She swung around. “What do you—”
Cal didn’t let her finish. Cupping her jaw with his free hand, he bent down and kissed her.
As his mouth moved over hers, Monica felt it clear down to her toes. They curled inside her shoes. Her belly fluttered and her knees grew weak. And it wasn’t the champagne. Cal Hughes took her breath away.
He let go of her hand in order to cup her breast. Monica’s nipple strained against the rasp of his thumbnail. Her panties grew damp and her pussy clenched. Fuck being on her best behavior. She needed this rush of desire, this instant attraction. She felt so alive right now.
Parting his jacket, she ran her hands up his torso. Solid. Muscular, but lean.
Then his hand tugged on her bodice and palmed her bare breast. The cool air picked up a curl, and it tickled her cheek.
Monica tore her mouth away from his. “You don’t have to be so gentle.”
Cal’s grip on her breast tightened, and his lips slipped down the column of her neck, taking little bites while he grazed her nipple with his thumb.
She reached for his dick, rubbing her fingers along the edge of his fly, getting a feel for it. “Yes,” he murmured against her neck, “more of that.” Then he shoved his hips against her hand. He grew under her touch. Hard and long—Monica couldn’t wait to see it. Maybe taste it.
“Mon?” Allie. “What the hell are you doing?”
Monica peeked over Cal’s shoulder. Standing at the edge of the path, Al stared at them. With a hand at her belly, she shook her head. “Oh, Monica.”
“Shit,” she whispered, pushing out of Cal’s arms. She quickly shoved herself back into her dress.
Cal straightened. He gazed down at her, looking dazed, and ran a hand along his jaw. “Damn.”
Monica stepped around him. “I…we just needed some air.”
“Get in the house.” Allie used a soft tone, one that spoke of disappointment rather than anger. Monica could handle anger, fight against it. But this… Pack your bags, Campbell. There’s an extended guilt trip in your future. “Stop by the powder room and get yourself together. Your hair’s a mess.”
“I don’t want to go back inside, Al.” Cal stood next to her, silent. Waiting. She could still ride away with him, lose herself until tomorrow.
Allie dropped her hand. “Dad won’t cut the cake until you’re there. Please do this for him.”
As upset as she was, Monica didn’t want to ruin his perfect day. She took another peek up at Calum Hughes. “Maybe next time, huh?”
“Definitely.” Cal bent down and gave her one last, hard kiss.
Then Monica ran toward the house without looking back.
Chapter 2
Five years later…
Monica Campbell’s carefully planned schedule was shot to hell. Not just her schedule—her entire morning. She needed a do-over. If only those worked after the third grade, she’d be golden, because this day was shaping up to be a real pisser.
She’d woken up at six, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of coffee, but her machine had refused to give up the dark roast. Then her sister, Allie, had texted to switch the location of their eight o’clock meeting. Now instead of a ten-minute drive to the office, Monica had to hightail it from Vegas to Henderson. Hastening her routine, she’d sped to the nearest coffee shop and stood in line with all the other caffeine addicts in the throes of withdrawal—thirty-two minutes wasted—before heading straight into rush hour.
Allie had given no explanation for the change in locale, no apology. But since she was the boss, it was her call. And she never let Monica forget it.
One thing Monica resented above all else was having someone dick with her schedule. And today the universe had her in its crosshairs. Roll with the punches. Go with the flow. People uttered the trite phrases as if they were actual philosophies. But if time didn’t mean anything, why had clocks been invented? Yeah. Argue that one, slackers.
As the coordinator for the cancer foundation named in honor of her mother, Monica kept busy; her job was one big blur of back-to-back meetings. Allie’s little hitch threw everything into chaos. So as she sat behind the wheel in bumper-to-bumper traffic, Monica sipped her sugary black coffee, called the office to reschedule three appointments, and left detailed messages for two separate committee chairs.
By the time she pulled through the gates of Allie’s sprawling mansion, Monica had regained a small measure of control. She’d still have to scramble to fit in all of her appointments, but if she could keep Allie on point, Monica might finish everything on her to-do list and make it out of the office before midnight.
After parking in the circular drive, Monica walked at a brisk clip to the side of the house, her mind spinning in ten different directions. But when she rounded the corner and neared the freestanding garage, her feet stopped moving altogether.
“Bloody fucking hell.”
Monica didn’t bat an eye at the crude words. It wasn’t the masculine British accent that brought her to a standstill, either. No, it had everything to do with that deep, raspy voice. It sounded very familiar, but this man’s timbre was lower, much rougher than the one she remembered.
He stood bent beneath the hood of an ancient Mustang. The light gray Bondo filler spread along the car’s body was as faded as his jeans—so faded they’d turned white in the well-worn creases and at the seams. The denim wasn’t artificially distressed. It was the real deal.
Sounds of metal clanging against metal emanated from the engine where the stranger worked. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Monica didn’t know much about British accents, but she recognized a posh one when she heard it. And despite the rumbly tenor and foul words, his accent was as high-end as it got.
When he retreated one step and rose to his full height—well over six feet—Monica’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. His torso was bare, without an annoying shirt to mar the smooth expanse of deeply burnished skin.
She licked her dry lips and adjusted the collar of her blouse. As she continued to gawk, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, causing the muscles of his back to contract ever so slightly. Monica swallowed as she took in the line of his broad shoulders. When he raised a hand to brush the hair off his forehead, powerful muscles bunched and rippled in a graceful, fluid motion. Monica blinked slowly, practically hypnotized. Oh crap, he had a tattoo. Starting at the cap of his right shoulder and ending on his bicep, a set of interconnecting Celtic knots and swirls decorated his skin. Wait. She knew that tattoo.
Calum Hughes was back in town.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Monica’s disastrous day just took a nosedive.
She inhaled deeply in an effort to slow her racing pulse, and reminded herself she was immune to bad boys now. Well, not immune so much as on the wagon. Though after Cal, it had taken Monica awhile to her get her shit together, she had been a bad boy–free zone for four years. Four very long years. She only went for nice men now. Respectable men. Men with real jobs and life goals. Like her ex, Ryan.
That reminder helped dispel the lusty fog that clouded her mind. With firm resolve, Monica pulled herself together, straightened her spine, then averted her gaze, forcing her feet to move.
She resumed walking to the house, but he must have heard the click-clack of her heels this time, because he spun around quickly. Determined not to be diverted again, Monica kept moving. But she couldn’t help giving him one last side-eyed glance.
“Good morning,” he said.
Now that he’d spotted her, Monica couldn’t just ignore him. Adjusting her sunglasses, she stopped and turned to face him fully.
Monica may not have immediately recognized Cal’s back, but she’d know that face anywhere. With a stubbled jaw and angular features, he was more arresting than handsome. Shallow grooves formed brackets around his mouth, which tilted noticeably higher on the left side when he smiled. Deep, pleated lines framed those spring-green eyes. Time had only made him more attractive.
No, not attractive.
That was too benign a word. He had a strong, masculine presence, an attitude of casual self-assurance mixed with sex appeal that would entice any woman with a pulse. Monica definitely had a pulse, and hers was approaching the red zone.
She remained silent for a moment, waiting to see if he would recognize her. And as she waited, her gaze traced downward. While his biceps weren’t bodybuilder huge, they were well defined. He had the look of someone who developed them in real life, not by pumping iron in a gym. His solid, carved abs stood out in relief, the tanned skin molding over them, contouring the hollows between each distinct muscle. God save the Queen, it was getting hot out here.
A trickle of sweat slid from the back of her hairline, working its way down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her white blouse. Immune, the sane part of her brain protested.
“My God, it’s you.” He strode forward, tight jeans riding low on his hips, pulling at his thighs with each step, and stopped just a foot away. He smelled of motor oil and sunshine. That shouldn’t be such an intriguing combination. “Monica Campbell.” The way he whispered her name sent a quiver shooting through her belly.
Now he stared at her, his body motionless—then without warning, he reached out and whisked off her sunglasses in a lightning-fast move. His gaze held hers, searching—for what she couldn’t say—but his grin kicked up a notch. “I wondered if I’d remembered correctly. If your eyes were really that blue. They are. Your hair’s different though, shorter. As I recall, it used to be curly.” With his free hand, he reached out and rubbed a strand between his fingers. “Still soft,” he rumbled low in his chest.
Monica forgot to inhale for a few seconds. Okay, so he still remembered her. It didn’t mean anything, not really, not to a man like him—a man who probably had sex as regularly as he drank beer: each night, after a full day of hammering on a dilapidated engine. Monica was probably just a notch he couldn’t add to his undoubtedly high pussy count, and that made her stand out. Still, the fact that he hadn’t forgotten that kiss flooded her with relief. His tongue stroking hers, his hand hot on her breast, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure…she’d never forget it. That night in the garden, the smell of roses crossed with Cal’s woodsy scent—epic.
Cal’s gaze flowed over her again, but slower this time, like an intimate stroke up and down her body. He took in everything, from her plain white blouse to her black jacket and slacks, all the way down to the sensible pumps on her feet. “Who died?” he asked.
“What?”
“You look as if you’re in mourning.” As he dropped her hair, he dipped his chin, nodding over the length of her. “Are you going to a funeral?”
Funeral? This was a perfectly acceptable pantsuit—black, classic cut. From Nordstrom. The sale rack, but so what? “No one died. I’m a professional. I wear clothes that reflect that.” She jerked the sunglasses out of his hand and settled them back on her nose. She felt less exposed with the dark lenses covering half her face.
“A professional what?”
Monica wasn’t going defend her life choices to Calum Hughes. She’d kissed him five years ago, and it was never going to happen again. Time to move on. She had a to-do list two miles long. Her schedule was all fucked up. Right. She’d actually forgotten about it for a moment. The sight of Cal had scrambled her brain. “I need to go, or I’m going to be late for my meeting.” There. That sounded in command and unaffected. Of course, she clutched her computer bag to her stomach like it was a shield. Monica tried to subtly loosen her grip.
Cal’s laugh was gruff, jagged. The sound made her nipples strain against the lace cups of her bra. She ignored them, glad her suit jacket concealed her breasts so thoroughly.
“The Monica I met a few years back wouldn’t give a toss about a meeting. You have grown up, then.”
So had he. Five years ago, he’d still retained a hint of boyishness, a softness in his face, a twinkle in his eyes. But now his face was leaner, his cheekbones sharper. And his eyes were a bit more wary. “It happens to the best of us,” she said. “I take it that’s your car?”
“Yeah, just bought it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you think? It’s not much to look at right now, I’ll grant you, but it has potential.”
One of the many losers Monica had dated over the years had owned a Mustang. Dustin Something. According to him, Mustangs were money pits. For every one problem he’d fix, three more popped up. Since he talked endlessly about it, she recalled more about the car than the guy who drove it—air-cooled engines and drippy cowl vents and lots of rust. “If you say so.”
He glanced back at her, eyes zeroing in on her lips. “I’m good at spotting a diamond in the rough.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.” She forced herself to glance away. The fine sheen of sweat coating his muscle-carved chest was starting to make Monica a little light-headed. She couldn’t retreat to the house fast enough. If she didn’t go now, she’d be tempted to do something stupid, like trace her fingers across Cal’s tattoo, then follow it up with her tongue. “Good to see you again.”
She turned on her heel and took one step before Cal’s big, callused hand snagged hers, pulling her closer to his side. She looked down, noticed how large and tanned it was in comparison to hers. His nails were super short and clean, despite the fact that he’d been toying with an engine only moments ago.
“Why don’t you skip the meeting, and let’s sneak off to the garden. For old times’ sake?” His grip tightened just a fraction. Where he touched her, every nerve ending tingled.
Without responding, Monica jerked away and kept walking.
“Was it something I said?” he called after her.
Monica didn’t look back, but she knew his eyes followed her every movement. She could feel his gaze wander over her, and despite the heat, a shiver skidded up her spine. Shit. Cal Hughes was trouble. Handsome, hard-bodied trouble.
Once Monica reached the house, she flung open the side door and bolted inside. The cool air felt good against her clammy skin. Leaning against the wall, Monica removed the glasses and closed her eyes. She rubbed the back of her neck, where heat crept under the surface and worked its way upward, toward her cheeks. She needed to calm the hell down. He was just a guy. A guy you’ve never been able to forget. That night, under a sprinkling of stars, Cal Hughes had made her feel exotic, untamed. Desired. But that was five long years ago—might as well be a lifetime.
Monica struggled to find her center, to compose herself and assume the calm demeanor she’d worked so hard to acquire.
After a few deep breaths, she strode past the glass cases that held various objets d’art, but she didn’t pause to look at them today. Instead, she headed straight into the breakfast room, hoping she’d have a few minutes alone before facing anyone. But luck was not on her side this morning. Her brother-in-law, Trevor Blake, sat with phone in hand, tapping out a text message. With his dark, overly long hair combed back from his face, he wore a perpetual haughty expression that made him seem cold and remote. Except with Allie and their twins. Somehow, Monica’s sister smoothed out Trevor’s harsh edges, made him not softer, but more approachable. Allie and Trevor shared something unique, and Monica sometimes envied the connection they had.
She plopped down next to him. “Hey, Trev.”
He didn’t speak until he’d finished texting. “Hey, yourself. Are you quite all right? You’re a bit peaky.”
“I ran into your cousin outside. What’s he doing here?” Other than throwing Monica’s world completely out of whack.
“Still tinkering away, is he? Wonder how long that will last.” Like Cal, his accent was posh. Arrogantly so. But where Trevor’s voice was cool and clipped, Cal Hughes sounded husky, like he’d smoked too many cigarettes the night before, or had just woken up. Monica closed her eyes in an effort to banish the images that kept flashing through her mind. Cal lying in bed naked—white sheets tangled around his legs, a contrast against his sun-kissed skin. With strong a
rms crossed behind his head, his crooked smile would beckon her…
When she felt a hand clamp onto her shoulder, Monica’s eyes popped open, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. Allie stood behind her holding an enormous black binder. With messy blond hair falling over her shoulders, Al wore a pink T-shirt and ripped jeans, managing to look sexy and disheveled. “Good morning.”
Monica placed a hand on her chest and willed her heart to slow down. “God, Al, are you trying to kill me?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Without waiting for an answer, Allie glided to Trevor and gave him a kiss…one that lasted so long, Monica felt as if she were intruding on a hot round of foreplay.
She cleared her throat. “You two done over there?”
Allie raised her head, with a playful smile on her lips. Trevor’s gray eyes were darker now, and Monica had no doubt if they’d been alone, he would have nailed her sister right there on the table, next to the blueberry muffins.
Allie settled into a seat. “We have a lot of ground to cover today.”
Get it together, Campbell. Keep your mind off Calum, and force Allie to stay on point. “I have an hour before I need to head back to the office.”
“It’ll take as long as it takes,” Allie said.
“That may be true, but I’m leaving in an hour.” Monica pulled the tablet from her bag and turned it on.
Before Allie could respond, Monica’s younger sister, Brynn, walked into the room. “Hey, Mon, Cal Hughes is here. Do you remember him from Dad’s wedding? Because he remembered you.” She parked herself in a chair.
“What do you mean?” Surely he hadn’t mentioned their garden grope to Brynn? She felt Allie’s appraisal but refused to look up.
“He asked how you were. Wondered if you still lived in Vegas. He just jetted in from Australia two days ago,” Brynn said.
“Fascinating.” And now he was looking for a fuck-buddy. Well he could look somewhere else. She refused to spend one more minute talking about Hot Ass Hughes. Monica switched her attention to Allie. “Why couldn’t you come to the office for our meeting? I’ve had to rearrange my entire afternoon.”
His Kind of Trouble Page 2