They had so much in common, it was—dear God, he couldn’t believe he was saying these things—as if they were meant to be together.
“So being a Scottish laird isn’t one long, happy stroll through the glen?” she asked, twirling her straw in the coke bottle.
“I told you, I’m not a laird. A laird is a chieftain, a martial leader. I couldn’t even raise a pony parade, not even if I bribed the local tots with toffee pudding.”
She laughed. He was so exasperated with her romanticism that even when it had faded, she kept up the moon-eyed pretense, just because she liked teasing him. Though he gave as good as he got—she’d heard more barbed editorials on American politics than in a Dennis Miller routine.
“What I don’t understand,” she said, glancing at him sidelong, “is why you’re going through all the trouble of fixing up your castle if you don’t really like being a laird.”
“I like having a roof over my head.” He smiled. The dimples in his cheeks were fascinatingly boyish. “My family owns all sorts of things. The odd castle here, a decrepit warehouse there. A fishing boat that’s been in dry dock since the war, and a newspaper that hasn’t printed anything beside notices of Kirk rummage sales in twenty years. And a kennel.”
“But the Oronsay Kennels are world-famous.”
“I know. But you don’t make money on a kennel that has fifteen dogs. The kennel is just a very celebrated hobby, is all. I was hoping to turn it into a going concern.”
“Why?”
He chuckled. “I told you. I like having a roof over my head. The castle was there for the asking, the kennels had a good rep to build on. It seemed better than moving to Aberdeen and working for a living. We Montgomerys find the notion of working for a living most distressing.”
She smiled. He could claim to be a slacker, but she’d seen the work he’d been doing on that castle and heard the detailed and thoughtful planning that had gone into his proposed renovations. Once the rest of the renovations were complete, it would once more become a cohesive whole, a place with both modern and historic elements.
“So, just how are you going to go about making the kennel a going concern?” she asked.
He stopped, cocking his head and studying her intently. The sun glimmered on his dark red hair, warmed the toffee-brown depths of his eyes. “Do you really want to know?”
She did. She wanted to know everything about Devlin Montgomery. “Oh, yes,” she said.
He smiled and proceeded to tell her.
The salt-kissed air whistled past Toni’s ears as Dev expertly guided the vintage bike toward the headlands at the western edge of the island. Overhead, blue rivers channeled their way through towering white canyons of clouds. Toni pressed her head between Dev’s shoulder blades, using his broad back as a windbreak, soaking up the heat from his body.
She was miserable and elated and despondent. They had everything in common. They were both oldest unwed children. They both enjoyed traveling—in comfort. They both loved dogs, scuba diving, Douglass Adams, and the Iron Chef. They had the same sense of humor and the same ideas about the proper work-versus-play ratio. And they both wanted each other so badly she was afraid to buy the balloon a kid offered her for fear the damn thing would stick to her hair, the air between them was that charged with electricity.
And she was going away tomorrow, even if she didn’t find McGill and Blackie. She could not imagine leaving with things so unfinished between them, but she was a realist, a practical, imperturbable Minnesotan. This wasn’t a movie; she wasn’t going to arrive at Heathrow two days from now and discover Dev had purchased the seat next to hers on the plane. Anything that was going to happen would have to happen here. Today. Tonight.
She wasn’t very experienced. She’d never been carried away by her emotions—and were these even emotions? What if they were just pheromones or hormones or some other sort of moans? But darn… they seemed like emotions. They seemed honest and certain and strong, strong enough to sweep her off her feet and carry her beyond the stars with only one thing to cling to— Dev.
Was it a mistake to make some bittersweet memories, even if that’s all she’d take with her when she left? She closed her eyes. No. Absolutely not. Now she just had to convince Dev, and if last night was any evidence, that shouldn’t be too hard.
6
“Drat. Your ten beats my seven,” Dev said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. “Your call. What do you want me to take off next?”
Somehow what had started out as a gin game had morphed into a “friendly” game of strip poker. Honorable intentions aside, Dev hadn’t had quite the willpower necessary to say no when she’d suggested it. He should have. He should have realized straight off that there wasn’t any such thing as a friendly game of strip poker when Toni Olson was the only other player.
When the realization had struck him, he should have called quits. Unfortunately, once again, he didn’t have quite that much manly fortitude. So instead he played on, flirting with masochism, deciding he didn’t much care for it, and finally tried desperately to lose every hand. Because he didn’t think he could handle watching Toni Olson doff one more article of clothing.
She sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, well within arm’s reach, her T-shirt’s hem grazing the lace-trimmed leg opening of her panties as those vampish red cowboy boots flirted with him from beneath the satiny smooth skin of each well-toned thigh. If he won another hand, what would he ask her to shed—shirt or fantasy-inducing boot?
He shook his head and glanced up quickly enough to note the slow, knowing curve of her lips. What the hell had happened to her much-vaunted luck? No matter how abysmal his hand, hers was equally lousy. If it weren’t so screwy, he’d think she was trying to lose, too, as eager to push him to the limits as he was to keep from going there.
He didn’t want a tumble, he wanted more. He wanted a relationship. There. He’d admitted it. He wanted Toni Olson in his life for a long time to come.
“Shirt.”
“Huh?”
“Take off your shirt.”
Shirt, jeans, boxers. Three things left. Surely she wouldn’t ask him to take off the boxers? But then again, what difference would it make? As soon as he stripped off his jeans, she’d realize the state she’d put him in. If she didn’t already.
He unbuttoned his shirt and wrenched it off, excruciatingly aware of her gaze on his chest, the heat in her regard, and the interest. She liked what she saw. Dev offered up a word of thanks to his mom for making him build her that stone fence around her garden this summer. Toni caught her bottom lip under her edge of her front teeth. Too sexy. He looked away, tossing the shirt onto the slipper chair. “Deal.”
“Hm?” She gazed at him with vague eyes.
“Deal the cards.”
“Okie-dokie,” she said happily, expertly shuffling the cards. She dealt the cards rapidly and scooped hers into her hand, fanning them, quickly selecting two, and dumping the rest on the bed.
He picked up his cards. Two pairs. Queens and threes. If he got rid of the queens and one of the threes, that should pretty much assure that he’d lose this hand.
“Three.” He held out his hand. She counted out the cards. He fanned them and smiled. A three, a two, a five an eight and a ten.
“Gee,” he said laying his hand faceup on the bed. “I can’t believe I’m having such bad luck. So…” He unsnapped the brass rivet at the top of his jeans and had partially unzipped his fly when her hand covered his. He inhaled on a sharp hiss.
Her hand dropped. She drew back. “Not so fast, Dev. I’m afraid my luck’s deserted me.” She spread her cards. Five single numbers, seven high. “What’11 it be?”
“Boot!” he grated out.
She stretched her leg out, putting her red boot in his lap. “A little help, please?”
She sounded a little nervous, and her gaze was a trifle wary. Wary, hell, she should be running for the door!
He grabbed her boot heel, frantic to get this do
ne with, and pulled so hard he yanked her from a sitting position flat onto her back. She landed with an “oof!” At once he rose to his knees and hunched over her, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders.
Mistake. Her hair spread across the bed like a silk shawl. Her breathing came rapidly between her lips, the agitation causing her breasts to move tumultuously beneath their tight cotton cover. She gazed up at him, a question in her lovely blue eyes, a question he couldn’t fathom and thus had no answer for. All he knew was that she was on her back beneath him.
He swallowed. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Just surprised.”
“Sorry.” He forced himself to sit back, this time taking her foot in one hand while clasping her calf with the other. It was just as satiny smooth and warm as last night With a grim set to his mouth he pulled the red boot off and dropped it to the floor. He should have dropped her leg, too, but this whole debacle had been a treatise on should-haves, and he didn’t see any reason to stop the lessons now.
His hand lingered, moving slowly up her calf to the delicate, sensitive skin behind her knee. Sand-washed silk, warm and sheer. He could feel her pulse pattering against his fingertips like a bird’s.
He looked up and met her gaze, his resolutions quickly dissolving before the undisguised desire he saw. But it had to be her choice. “Next hand?”
She didn’t speak for a moment before nodding and scooting back up to a sitting position. “Deal.” This time it was her voice that rasped.
He dealt and in spite of his best efforts still managed to secure a pair of jacks. Happily, she came up with a flush. It didn’t seem to elate her. She tossed the cards down. “I win.”
Better to just get this over and done with. He’d take off his jeans and embarrass the hell out of her. She’d feel like a fool, and that would be that. Except he’d be taking another cold shower and sleeping in that dinky chair again.
He stood up and unzipped his jeans the rest of the way. Then he peeled the well-worn denim off his hips, dancing on one foot as he got the pant leg off and then kicking the damn thing off the other. It flew off and hit the wall. He straightened, forcing himself to meet her gaze.
Only her gaze wasn’t there for the meeting.
Boxers. Toni had known he’d had an erection. His jeans weren’t tight, but they weren’t loose enough to hide his state of arousal. But the old faded blue boxers he wore fit like skin around his heavy rugby player’s thighs and across his groin, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Plainly the last half-hour hadn’t been any easier on Dev’s rising libido than it had been on hers. Unconsciously she drew the edges of her shirt closer. She looked up and met his gaze. He didn’t smile. His face was tight with expectation and question. His gaze slowly fell to the front of his boxers and moved back up to her eyes.
“I want you. No surprise there. But it’s damn hard standing here with you looking at me like that and not knowing what you’re thinking or feeling or anything, so be a sport, eh, Minnesota?” The cajoling words didn’t quite match the rough tone. ‘Tell me.”
He didn’t move, just stood there, big and heavily muscled, looking better than Mel, Liam, and any other male this country had to offer. Tanned, rippling, sexually primed, ready but waiting… for her to make a decision.
No more questions plagued her. She’d all the answer she needed in his willingness to wait. She stood up and moved directly in front of him. She was just a few inches shorter than him, her lips level with his throat. Perfect.
He still hadn’t moved or said a word, but his breathing spoke volumes. His chest rose and fell like a bellows. His gaze followed her smallest move.
She reached under her T-shirt, unsnapped her bra’s front opening, and then unhooked the straps. It fell to her waist, caught for a minute, and dropped to the floor. She saw Dev’s eyes darkening, and a little tic jumped at the corner of his mouth.
Shyly she lifted her arms and settled them around his shoulders. He was hot, and she inhaled his scent, male and clean and intensely, richly Devlin. She touched her lips lightly to his throat and felt the tingle of response ripple through him.
“Isn’t that enough of an answer?” she murmured, her lips never leaving his skin.
“No.” He sounded like he was having a hard time talking, the word strained and clipped. “Tell me. Tell me you want this. You want me. Now.”
Easy. She unlinked her hands, slipping them down over the hard muscle of his shoulders. Her fingers skated a languid trail down his chest to his ribs, to the taut rippling washboard of his belly, lower to the elastic waistband. She hooked a finger beneath it. He jerked back as if he’d been pricked with fire.
“I want you. Now. Here. Like this.”
Whatever charge he’d given to himself to remain still dissolved. He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close, turning his head and slanting his mouth down over hers. He kissed her hungrily, his tongue sinking deep within to mate with hers. Answering hunger rose within her like a tidal wave, swirling through her body, taking her out at the knees so that she had to cling to him, wickedly aware of the hard length of him. She pushed herself more fully against him.
He released her mouth with a growl. His gaze was intent, predatory, and certain. Slowly he released her arms and grasped the hem of her T-shirt. Gently, he rolled the material up, stripping it from over her head.
Almost casually he stroked the nether curve of her breast, his thumb brushing back and forth across her nipple. She shivered with longing.
“Please,” she whispered.
His head dipped, and a jolt of sensation tore through her as his mouth fastened hungrily on her nipple, drawing the peak deep into his mouth. One strong, tanned arm looped around her waist and the other dropped, encircling her knees. He lifted her in his arms, his head dark against her pale skin.
Kneeling on the bed, he lowered her to it and turned, so that she lay on top of him. His hand flowed like liquid heat down her thigh to the back of her knee and to the front, tracing a slow path up her inner thigh, to the lace edge of her panties.
He did not wait for permission this time.
With a short, rough tug he pulled them off, peeling them down her legs to her ankles. Furiously she kicked free of them, wanting more, needing to feel all of his weight, heavy and powerful.
Eagerly she wedged her hand between them, pushing down until… There. Hard and long and surging into her hand. He hissed lightly as his hips jerked against her touch.
“Careful,” he ground out in the lee between her neck and shoulder. His body was warm now, damp and taut.
“Careful?” she repeated breathlessly. “Too late.”
She burrowed her fingers deeper under his waistband—
—and was tossed on her back. She stared, stunned by the sudden reversal of their positions, stunned even more by him, rising above her, arms bulging with muscle, chest heaving, a pirate’s smile on his unbelievably handsome face, a dark promise in his gaze.
“Too easy. We’d be done too fast.”
Before she could respond, he’d grasped each thigh, pulling her knees up over his shoulders and cupping her buttocks, lifting her.
He smiled and blew softly on the blond curls. Her whole body trembled. Her blue eyes were wide, a little frightened, and a great deal interested. Deliberately he covered her with his mouth. Her hands clenched into fists on the bedclothes, dragging the material toward her. Her back bowed.
“Please. Make love to me,” she gasped.
“I am.” He wanted her to need this, to remember this. To feel every touch, to tremble with desire as she’d made him tremble.
Slowly he lowered her, replacing his mouth with his hand. She was tight, and she arched against the touch. Her heels dug into the mattress as she gave herself to him, to the arousal he so expertly evoked, to the pleasure and the spiraling, coiling spring of need. And then the coil broke.
She climaxed, throwing her head back as pleasure ricocheted through her, flooding her. She trembled,
drowning in physical gratification and floating back up through it. Her legs fell slack on the mattress; her hands unclenched their handfuls of linen. Her body relaxed, sated.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her. And the look in his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, started it all over again, the slow, inexorable building. She wanted him. That fast. That easily.
“Make love with me.”
“Yes.” He shoved the boxers off and quickly unpeeled a condom from its foil case, donning it and then coming back to her, using his knee to part her thighs. She felt him sinking into her, stretching her, filling her. The feeling was amazing. She wanted him to press deeper, to absorb the breadth and thickness of him.
He watched her. Her eyes were shut; her skin was flushed and damp. He pulled slowly back and her hips followed. He almost lost it then. He came back into her, a little roughly, a little desperately, bracketing her face and holding her head still to kiss her.
“I wanted to make you come again,” he panted, “but I can’t. You’re…”
Whatever he’d been about to say was lost as he thrust deep inside her. She gasped and lifted her hips to accept him more fully, more deeply. He didn’t need any further urging. The momentum grew, the pace quickened. She rode the rising pleasure, aroused by his scent, his feel, the sight of him bronzed with blood and desire, muscles hard and straining, a fine sheen of dampness glistening on his skin.
Her second climax struck suddenly, stunning in its force. She clutched him. At the same time, Dev surged downward, his arms wrapping tightly around her. His jaw clenched as, with a thick sound of pleasure, he climaxed.
His big body shuddered with his release, his heartbeat pounded against her.
She opened her eyes. His own were closed a few inches away. He was gorgeous. Supremely male.
And she loved him.
The realization hit her with the force of a lightning strike—and brought her just about as much joy.
She couldn’t love him. She’d just met him. She’d come to Scotland and been primed for a fling and, by heavens, she’d had one. It was ridiculous to make anything more of it than that.
My Scottish Summer Page 6