by Melissa Blue
Kate jolted and whipped her head to the side to get a good look at the man who had somehow crept up on her and sat down behind her. Her stomach jittered and all the air in her lungs seeped out. He didn't need to come with a warning. The moment your panties spontaneously combusted let you know you were in over your head.
His shoulder-length dark auburn locks brushed the collar of his white shirt. His tapered nose crooked to the side, muddy blue eyes were sharp and jaw line was chiseled. He looked...hearty.
She'd been in Scotland for three weeks and had not seen his equal. They must have hid him somewhere, because women would lose their fucking minds if men like him just walked up and asked out-of-the-blue questions. Or those women drooled. Or were rendered silent.
Kate put the glass to her lips, took a long pull on the soda and then muttered so she wouldn't draw too much attention to herself, “You would think the Scot. Hands down. For an older man he's pretty as hell. Could probably talk a nun into the religion of him. And she looks so sweet, helpless. The dimple, the glasses—her appearance screams softie. Right now her stomach is as big as she is. But, nope, she's dropped the f-bomb four times in the last two minutes. He's losing and can't even do it gracefully.”
He let out a silky, seductive laugh. Oh, yeah. They kept this man under lock and key for public safety, but even with the laugh and the looks he gave off a quiet intensity. It was the eyes. They scanned the surroundings, her and meted out a silent judgment. This light exchange happened because he wanted it to.
The man gestured to the fighting pair. “She's put her hands on her hips. I think she's about to hit him with the coue de grace.”
With curiosity, and concern for her own safety if she kept looking at him, Kate turned her attention back to the pair at the pub's counter. Behind them liquor bottles were situated in shiny metal contraptions that made it easy to pour with a knob. In the mid-morning light they gleamed.
“Baird,” the pregnant woman intoned with a hint of exasperation. With her hands on her hips the woman gave off the appearance of being formidable even at her five-foot-four height. “I'm tired of your bitching. I'm just plain tired. Katherine's going to take care of you for the next few weeks. You will listen to her, because I swear on sweet baby Jesus's manger, if I have to deal with you, Callan, this baby and the wedding, I will find a way to smite you.”
The man behind her whistled low and shifted on his booth's red cushions, placing his thick biceps on the wooden divider. The muscles in his broad shoulders made the white long-sleeved shirt scream for sweet, delicious mercy. “Every time she hits him between the eyes with something like that and he crumbles.”
Her intrigue shifted back to him. “You know them?”
His gaze held a cautious curiosity as though uncertain if he wanted to answer. “Aye,” he finally said.
Slowly, it dawned on her that she hadn't heard him come in, which was surprising and troubling given the conclusions her mind latched onto. His arms and neck had a thickness of an athlete, but he wasn't too bulky. Still, she hadn't heard all of that come in. Not to mention, the oak doors had squeaked loudly when her potential new boss had opened. Outside of her future employer and the curmudgeon, no one else sat in the pub. Where in the hell had he come from? And how did he know them?
She groaned as all the connections interlocked and slid down into the booth. “You're related to the Scot.”
He nodded at her correct conclusion. “The Scot's my uncle, Douglass. The miniature Valkyrie is my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Victoria. Believe it or not, I'm starting to adore her. My uncle is...a bit untamed, and she keeps him in line.”
Well, at least what she said about them was kind of complimentary. Shaking her head, she finished her drink and decided to keep her mouth shut from here on out.
“You brought me a Yank,” the older Scot grumbled. “You had all of the United Kingdom.”
Victoria pursed her lips for a moment. “With a name like Katherine Campbell she's...kind of Scottish.”
“Bollocks.”
The pregnant woman huffed. “It's her or I get you a full-time maid and nurse. She's just an assistant who'll take your blood pressure a few times a day.” The woman made a face and put her hand to her stomach. “It's just a few weeks until Callan and I get back from the honeymoon.”
Concern pulled the Scot's brows down, and he sighed. “Aye, right. Go put your feet up.”
She patted his cheek. “See. That didn't hurt.” She hesitated, both hands on her stomach now. “And behave.”
Kate inhaled, and the scent of leather and laundry soap filled her lungs. Her skin tightened, tingled.
The handsome stranger had moved closer. “He's not going to behave,” he whispered, so close to her ear his breath brushed over her earlobe. “I feel sorry for this lass.”
A shiver ran through her. Whoever had let him out needed to be beaten with a wet noodle. Once a day, for a week. She stiffened her spine, ignoring the tingles that still raced down it, and stood from the booth—farther away from him.
Maybe he saw the truth in her face, and the dawning of that knowledge darkened his eyes. “Aye. I see. You're not related to the Valkyrie. Her family has been coming and going all day.” He offered her his hand. A finger or two were just as crooked as his nose, but they were thick and strong. “Katherine, nice to meet you.”
With a bit of reluctance, she took his hand—skin touched skin. A shimmer of something she hadn't felt in a long while spread up from her palm straight to her stomach. Attraction curled up and made a home there. She dropped his hand. “Katherine's my grandmother. Call me Kate. You are?”
“Quinton Baird.” His eyes narrowed on her face as though he expected a certain reaction. When it didn't happen, he exhaled and then that gaze slid down to her hips and back up in a slow crawl.
She’d worn jeans, a plain black sweater and tennis shoes, expecting her first day on the job to be more introductions and a walk-through her patient’s routines. The heat his stare ignited made her feel sexy…desired.
Her heart stuttered. “Well, it was nice chatting but I should probably...” Butter up my curmudgeon, she'd intended to say. Clearing her throat, she tried again, “I should talk to my new boss.”
The smile he gave her in response was virile, potent, and he knew it. She took back the wet noodle and traded it with a two-by-four, because his jailer had one damn job.
“Boss, right,” he said.
She could almost hear her grandmother. A smart butt makes a soft behind. When would Kate learn? Probably never. A pang of grief replaced the attraction, which was more than fine with her. Glasgow was a pit stop on her grand tour of Europe, one she’d taken for work more than anything. She didn't have time for an affair, much less love.
“Lassie,” came from behind her.
Taking that reprieve, she turned on her heel and plastered on a smile. “Mr. Baird.”
“Douglass or the Baird is fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest, acting like she'd planned to shove a thermometer up his butt to take his temp.
“You're my boss.”
“Technically, Victoria's paying you.”
“Then you're my—” Saying patient wouldn't help things. With someone this stubborn she had to win him over or the next few weeks would hurt, the both of them.
She said, “I'm your companion. You want to drink, you can have one. Smoke—light 'em up. Plan to beat the record at the local eat-and-gab and chow down a sixty-nine ounce steak, I'll tip the waitress. I won't provide any lectures.”
His brows rose in disbelief. Kate ignored that. She was only half-through the speech that won her jobs as much as it lost her ones. “If you keel over I will provide CPR. I will stick your nitrogen tablet under your tongue. When you're fine I will mutter an I-told-you-so under my breath after you're fine. CPR takes a lot out of me, and it makes me cranky so...I'm not perfect. I just wanted you to know that.”
His lips started to twitch, and Kate knew she had him. She put out her hand. “Kather
ine Campbell, but you can call me Kate.”
“I'll call you Kitten and spray you with water when you get smart.”
Her stomach clenched for a moment at the nickname. “I charge extra for that.”
He lost the battle and laughed. “I see why Victoria hired you. All of the United Kingdom and she had to find someone worse than her.”
“I promise to never find a way to smite you. Swears.”
He sighed just like he did when Victoria had won their argument. It sounded full of exasperation. “You know you do have to cook and clean.”
“Light cleaning, healthy cooking.”
He muttered a curse. “Fine. Let me walk you through the pub. They're having something here tonight for the wedding. Are you supposed to be here for that?”
“I prefer morning work, old habit, but if you need me here tonight, I’ll come.”
“Awright. I'll refill your drink and put a splash of Scotch in it. You're going to need it.”
She waved off his offer. “Just the Coke while I'm technically on the clock.”
A mischievous glint filled his eye. “Aye, of course.”
That didn’t sound like an agreement at all. She laughed. “You're trouble, aren't you?”
“Aye,” he said and it sounded like a pirate's growl.
Shaking her head, she turned to go get her glass and froze. Quinton had disappeared. Not surprising he was stealthy. He looked shifty at best, delicious at worst. Her stomach still felt tight from the punch of need. She shook it off, glad for his absence, because she had a job to do. Promises to keep. Flirting with a Scotsman was not on the schedule.
Hell, she was holding out for a Parisian anyway.
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