to Davina, her head still reeling at how fast things had turned to shit.
The younger woman laughed. “You tried?”
“I don't condone violence, but he planned to call me a cunt.” A crowd grew right by the windows to watch the events transpiring outside. Only a small vindictive part of her wanted to watch too. She sighed. “Tell Baird I'm going up to eat. I don't think I want to know how it all ends.”
Davina's brows rose. “You don't want a pint instead?”
She glanced down at her tingling fingers. Adrenalin and booze had turned the tips red. She winced. “Best if I don't.”
Davina sobered for a moment. “Bobbie has a head like a brick. He gets into it with someone at least once a week for his mannish behavior.”
That news didn't surprise her. “And here I thought I was special.”
The younger woman pursed her lips, suddenly looking much older than her twenties. “You know the last time Callan clocked a manky bastard for saying something untoward?”
Don't ask. Don't care. “When?”
“Never. He usually fights with his cousins and that's about it.”
“Fuck me,” she muttered low enough so the other woman couldn't hear her.
Thankfully, another customer had flagged down Davina. Taking full advantage of the unexpected reprieve, Victoria made her way up to Baird's flat and let the events of the day add up. Cotton may have filled her head but there was no doubt her brain still worked. Earlier she'd been too wrapped up in her thoughts to see the truth—this was all part of Papa Baird's plan.
He had made sure to call Callan to imply she was sad and willing to fall into the Baird's whiskey like a fish needing water. Baird knew his patrons, knew their seats and had made sure Victoria sat next to the only person in the pub who would step out of line.
Most importantly, Baird knew his boys. Callan was...temperamental. He would have had hours to stew on his drive up here to save the Yank. The Yank who had avoided him for days. She slammed Baird's door and stomped to the kitchen because she was daft. To be fair to herself, Baird had years to hone his cunning nature.
Victoria took comfort in the fact his flat was clean. Not quite as pristine as the pub but enough so she could take the solace in the quiet before the storm hit. She pulled off a clean kitchen towel from the oven and threw some ice into it for a makeshift ice pack. Then she waited.
Since she'd caught onto Baird's schemes, Callan would know she was upstairs, waiting for him, because this was what the whole day had been leading up to. Her being forced to look in the mirror, to face the woman who just might like being spanked. Papa Baird wouldn't know that but maybe the man could sense the shift within her.
Until that moment came, she blanked her mind, prepped some tea and heated up one of the many casseroles she'd made for Baird. By the time Callan strolled into the flat, the ice had melted enough to make it perfectly cold. He sat down at the table without a word and looked at her.
Other than the small cut on his chin, Callan's face bore no sign of a fistfight. His hands had taken the brunt of the beating. The knot in her stomach she hadn't acknowledged loosened with the wash of relief. She picked up the ice, stood beside him and placed the makeshift pack on his chin.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “I didn't do it for you.”
Ah. Consistent. She pressed the ice down harder than necessary. He winced and then chuckled.
The laugh changed the contours of his face and
it beat back the ever-present darkness in his eyes. She brushed a thumb over one of his laugh lines, thinking of all the things she wanted to say and finally chose, “Good.” More words climbed up and she swallowed, scared at the need to even add more. “I would hate to think you took offense on my behalf. Or felt jealous.”
“Lower,” he murmured.
She adjusted the ice. He sighed and closed his eyes, but his fingers didn't stay still. He drew circles along her hip. Before they'd had sex that action would have sent a tingle throughout her entire body, a yearning to know exactly how that same caress would feel on her bare skin.
Now she knew. An anticipation and a craving strummed through her. She cupped his other cheek. Shadows darkened the skin beneath his eyes. She hadn't seen them downstairs. Different light, different perspective. She wanted to blame the moonshine for the sudden nerves that put a slight tremble in her fingers, but it was him.
What exactly had I been running from?
Right. She'd been running toward common sense. Callan was the kind of man who could beat someone outside a pub. He was a widow who didn't talk about his deceased wife until he did and every emotion he bottled inside came spewing out. My wife. His distinction was small but telling.
And Victoria? Well, she was a woman who held her breath and waited for a man to hurt her or simply showed a sign he couldn't be trusted, proving her theory that no one should be trusted again and again. Neither of them needed to explore a relationship, much less a sexual one that could easily become complicated.
But she couldn't move from the warmth of him. Couldn't help but stroke his laugh line again. “Did you win?”
“He now knows better,” Callan answered without inflection.
That sounded like winning. Victoria wasn't sure if she should feel proud, embarrassed or indifferent. “I need to disinfect you or else you won't be able to finish working on those antiques. I think I saw a first aid kit down in the pub.”
He wrapped his hand around her wrist and held her gaze. The furrowed lines above his brows had softened. Of course there was lust in his eyes but there was also something gentler, quieter. This wasn't the man who growled at her when they'd first met. This wasn't the man who tied her to his bedpost a few days ago. He kept changing on her. How could she guard her heart if he kept surprising her and putting cracks in the wall she had around it?
“Lass,” he whispered, “am I supposed to act like nothing has happened between us?”
She wasn't sure if that would even help. “You can do whatever you want.”
His fingers pressed into her hip. “You act like I took advantage of you and didn't call. I've watched you run every morning, and every morning I've greeted you without pressure. You seemed to want some time and I've given you that. What more do you need?”
She'd noticed him outside his home in the morning. He stayed on his side of the moor and Victoria had been grateful. She had needed time to mentally compartmentalize what had happened, the risks she had taken to spend a night with him.
In those four days of thinking, avoiding and somewhat missing his wry humor, she still didn't have a clue what was going on. This wasn't love, but being with a man had never felt like another part of her was being peeled back and revealed.
“I don't know,” she answered him.
He only shook his head before letting her go. That didn't feel like the end of the conversation, but she left anyway. By the time she came back from the pub with the kit, he had set two plates on the table. He'd even put out napkins and waited for her. Not knowing what to say, she moved to his side and took his left hand, which was the worst of the two. He flexed his hand in her fingers but didn't make a sound as she patched him up.
She couldn't take another moment of the silence. “How's the Chippendale table?”
He stilled and then relaxed. “The amateur—” He waved off whatever gripe he planned to make. “I finished all the work and now it's drying. I should start on our work tomorrow.”
“The amateur?”
“Aye.”
She shook her head because it was such a cocky thing to say. “You're so modest sometimes.”
“Life's too short for false modesty, my dear.”
Her hand tightened at the thoughtless endearment. “What are you starting on first?”
Before she knew it, he'd drawn her into a conversation about his work, his methods. His passion for what they did couldn't be overstated. The man was a perfectionist. The knot in her stomach loosened. He could also separate work from their sex. Though sometimes he had such warmth, a part of him was so guarded that no one could touch it without hurting themselves in the process. But, he wouldn't screw up this job no matter what did or didn't happen between them.
When she finished his right hand, he tugged her into his lap. She leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling at ease the first time in days.
She wondered if he felt the same. “Do you feel appeased now that you're really touching me?”
He brushed his mouth along her neck and then kissed the sensitive crook. “No, but it'll do for now. You should eat something. I'm taking you home and you're going to let me.”
She shook her head at his damn good caveman impression. “I don't get a say?”
“Lie to someone else.” The caress of his mouth turned into a hard suck. His hand dropped from the table to her thigh. Her heart jumped into her throat but he didn't move. Everything in her wanted him to, which probably proved his point.
She could feel his smile against her skin before he said, “You've made peace with whatever was troubling you about me.”
“Act surprised anyway.” She closed her legs trapping his hand. And still he didn't move. “It'll make me feel less wishy-washy.”
His voice grew husky. “I will when you invite me in for a nightcap.”
Victoria could feel every hard inch of him against her ass, and the added raspy timbre of his voice didn't help. If she felt like that now without them being naked...She straightened so she could eat. She was going to need her strength for tonight anyway.
CHAPTER TEN
Victoria leaned against the cottage's door and faced Callan. Her stomach had a jittery weightlessness like she teetered on an edge. The soft glow from the porch light gleamed on his tousled hair and darkened his furrowed brows. She huddled deeper into her jacket. No one could convince her this was anyone's summer, but he looked warm even without a coat, unperturbed and patient. How she felt about the last two things, Victoria didn't want to know. Tonight was supposed to be light and she'd keep it that way.
And since awkward small talk was never her thing she said, “Remember, be surprised when I invite you in.”
He rolled his shoulders and then crossed his arms. His eyes lit with laughter. “Good night, Burke.”
She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “Do you want to come in for a nightcap?”
His lips twitched though he kept his tone grave. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said choking back a laugh. She liked how he was playing along.
His jaw dropped and he placed a hand on his chest. “Really?”
Victoria said wryly, “Oscar worthy.”
He leaned into her, placing his hands above her shoulders. “Are you sure, lass?” This time when he asked there was a thread of genuine seriousness.
Yes. No. Believing this entire thing wouldn't end in disaster involved taking a sledge hammer to her defenses just to make a big enough crack so trust could bleed in. The need to pick up the sledge hammer and the necessity to have one lodged a stone in her stomach.
Victoria shifted, hoping to dispel the discomfort. “Let's just say tonight my need to have you in my bed outweighs the worry.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Is tomorrow.”
He bundled her into his arms. Little by little his expression darkened, deepening the lines around his mouth. The emotions swirling in his blue eyes somehow lived between the abyss and lust. The inner war forced his jaw to clench. She
touched his cheek, confused by the sudden intensity in him.
“Callan, what's wrong?”
He took her mouth instead of answering. No other way to describe the way his lips possessed hers. He owned her mouth with a hard nip and then a suck. There was no seduction to it. No slow slide into something that made her breath hitch. He was taking what was left after he'd made her silently confess she might have a kink. Doubts, regrets pounded out of her with each unsteady heartbeat.
She held onto his shirt, not caring if she broke some buttons. He possessed her mouth in a way that made her need an anchor. His hand on her throat hadn't stoked this drowning sensation, but this kiss did. It demanded more than she suspected existed inside her—not in any one person.
She pulled back, reached up to cup his face. “Callan?” she asked again.
He closed his eyes and tensed. A few beats passed and when he opened his eyes, all the intensity had vanished. “Let's go inside.” His voice held a tenderness he wouldn't have possessed seconds ago. “You're shivering from the cold.”
He nudged her forward until she unlocked the door. She wanted to pause for a moment to talk because something was going on with him. He'd gone from flirtatious to dark within seconds and back again, but then he'd slipped his fingers into her shirt, tugging the front down as he went. He brushed his fingers back and forth over her nipples. The unspoken incentive picked up her pace and she forgot the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The door clicked open. He turned her to face him once they'd stepped inside. Callan shoved the door closed with his foot. Seconds ticked by with him leading the way to her room. She blinked. One hallway led to the backyard and the other went to her room. He'd picked the right one.
She broke the kiss right before they could enter her room. “Wait.”
“I guessed five minutes before you stopped me. It took you two.” There was a hint of a tease in his voice though his cock pressed against her stomach.
Her gaze dropped to his pants. Yeah. Nowhere near close to being turned off by her sudden nerves. “Have you been to my cottage before?”