One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘No, really. I’ll get a cab.’ I’m not sure why I feel the need to be so insistent, or why I feel a sudden satisfaction as he agrees in an exasperated tone.

  ‘At the hotel, then. Make yours a martini, shall I?’

  And with what can only be described as a filthy laugh, the line goes dead. Just as well, as I have no words. Not in my throat, not in my head, although my thrumming pulse seems to have quite a bit to say. Mouth suddenly dry, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and carry it into the lounge, collapsing once more against the sofa.

  He says he wants to talk. I wonder if that’s a euphemism for something else.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Act in haste, repent in leisure.

  Playing it cool I’m not as I stand outside waiting for my overdue cab. The late afternoon sun is still hot enough to scorch the pavement, its rays rebounding from the surface and burning my work tired feet. At least I’d had the presence of mind to wear ballet flats today.

  I’m not dressed for the weather, the fabric of my dress is unforgiving in the heat, making it feel like some kind of horse-hair/latex mix. It had seemed like a good choice for a daytime meet, not too overt. Functional, with a side order of sexy. A sort of I-like-that-you-look-but-I-won’t-allow-you-to-touch kind of dress.

  Wonder if it’ll work?

  Just before my body reaches the chemically correct point for melting skin from bone, my cab arrives. Hurrah!

  The hotel foyer is sublimely cool after the taxi’s crappy air con but as sweat beads on my back, I further regret my choice of dress. I imagine a dark spot forming at the base of my spine and pull the fabric away from my skin in a flapping motion as, with a sinking feeling, I realise I don’t know where we’re supposed to meet. There have got to be at least a dozen restaurants here. Then, all of a sudden, Kai takes my hands in his much larger ones, mid-flap.

  ‘You’ve kept me waiting.’ His is a serious tone and for reasons I don’t understand, it makes my stomach flip. Dressed in dark jeans and a gleaming white shirt, he looks pristine and polished, with just an edge of rogue.

  He towers over me, making me feel tiny, helping me recall how amazing it felt to be held by his arms. Flustered, I blink rapidly and stare up into his mock-admonishing expression.

  ‘S-sorry, my cab was late.’

  ‘Forgiven. I hope you’re hungry.’ His eyes glitter in the setting sun as he steps backwards, leading the way.

  But for Kai and myself, the elevator is empty as the doors close in a soft susurrus. He leans closer, his nearness stealing the breath from my lungs. My breath hitches in that instant, an instant where I can almost taste his mouth. I tilt my head as, eyes lustrous, his hand reaches out, fingertips brushing my waist. My entire skin ignites, my heart pounding loudly as I anticipate the touch of his mouth over mine . . . Then I realise he’s reaching for a button on the elevator panel next to my hip.

  My heart stays on the ground floor as the elevator rises, my shoulders following suit.

  ‘I thought about it.’ The words are delivered in a low rumble, his hand grasping mine, lightning fast. Where they join, a very masculine watch covers his wrist. The kind I imagine comes with an instruction manual to decipher its many dials and functions. Breitling, maybe?

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Your poker face leaves a bit to be desired.’ He glances at me pointedly, challenging my pretence with his fingers at my chin. Raising both my face and the stakes, he kisses me softly, pressing me against the wall.

  ‘Someone will see.’ I make a half-hearted attempt to pull from his arms, conscious of the elevator doors and their propensity for opening unexpectedly.

  ‘And if I’d acted on your expression?’ he whispers hotly against my ear. ‘Because there’s no hiding what’s on your mind.’

  ‘Maybe you need glasses,’ I rasp, extracting myself from his embrace precisely one moment before the doors ping

  ‘Don’t ever play poker, kitten, unless it’s strip and with me.’ Laughing, he guides me into the restaurant at rooftop level, his hand pressed against the small of my back.

  Music, soft Arabic fusion, fills the cavernous room as we bypass the bar on our way to a table marked reserved. Persian rugs cover wooden floors, metal lanterns glowing with a muted amber hue. We sit as directed by the hostess, under a canopy masquerading as a Bedouin tent. I lay my head back and sigh contentedly, soaking in the ambiance and regional feel.

  ‘You look beautiful.’ Kai’s expression is solemn, his gaze intense. I try not to squirm, murmuring a half-hearted protest.

  ‘Stop looking at me as though I’m edible.’ I look nice, but beautiful is a stretch.

  ‘Then learn to accept a compliment. Or stop looking so . . . ripe.’

  Thankfully, the waiter interrupts us before I’m required to form a reply. Although addressed in English, Kai answers in Arabic. I’m fascinated by the exchange, watching his mouth wrap around the unfamiliar and exotic sounds. The waiter, a lean, boyish looking African national, stares at Kai just a fraction longer than necessary, mesmerised as he flips through the menu, his long finger trailing the pages.

  ‘Do you do that on purpose?’ My eyes follow the retreating waiter, narrowing at his lingering cow-like glance. ‘Why’d you suppose God gave men all the good lashes when they don’t even wear mascara?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You.’ I wiggle my fingers in the direction of the waiter. ‘On purpose, with the beguiling.’ Kai’s brows rise in bemusement as I carry on. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he slips you his number along with the food.’ Though I think maybe he’d like to slip him something else. Or maybe he’d like it the other way around; who can tell?

  With no more than a cursory glance, Kai blinks solemnly before exhaling an inelegant snort. ‘Not my thing, I assure you. I’m much more interested in what’s sitting on your chair.’ His gaze flicks exaggeratedly down.

  ‘So much for wanting to talk. You just want to get into my undies again.’

  ‘Merely stating my preferences.’

  ‘But it’s hardly dinner table talk.’

  ‘I don’t object to tables.’ As though to reinforce the point, he presses his palms into the solid, wooden surface, testing stability. ‘A versatile item, the table.’ His teeth are exposed in a smile, white and wolf sharp.

  All the better to bite me with, if I’m lucky.

  We’ve been in each other’s company no more than five minutes and we’re already talking sex, like it’s our default mode. Not that I’m complaining. I find it exhilarating and can’t help match him word for word. It doesn’t hurt that he’s seriously hot. Maybe Niamh’s right; maybe he’s just the distraction I need.

  ‘The question is,’ he asks, folding his arms on the table and leaning in, ‘do I beguile you?’

  Tapping my finger against the wood, I answer, ‘Not enough to get me on this.’

  ‘Pity.’ He smiles, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, whatever the reason.’ Our eyes meet for a long, thoughtful moment, my smile wavering hesitantly under his gaze. ‘You’ve gone awfully quiet.’

  ‘I pretty much am,’ I answer, twisting a linen napkin in my hand. ‘Despite what you see.’ One eyebrow rises a fraction, but he offers no response. ‘The thing is, the hotel, that was so out of character for me. Despite giving good . . . banter,’ I add, to the further ascent of his brow, ‘I’m not usually easy.’

  I continue my torture of the fabric. How can I justify how I feel when I can’t make sense of it myself? Beyond the fact that Kai is pretty much irresistible and the new Kate is a bit of a goer, apparently.

  ‘I’m going to take that as a compliment to my vast powers of persuasion.’ His tone is playful as he rests his elbows on the chair arms. Fingers steepled beneath his chin, his body language is casual but contradicted by his amber gaze. I feel like a small animal gazing back at the large bird of prey again.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is, Thursday I was—’ Drunk? H
orny? Easy?

  ‘You were exquisite.’

  Oh, man, he’s good.

  Heat fills my cheeks—and my knickers—as I shoot him a dubious look.

  ‘It’s still the boss thing, isn’t it?’ Quite honestly, I hadn’t given it a thought today but a tiny spasm of panic flares in my gut. ‘I’ve told you it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Other than the fact your family owns the place I work.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be an issue. I like you and I think you like me. Anything that happens between us will be entirely separate.’ He pushes a rough hand through his hair. ‘You make it sound almost sordid, like I’m some despotic noble abusing the staff.’

  I snort now myself. ‘Master Kai in the conservatory, rogering the governess?’ Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it’s absolutely my favourite.

  ‘I’m up for role play,’ he answers instantly.

  I close my ears to his tone, now rearranging the glassware on the table. ‘Are you my boss or not? I’m not sure I know.’ Capricious Kai, it doesn’t take much to flick his switch. He makes an art out of distraction, of lowering the tone. But I can’t help but like it. Like him.

  ‘Not.’ He chuckles, reaching out and stilling my hands with his. ‘I don’t have any responsibility for the day to day running of the school. But I could pretend, if that’s your thing.’

  I fix my gaze on the back of his hand, studying the protrusion of knuckles and veins. Should it make a difference that we’re from such different worlds?

  ‘Seriously, I just want to get to know you,’ he says, fingers tightening. ‘Is that so bad?’

  ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing, talking?’ My voice sounds small again as I try, and fail, to hold his gaze.

  ‘Seems more like verbal foreplay, and much of it your doing, I might add.’

  ‘You must be rubbing off on me,’ I mumble as he releases a bark of a laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘I’d like to. Rub off on you.’

  I roll my eyes, wondering as I do so if his behaviour is instinctual or if he’s just trying to put me at ease. Then, as his amber gaze stares back at me, I wonder if he wasn’t kidding.

  ‘Would it help if I said please?’

  The waiter approaches the table, saving me from deciding between a witty comeback—currently not available—and the ridiculously compelling notion of crawling onto his knee.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind that I ordered.’ Changing the subject, he tries to control his growing smile.

  It’s a bit late now, I think, if I did as the table is filled with enough food for triple our number. Warm flatbread, a vermillion coloured dip he calls muhammara, dainty morsels of chicken and bowls of delicate salads. Taking a plate, Kai begins to fill it.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like,’ he says neutrally, spooning on an assortment.

  I don’t answer and can only watch, confused by a sudden riotous need in the face of his outward calm. I know my feelings aren’t one-sided, he almost said so himself. Maybe his control is greater than mine, and if my poker face is rubbish, maybe his has been perfected to a fine art. He’s obviously had lots of practise. I push away the thought as I take the proffered plate.

  ‘Eat.’

  ‘Inappropriate and kinda bossy,’ I snark, sliding the fork into my mouth, a little unnerved by his sudden flash of teeth.

  ‘Down to a tee.’

  The undercurrent in his quietly spoken words washes over me. I blink and swallow slowly, the fork forgotten in my hand.

  ‘Eat,’ he repeats quietly.

  So I do. Savouring each fragrant mouthful, my eyes continually drawn back to Kai. I study him with the fascination of an anthropologist, each small movement observed. His jaw working as he chews, the powerful movements of his throat. I want to place my tongue there, feel the muscles. Lick a trail to his mouth. My pulse hammers as I devour the line of tendons in his forearm and the smooth hollow peeking from his shirt. Long fingers touch a button at his chest fleetingly, my eyes drawn to the action as I follow the row of tiny hindrances coming between me and his skin. I recall the trail of hair from his navel to, well . . .

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’

  My body jumps. ‘Sorry, w—what?’

  ‘Eye fucking isn’t talking,’ he prompts, amused. ‘Not that I’m complaining, just say the word and I’m there.’

  Flustered, I stammer my answer, my blush no doubt confirming the conviction lacking in my words. ‘What makes you think I was checking you out?’

  ‘Denial?’ he breathes, wide-eyed.

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘You can’t tell what was going on in my head.’ I push away the plate, no longer hungry. Not for food, at any rate.

  ‘True,’ he shrugs, ‘but I can read your body well enough.’

  ‘No way.’ I was just sitting there barely moving, he couldn’t possibly know.

  He doesn’t answer, just continues to look at me, his eyes now dark and full of knowing. Or guessing. Who can tell?

  ‘Go on then,’ I dare, ‘do your best.’

  ‘Your skin has heated,’ he says huskily, ‘colouring your cheeks, chest and,’—his eyes flick down my body—‘lower.’

  ‘You can’t see that,’ I murmur, hoping to qualify my statement and move the conversation away from my heated crotch.

  ‘And,’ his voice drops to a mocking whisper, ‘you leaned forward ever so slightly in your chair. For pressure. Next, you licked your lips a little, very inviting, too, then your gaze followed my hand to a button, then went the rest of the way . . . all . . . by . . . itself.’

  ‘That’s not fair, you played me!’ Given that he’s right, my indignation sounds slightly hollow.

  ‘I’d like to play—’

  ‘What happened to talking?’ I interject.

  Leaning back in his chair, he smiles benignly. ‘Rubbing off again?’

  ‘Just keep your hands where I can see them.’

  He does so, laughing, as he asks, ‘What brought you to Dubai?’

  ‘Why did I move here?’ I repeat, my mind prevaricating between truth and a much more comfortable fiction. I close my eyes and try to arrange the thoughts I have no intention of sharing. ‘Why not?’ I eventually answer. ‘It was time for a change. I have a friend here and . . . Why not?’

  ‘There must be a reason,’ he admonishes.

  ‘I came here for a holiday and ended up staying.’ With a casual shrug, I reach for my glass. Water. He didn’t order drinks with our meal. ‘Do you know, my name—’

  His eyes gleam devilishly as he waves away my words. ‘I know that; get to the bits I don’t already know.’

  ‘I was going to say my name is actually Katherine. With a K. Though I prefer Kate, and that only Niamh calls me Kat or Kitty or other . . . variances and that no one has ever called me Kitten before.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. You can’t have purred for anyone else.’ I blink slowly, resisting the urge to comment; when you’re right, you’re right but I’m so not going to tell him that. ‘Go on. I need more.’

  Oh, god. More. About me.

  My neck works as I swallow over the lump in my throat, but I quickly get a hold of myself; I don’t have to share more than I’m comfortable with. The bare bones of the life of Kate.

  ‘Well, I, er, I’m from Palm Beach in Queensland. On the Gold Coast? But usually I tell people I’m from Brisbane, to avoid confusion and that’s where I lived . . . last.’ I clear my throat. ‘Most people don’t know where . . . anyway, it’s not as glamorous as the other Palm Beach, or, you know, its namesake, in America?’ I try very hard not to squeak the last word, my voice rendering the words a question. ‘Not that I’ve ever been there, or anything.’ Inhale. ‘I’m not much of a beach bunny.’ Engage brain cells. ‘And I’ve never drank as much as I have since moving here. I like cake and I’m probably going to need to detox soon.’

  With each rambling word, his smile grows exponentially. ‘That’s it?’ he asks as I finish. ‘That’s all you’re willing
to share?’

  I shrug but don’t open my mouth.

  ‘Where are the tales of yearning for adventure, escaping mad boyfriends, unrequited affections and torrid love affairs?’

  ‘You’ve obviously never been to Palm Beach. The most exciting thing that happens there is when the surf club changes the menu.’

  ‘Lots of words without information, Kitten.’ The corner of his mouth quirks as he pauses. ‘What about . . .’ He straightens in his chair. ‘Okay, if you were a car what kind would you be?’

  ‘What, are we twelve all of a sudden?’

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun, trying to crack that shell.’ He’s all wide smiles and gorgeous hair and I wouldn’t be surprised to find he beguiles everyone in his path.

  Gesturing to the waiter with an almost invisible motion, Kai issues instructions in rapid-fire Arabic.

  ‘For instance, I would be a Bentley Continental,’ he says, still amused. ‘Because I’m a new take on the traditional model, have plenty of staying power, my stylish exterior masking just a couple of unexpected kinks.’ Expansive hands and golden eyes ask, ‘And you would be?’

  I stare back, suddenly stumped. What kind of kinks is he talking about here? Euphemistic ones, I hope. And me? A banger? No, that doesn’t sound right. A station wagon because of the junk in my trunk?

  ‘It’s not a test,’ he adds laughing and startling me into speech.

  ‘I think I’d probably be like . . . a bike. A push bike. A bicycle,’ I qualify, digging a larger hole. ‘What I mean is, I’m not very fast or sleek. Slow and steady’s more my style. With just one previous owner.’

  Sometimes I even astound myself, I’m just that dumb. D.U.M. dumb, not even bright enough to qualify for the final B. I burn with embarrassment as Kai’s shoulders begin to shake. I guess bike has the same connotations in Dubai.

  ‘Gently used?’ he splutters.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  Maybe I should just be struck dumb for my own defence.

  His laughter slows, smile fading and replaced by confusion. But the waiter, my unwitting saviour again, prevents my death from shame by placing a silver tray on the table. On it stands two ornate tumblers, each containing a little ice, a blue glass bottle with an ornate Arabic label, a small silver jug with a long, ladle-like handle. Oh, and a bottle of water, sourced from Italy, of course, the kind that costs ten bucks a pop.