My Scottish Summer

by Connie Brockway

  But damn, he was having a hard time keeping his hands off her.

  Especially now, when they were back in this warm, cozy room while the wind lashed the windows and the rain beat on the roof and she looked like something a man conjured from erotic dreams, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hair spilling down her back, her eyes dark in the soft glow of the single lamp.

  They’d also decided early on that the only sensible thing to do was share the bed, he on one side on top of the blankets, and her on the other, beneath. But since then, no one had mentioned it. Beds. Sleeping. Or anything vaguely related to either.

  He glanced at the clock. It was twelve forty-five, and Toni was punch-drunk with fatigue. But she didn’t seem any more anxious to crawl into bed than he did. She squirmed on the bed, wincing a little.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Cramp in my calf. I’ve never ridden a bike that long before.”

  He ducked his head guiltily. She’d spent more than an extra hour on that bike, clinging to him simply because he liked the feel of her there. He should make amends. He rose from the slipper chair and sat down at the foot of the bed, reaching out and encircling her ankle. She straightened, startled.

  “Relax,” be said, drawing her leg out and over his thighs. Gently, he began massaging her calf, but the red cowboy boot impeded him in his self-assigned task. He grasped the heel of the boot and stripped it off her leg before working his fingers under her jeans and up her calf. He kneaded the svelte muscle deeply.

  Had he thought of this as a task? He meant “penance.” She drew in a little hiss of pleasure, letting her head fall back, her throat arched for a lover’s kiss. She groaned. He tensed.

  “That,” she said, ‘Is incredible.”

  This suddenly didn’t seem like such a great idea anymore. Sure, she might be feeling no pain, but the same could most definitely not be said for him. He had one hell of an erection, and he didn’t think he could stand another thirty minutes of frigid water.

  “We better get to sleep,” he said suddenly, dumping her foot off his lap and avoiding her look of surprise. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

  She looked hurt. Hurt and bewildered, and his reaction, in his current state, was to become irritable. Couldn’t she understand he was trying his damnedest to be noble here? What was wrong with American women that they couldn’t appreciate a bloke’s gallantry?

  He stood up. “You want the bathroom first?”

  Her eyes shot sparks. She rose in one fluid, mouth-drying move and, without glancing at him, snagged her backpack from the floor, went into the bathroom, and closed the door.

  Dev closed his eyes and prayed for a little self-understanding, a little bit of enlightenment as to what was going on here. He couldn’t remember ever having been so powerfully attracted to a woman. Not only on the physical level, on other levels as well. It didn’t make sense. He’d known all sorts of wise, smart, pretty women. Okay, not too many had been built like Valkyries and had eyes that you’d never forget no matter how long you lived, or lips that smiled that easily, that piquantly.

  It was probably just that she was American and therefore a little exotic.… The door swung open, and Toni came out, blushing as red as a beet, but her expression defiant.

  She was wearing a plaid negligee. An honest-to-God Black Watch plaid baby doll with little neon purple this ties forming spaghetti straps. But most startling, in place of panties she appeared to be wearing a piece of shag carpet, or a muppet, or a… With a start, Dev realized it was supposed to be a sporan. A fake fur sporan.

  It should have been ridiculous. He should have been laughing himself sick. He wasn’t. His mouth was bone-dry, and he could feel his pulse hammering away in certain parts of his anatomy.

  The deep vee of the neckline revealed twin mounds of pale honey-colored flesh and the fascinating valley between them. The silk fabric flirted with the tops of thighs so smooth and silky the light seemed to gild them. She put her hands on her hips, and the movement set her breasts jouncing. His throat closed.

  What the hell did she think she was doing?

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, his voice rough.

  “I grabbed the wrong backpack out of the van.”

  “Huh?”

  “I took the wrong backpack. I had two. One with my things in it, and one with souvenirs I’d brought for my friends. This was supposed to be a gift for my college roommate!”

  “That?”

  “A gag gift,” she said, her fiery complexion burning even brighter.

  “Well, you can’t wear that to bed.”

  She stared at him, her mouth slackening before snapping shut and her eyes flashing. “What do you mean, I can’t wear it to bed?” she asked grimly.

  “Nah-uh.” He shook his head back and forth vigorously. He wouldn’t get an instant of sleep lying next to her knowing she was wearing nothing but that. “You’re not wearing that. Not if I’m going to share the bed with you.”

  “Why?” she demanded. ‘Because this little number just jettisons me into the ranks of Ultimate Seductress? Right.” She cocked a brow, challenging him to agree.

  What could he say? “No.”

  She heaved a gusty sigh. “Oh, can it, Montgomery. I’ll be under the blankets.”

  She thought he was mocking her. He felt the blood climb in his own throat this time, feeling more than a little ridiculous that the sight of her in that thing could affect him so.

  She started to brush past him. He stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Anger, frustration, and the humiliating realization that she didn’t see him as a threat drove him. “You’ll be under me, if you wear that thing into that bed.”

  She gasped, and the color drained from her cheeks, leaving her eyes looking even bluer than before. Blue like the heart of a flame. Blue as in blue words. Blue as in furious.

  “Look,” he said, gritting his teeth. “You just go back in that bathroom and put back on that pink sweater thing and your jeans.”

  Her eyes flashed more blue fire, and she didn’t say a word. She merely spun on her heels and marched back into the bathroom. Thank God. He relaxed. If he’d had to—

  Splat!

  A soggy, heavy wad of denim hit him squarely in the chest and fell to his feet. It was Toni’s jeans, sopping wet. He looked up. She was still wearing that plaid baby doll, her arms crossed squarely over her breasts.

  “I washed my jeans, but since you’re so hot and bothered, you can wear them!”

  He stared at her, the wet splotch on his shirt spreading. She didn’t understand. Not at all.

  “I’m tired,” she said grimly. “I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same. Somewhere you can feel relatively certain you’ll be able to resist my irresistible allure.”

  She paced past him and snatched the cover back from the bed, sat down, and snapped the blankets back over her. She glared at him once, scooted to the far side, and flipped over, presenting him with her back. “Men!”

  The light blanket molded to her shoulders and followed the flowing line of her torso to the sharp dip at her waist before climbing the sweet, round curve of her hip. He stared at her.

  Jeans or baby-doll plaid. Fully clad or half undressed. It didn’t matter at all. With a soft curse he strode over to the tiny slipper chair and flopped down in it. He made his hands relax over the ends of the arms and stared purposefully out the window into the black island night.

  She must have drifted off to sleep, because when she opened her eyes, the room was steeped in darkness, only the light from the car park outside offering any illumination. She pushed herself to her elbows and looked around. She was alone in the bed. Dev was sprawled over the slipper chair, on the ottoman, and on a little table he must have dragged over to prop up one stocking-clad foot.

  It was that drat stocking—argyle, of course—that tugged at her heart. Everything about Devlin Montgomery testified to his being self-possessed, confident, and supremely comp
etent. But that sock, worn at the heel, bleached by too many washes, reminded her that he was only human, sometimes uncertain, even vulnerable. Even a little stupid in the way men were so often stupid: about women.

  Like she really believed he found her irresistible in this stupid plaid nightie with its absurd polyester fur underpants. Worse, she’d suspected that he was making fun of her womanliness. She hadn’t been amused.

  But that sock made her forget her anger and want him. Right now. She wanted to nip his strong, dark throat, to run her fingers through his crisp, tousled hair, to feel the rasp of his beard on her palms as she held his face and nibbled at his lower lip.

  If only there were more time. But they didn’t have time, and how could she trust emotions and desires that had bloomed full-blown in one short day?

  5

  “What a beauty!” Toni whispered reverently, pointing at the Border collie shedding out a recalcitrant ewe. “Look at him. Power, presence. He’ll be spectacular when he gets a bit of seasoning.”

  Devlin watched Toni with growing respect. They’d woken early and eaten breakfast under the baleful eye of their hostess, an eye made even more baleful after she’d seen Toni’s T-shirt, bright blue and two sizes too small, which said, “I Just Washed My Kilt and I Can’t Do a Fling with It!” Toni wore it with as much dignity as she could muster, only laughing after their hostess had left the room.

  Dev was glad. She obviously didn’t hold last night against him. In retrospect he supposed he had overreacted a bit. But then again, that was easy enough to say when she was fully dressed and it was daylight and they were heading out on a motorcycle. Night might tell a different tale.

  Afterward they’d driven north on the island to where the first test was being held. The chances were overwhelming that McGill wouldn’t be able to stay away. Added to which Dev knew some of the professional handlers in attendance. They might help him locate his missing manager and, more important, his missing dog.

  But as soon as they’d discovered that the third test was under way, Toni had been trapped, her attention riveted by the competition. Though he’d realized early on that Toni’s enthusiasm wasn’t simply the result of having watched Babe one time too many, he soon recognized her expertise. She knew dogs, and she really knew Border collies. She loved the breed. As he did. Which only made his attraction to her deeper—and more impossible to act on.

  He didn’t want a simple tumble in the sack—well, actually, he did, but he didn’t think “simple” was an option anymore. If it had ever been. Instead, he wanted to learn everything he could about her. She was too good to be real, but in fact, she was real. And wonderful.

  “You don’t run sheep, do you?” he suddenly asked, drawing her intent gaze away from where the red-andwhite dog had successfully separated the ewe from the rest of the flock and was circling the pen.

  She looked at him. “Why do you think that?”

  “You’ve mentioned being too many places. People who have livestock can’t leave them.”

  She nodded. “Busted. I don’t own any sheep.” Something in the way she said it, a little gruff, a little defensive, made him suspicious.

  “You’re not one of these people who want to turn the breed into the perfect little urchins’ pet—the family wagger, all boundy with joy when Daddy comes home from work and ‘Look! He’s brought me slippers!’ are you?”

  “No,” she answered. “I’ve been around working dogs all my life. When I was a kid, my family fostered service dogs from puppyhood until they were ready for formal training. Later I got a job training them. My dad was a cop in the K-9 division too, so we always had a working dog at home with us.”

  She suddenly grinned. “Sorry. Bit more information than you asked for. It’s just that I want you to know that I respect what’s going on here. I’ve had pets, and I’ve had pets who had jobs. In my mind that’s the best situation of all. There is nothing more beautiful, or more joyful, than a dog that’s doing what it was bred to do, whether that’s pointing a pheasant, finding cocaine at a baggage claim, guiding someone across a city street, or herding a flock of—whatever.”

  “Whatever?”

  “Look,” she faced him, squaring her shoulders, “I chase geese for a living. That’s what I bought Blackie to do. That and act as the base for a breeding program I’ve been developing.”

  “Geese?”

  “Geese. Minnesota is the land of ten thousand lakes. Most of those lakes have golf courses attached to them. The ones that don’t, the ones in the Twin Cities, have industries and corporate headquarters adjacent to them. Geese come flapping down the northern flyway from Canada, take one look at all that suburban green and all those little lakes, and see a goosey counterpart to La Costa Spa.”

  “Yeah?” he said slowly, sure he was missing the point.

  She gazed at him in exasperation. “Let me put it this way: The suburban green is a good deal greener after the geese arrive. In fact, the sidewalks, the parking lots, the driving ranges, the putting greens, the soccer field, and the sandlots are all green. Or rather greenish. If you know what I mean.”

  “I see. And the dogs chase them off?”

  “Yup. We haze geese. Initially it takes anywhere from twice a week to four times a day, but within a few weeks we’re going out purely on maintenance calls. And the dogs”—her gaze fastened levelly on his—“love it.”

  His thoughts whirled. “You wanted to buy a Grand International Champion so that he can chase geese?”

  “Live in my house, drive around with me, be my constant companion, make sure planes can safely take off and land at private airports, keep playgrounds and parks and golf courses clean, and yes, chase geese,” she said flatly. “Believe me, geese are much more formidable and five times nastier than sheep. Chase a sheep, and you’ve mastered a Schwartz toy. Haze a goose, and you’ve vanquished Attila the Hun.”

  “That formidable?”

  She eyed him narrowly. “Ever been attacked by a goose? It’s not fun. Not only do you look stupid, but it hurts. Why, an enraged goose nearly drowned a dog in Lake Champlain last year.”

  “I had no idea,” he said, trying desperately to keep from laughing.

  “Look, Sheep Boy. When was the last time you got attacked by a ewe?”

  He did burst out laughing. “Got me. Never.”

  She smiled smugly. “Okay. Maybe geese aren’t exactly Bengal tigers, but they’re pains in the butts.”

  “So what do you do about them?”

  “Haze them.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “Well, to start out, I scope out the business that contracted me to rid them of geese. See where the geese are hanging about and what time they arrive and leave.

  “Then I bring a couple of my dogs out. Usually I’ll send each dog in the opposite direction to circle in and drive the geese into the air. Of course on golf courses the geese are as likely to flap off into the water hazards and jeer at the dogs from the safety of the water. But my dogs can herd even in the water.”

  “Really?” he asked, impressed. Getting a Border collie into the water usually took a bit of doing; to have them actually take direction once there was impressive.

  “Yup,” she said proudly. “And I’ve taught them a bark command.”

  “Huh?”

  “They bark on command even in the water. Scares the bejeezus out of the geese. I can haze most areas in twenty minutes or less.”

  “And it sticks? The hazing?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “Much better than any other methods they’ve tried and with much less of an environmental impact. I know of a business that used to set off pyrotechnics and sound cannons. The neighbors complained.”

  He laughed. “I should imagine.”

  “But with dogs, usually the geese have learned not to come back to an area within a few weeks. After that it’s just a biweekly romp on the grounds for my dogs—just in case some goose scout is watching to see if we’re being vigilant.” She smiled dreamily.<
br />
  “Goose scouts.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She nodded sententiously. “They have scouts, moles, spies. A whole goosey intelligence network. I told you, they’re a very worthy opponent.”

  He burst out laughing.

  “Besides which,” she continued, an impish light in her eye, “there’s something satisfying about watching a bunch of geese light out in front of a really intense Border collie.”

  “And you can make a living at this?” he asked curiously.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said in such a way that his interest was piqued even more.

  “How much?”

  Her smile became complacent. “Enough to get me out of Minnesota anytime from November through April. Geese,” she lectured knowingly, “are a seasonal problem. So I make a tidy little sum during the season and get to go other places during the winter.”

  “Like Scotland.” He suddenly saw a lot of virtue in her profession. “You might be able to come back to Scotland this winter. If you wanted to.” He tried to sound nonchalant.

  “Yes. I suppose.” She blushed and looked away. “Maybe we’d better keep looking for McGill and my dog.”

  He agreed, watching the unconscious sway of her hips as she strode over the grassy field. He felt the pull of attraction and resolved not to do a bloody thing about it. He would convince her to come back to Scotland this winter and spend some time with him. He would use as recommendation the fact that he hadn’t pushed her for a physical relationship. He wouldn’t give her any opportunity to think he saw her as a one-night stand or a casual relationship. Because whatever the hell his feelings for her, they were most definitely not casual.