by Rosanna Leo
Even though she knew full well that a man such as him would never inspire indifferent feelings. Lust, rage, euphoria, but never anything vague or bland.
She couldn’t tell how long they’d been riding, but they finally arrived at a stone, one-room cottage on the outskirts of Kirkwall. She spared it a quick glance, noting its quaintness. However, in that moment, all she really saw was Calan.
“Come in. You can sit while I change.”
The cottage had wooden beams and a cozy interior, but again, she didn’t give those details more than a passing look. The only things that stuck in her mind were how Calan’s hair cascaded down his back, tied in its loose ponytail. How his leg muscles flexed as he moved about the room. As he bent over to grab a T-shirt from a trunk, she gazed at his sculpted behind, in awe of how well it filled out his jeans. He turned and grinned, once again as if reading her mind.
He put aside his muddied leather jacket and stripped out of his shirt. Realizing she’d resemble a dog in heat if she kept gawking, she dragged her gaze away from his frame. For the first time since entering the cottage, she took a good look at the interior. The place seemed ancient. The cracked walls were lined with bookshelves of varying size and shape, all stacked with books that appeared very old. And there was a cabinet that was stocked with what appeared to be some very expensive bottles of red wine. There wasn’t much else in the way of decoration. No family photos. No artwork, other than a couple of pencil sketches peeking out of a folder on a desk. Any clothing must have been tucked into boxes or the decrepit steamer trunk from whence his shirt had come, the one that looked like it belonged in a Titanic memorabilia exhibit.
And, of course, there was a bed. It looked cozy, big enough to accommodate two bodies, but snug enough to throw those bodies together in the night. Covered as it was with a soft white quilt, it was about the most inviting place Maggie had ever seen. So much more appealing than Matthew’s stiff, Scandinavian excuse for a bed.
“So this is your home,” she said.
“My home away from home. I need some place to stay when I…”
“When you’re making love to all the women who steal your pelt?” The words just poured out of her and she hated it. She couldn’t have been more remorseful when she saw how Calan flinched.
And yet she’d meant it in that moment, she had wanted to wound him. She’d felt true
jealousy inside her heart at the idea of Calan shacking up with any number of willing floozies. Green envy was snaking its way through every vein as she pictured him in that lovely bed with all those nameless women.
Why had she said it? Nothing was making sense anymore.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling a strange pain at putting that hurt in his eyes. “Your love life is absolutely none of my business.”
“Isn’t it?” His face took on a strange expression. “It’s felt that way for months, like it or not.”
She stared at him. “No. We’re strangers. Ships passing in the night. Call it whatever you want. Give it a couple of weeks and we won’t even remember each other’s names.”
“Is that so?” he said in a low, warning tone.
“That’s right.”
He’d gone from looking hurt to looking angry. Although, for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why he’d even care. If he was to be believed, he already had plenty of female friends. Maybe he should go act the barbarian with one of them.
“Let’s not fool ourselves, Calan,” she continued, trying hard to ignore the slow burn of desire in his eyes. She walked around his flat, touching the spines of books, feeling a bizarre thrill to be fingering his belongings. “Breakfast was nice. What happened on the beach was … unexpectedly nice, but it can’t happen again. It’s not right. I don’t know you and I just got out of a bad relationship. It wouldn’t end well.”
“Of course, it wouldn’t,” he said, humoring her, his gaze dipping down to caress the curve of her hip, and then slowly back up again.
As yet another quiver of sexual awareness claimed her body, she mentally stamped it into oblivion. Okay, he turned her on. There was no denying it. That didn’t mean she had to give in to it. She walked over to his desk, nose in the air, trying hard to look as if she weren’t affected by the most rampaging case of lust she’d ever known. She spied the folder filled with pencil drawings, saw the edge of one of the pictures. It was of a woman’s foot, dainty and bare. So pretty, she wanted to see the rest of the picture.
She looked at Calan. “You draw?”
His eyes narrowed. Calculating, dark gems. “Only when I’m inspired.”
“May I?”
He inclined his head. “Be my guest.”
Maggie pulled out the sketch of the woman’s foot. As she pulled it slowly from the folder, the pretty foot became a shapely leg, one of two that were splayed across a bedspread. The subject of the drawing was clearly nude. The knowledge made Maggie’s heart begin to beat a little faster. Especially as the rest of the picture was revealed.
The woman was reclining on a bed, her right hand comfortably nestled between her legs. Her fingers were sliding into a pair of swollen lips. Teasing. Pleasuring. The subject’s stomach was tensed. Her left hand grabbed at a fistful of bedspread. Her back was arched and her mouth was open in an expression of rapture.
Maggie looked at the woman’s face, at the spiral curls tumbled across her pillow. She gasped.
It was her. And the portrait was … beautiful.
She gawked at her portrait, so erotic it was almost pornographic. So accurate it could have been a photograph. She should have been mad. She should have felt as if her privacy was invaded. But she couldn’t feel those things, because it was too exquisite.
It made her feel luminous.
Somehow, Calan Kirk, the man she’d called a stranger, had captured her in her most private moment. And she wanted to cry because he’d made her look so damned radiant.
She put the picture down on the desk and rifled quickly through his folder as he watched. All the other sketches were of her too. Maggie sleeping between rumpled covers. Maggie daydreaming on her apartment balcony, hand propped under her chin. And so many other sketches of Maggie touching herself. Caressing her breasts, pinching her nipples. Stroking herself.
So intimate, so personal, he might have been there with her. Had he been there with her? God only knew she’d been thinking of him in each of those stolen moments, the attractive seal-man of her dreams. The creature who’d felt so real from the first moment she’d envisioned him.
And here he was, looking at her with such a bizarre mixture of emotions etched into his face. Sympathy and anger and what appeared to be a gut-wrenching need.
“When did you draw these?” she asked, hoping upon hope he’d say they were portraits of an ex-girlfriend who happened to resemble her.
“I’ve been sketching you for a long time,” he admitted in a quiet voice. “Each time I dreamed of you, I’d find it hard to sleep afterward. So I began to draw pictures of you.”
“But these are so lifelike. Even if Gran showed you pictures of me, there’s no way you could have imagined me in all these scenarios.” Especially the sexual ones. There was no way he could have captured her particular ecstasy without seeing her experience it.
He stepped closer, making the air between them sizzle and crack with waves of heat. “I told you before, Maggie. I’ve been seeing you for months, in all sorts of situations. As you’ve been seeing me.”
She dropped the sketches, not wanting to see the beautiful artworks anymore. Suddenly, Maggie felt like crying. He saw into her, this Calan. It disturbed and aroused her at the same time. The feeling was so potent, she didn’t know what she would do under the influence.
And she hadn’t forgotten her vow to avoid all men. It was imperative to her sanity that she remember.
It was bad enough with Matthew the Penitent breathing down her back. It had been hard enough deleting his phone messages and avoiding him in Toronto whenever he’d tried to
ambush her. Here in Orkney, where the world was so much smaller, she had a feeling he’d be behind her every step of the way. Still, she would not be swayed by him.
But Calan? How was she supposed to avoid him? He saw into her dreams, for God’s sake! His sensuous, dark eyes and flirty smile were certainly the stuff of her dreams. To say nothing of his seductive voice, rock-hard abs and all the wonders below his waistline.
Maggie dropped her gaze, quickly surveying the crotch of his jeans.
Something moved there. Something long and thick. Pulsing. Acknowledging her hungry gaze.
Saints preserve me.
They were supposed to be searching for the pelt, but she couldn’t make her legs move. She should leave his cottage, give him space and privacy, but she didn’t want to go.
If he pressed it, if he tried to seduce her again, she’d be helpless against him. No
matter what he was, the man was clearly worth a roll in the hay. A good, long one. And although she’d never understand why, he seemed more than willing to get the party started. That is, when he wasn’t frowning and furious with her.
Calan took a step toward her, passion blazing in his eyes, making them almost glow with a fiery, orange light. “Maggie. This is foolishness. No matter what you and I think of this situation, of each other, we both want the same thing here.” He drew close and reached a hand toward her curls. Gently, he rolled the hairs between his thumb and index finger, causing an immediate chain reaction in her nipples and pussy. “Is it so wrong to share a moment of pleasure?”
Is it? Surely not. But with a stranger?
He doesn’t feel like a stranger.
“I know this doesn’t make sense. I’m not looking for this. I shouldn’t want you,” he confessed, looking torn. “This is wrong.”
“Well, from where I’m standing, buddy, it’s even more wrong.” she retorted. “I don’t want you.”
Lies, lies. All of it lies.
He leaned toward her, his lips slightly open. She could see the tip of his tongue. Wanted to taste it again. Wanted him to explore her mouth, each dip and hollow. Needed to feel his teeth scraping against her tongue, nipping at her shoulders. She was almost insane with the desire to feel his stubble rasping against her cheek and her inner thighs.
Why did this crazy Orcadian man have such power over her? She couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t think straight. “Calan, I…”
There was a loud knock on his front door. A pounding, actually.
They stared at each other.
“Maggie,” called someone from outside. “I know you’re in there! Let me in.” A Canadian accent. More pounding.
“Matthew. He must have followed us.” She closed her eyes, willing her ex away. “This isn’t awkward at all.”
Calan’s lips compressed, a tight, line of frustration. Maggie wondered at what appeared to be a possessive glint in his eye. If she had any doubts as to his sudden case of jealousy, those doubts disappeared when she heard him curse. “I’ll kill the bugger.”
In that second, he was flying toward the front door. Maggie raced after him, very much worried she was about to be witness to a bloodbath. “No. Don’t.”
He turned abruptly to her, his hand on the doorknob. “This is the man who cheated on you. The vile dog who betrayed your trust and wounded your heart.” Not a question. He knew.
“Yes.”
“Then remind me why I shouldn’t skelp him?”
She paused. She had to admit there was a teeny part of her that really wanted to see Calan skelp Matthew. Skelping was a bad thing. Nora had once threatened to skelp a vendor at the market when he shortchanged her. Needless to say, the man never tried it again.
In this case, she knew skelping involved Calan’s fist meeting with Matthew’s head.
Still, there was an even bigger part of her that didn’t care about Matthew anymore anyway. And didn’t really care to see Calan bruise his perfect knuckles on Matthew’s hard noggin. It was wasted energy, expending his strength and breath on her ex, when he
could be working up a sweat with her instead.
What? Who am I? Where did nice, polite Maggie go?
Out the window, apparently.
“Look,” she said, trying to reason with Calan. “He’s just not worth it. Believe me.”
As she remembered the scene of Matthew’s indiscretion, she felt immeasurable sadness weigh on her shoulders. Not so much at losing Matthew, but at losing so much of herself in the process.
How could she let him do that to her? She couldn’t ever let anyone do that to her again.
Calan must have glimpsed the heaviness in her heart. His face softened and his death-grip on the doorknob loosened. As much as he might be able to read her thoughts, or whatever mind trick he employed, he clearly couldn’t see everything in her brain. Just then he appeared a little crestfallen, as if he feared Matthew meant a great deal to her. More than she was willing to admit.
The sadness in his eyes touched her, in a way she’d never quite been touched before.
“Calan,” she whispered, wanting to take his sadness away. She put her hand on his arm. “I don’t love…”
He yanked on the door, opening it wide. As if he were a character in a bad eighties sitcom, Matthew fell forward. He’d clearly been listening at the door. Calan watched as he tumbled to the ground before them, unhurt but comically rubbing his ass where he fell. He glared up at the towering length of Calan, his blue eyes red at the corners.
Calan grinned. “Your peedie friend has come a-callin’, Maggie, love.”
Matthew bristled at the word “peedie.” He stood, dusted himself off and held his head high. He almost reached Calan’s six-plus feet. Almost but not quite. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, I apologize for using the vernacular,” Calan laughed, “here on Orkney, ‘peedie’ means small. Insignificant.”
Matthew glared. “You need to come home, Maggie. This country is full of savages.”
Maggie watched as Calan’s grin shrunk, turning into a thin line of barely disguised fury. To his credit, he was managing it. Sort of. He puffed out a laugh through his flared nostrils, but it only made him resemble a maddened bull preparing to charge.
What happened to the sweet, fuzzy seal? Maggie shook her head. Who was she kidding anyway? Even as an animal, Calan had never been sweet and fuzzy, but warm and erotic.
Hold on! Don’t tell me you’re buying his lies now, too? He’s not a selkie! Dammit. They don’t exist. He lied, just like Matthew.
At that moment, Maggie heard distant thunder. She stared outside, wondering that the weather should change so swiftly. Every couple of seconds, the thunder grumbled through the sky, seeming to get closer. For some reason, Maggie looked at Calan’s face. Every time he expelled a breath through his nostrils, the thunder clapped again.
As if it were coming from him.
No way.
She stiffened, coming back to reality. “Okay, that’s enough! I want you both out of here. I have enough on my mind without having to placate a couple of testosterone-charged men!” She put her hand on the door.
Calan eyed her. “It’s my house, love.”
She shrunk a little. “Oh, right.” Trying to retain her bravado, she stepped toward the door. “Fine. I’ll go then.”
His strong hand was on her arm in an instant, not hurting her but not allowing her to leave either. “You’ll stay.”
“I’m not letting her stay with you,” Matthew exploded. “Some … some…” he blubbered, looking Calan up and down, “some backward Scottish biker!”
Calan bit his bottom lip, apparently trying not to laugh. Maggie watched in awe at the way his teeth gripped the flesh of his lower lip, wishing she were biting it instead. She might be biting it right now if Matthew hadn’t spoiled everything.
Wait. This was so wrong. This man had somehow burrowed deep inside her head and had screwed with it. And now she felt her head was screwed on backward. Just the thought of the word “screw” was ma
king her desperate to be alone with Calan again, against her better judgment.
But Matthew didn’t quite look ready to depart. He put his hand on Maggie’s other arm. And pulled.
Calan reacted, his dark eyes burning with anger. At the same time, lightning streaked yellow through the heavens. Thunder boomed, like a bomb being detonated nearby.
He put his firm hand on Matthew’s and removed it from Maggie’s arm. “Do not touch her.”
Matthew flinched, as if Calan’s touch had hurt him, but his pride seemed hurt more than anything else. And as Maggie took in the tense set to Calan’s jaw and the way his hands were now bunched into tight fists, she suspected he’d held back out of respect for her.
He hadn’t hurt Matthew, because of her, but he was more than willing to do it.
He turned away from Matthew, looking at her. He frowned, breathing in and out deeply, and she watched his fists unclench. As he calmed himself, the sudden storm clouds seemed to disperse. He gently cupped her cheek. “If you want to go with him, if you love him, tell me now.”
She stared back, completely lost in his eyes and the feel of his fingers on her cheek. No feeling had ever felt as good, as delicious, as Calan Kirk’s hands on her skin. It was senseless, and it was magical. “I don’t love him. I haven’t for some time. And I would never go back to anyone who cheated on me. I’m better than that.”
Little by little, the corners of his lips curled into the flirtiest, most enticing smile she’d ever seen. It made her heart leap and brightened her world. In her head, birds sang and flowers sprouted. And between her legs, moisture pooled. Her underwear was a useless barrier against this man.
“Well, then, Maggie Collins,” he drawled, his gaze dipping down to her open lips and lingering there. “What now?”
She swallowed. “Before you put me back on that Harley, I could really use a drink of that wine you have.”
A low rumble of quiet laughter sounded from somewhere deep in his chest, sounding very much like the thunder that had so briefly ravaged the sky. “What the hell? It was a late breakfast. Come.”