KiltedForPleasure

by Melissa Blue

  She swallowed back a sigh and scrubbed a stubborn spot on the kitchen floor. Yeah. She welcomed the shift in focus. Her mind wanted to replay the stupid mistake on the stoop. A stupid mistake her hormones had happily participated in.

  Who knew a man whose lips curled so easily in anger could make her melt?

  She gave the mysterious brown spot another good scrub before sharing the frustration. “You know, Callan called you elderly.”

  He was older but like a well-aged Scotch. He’d be eighty and still be a silver-fox. And all hands.

  “I know what my boys say about me. Let’s dance.” He avoided the still wet part of the floor and ploughed toward her. “You don’t look like you do that often.”

  She didn’t but that wasn’t the point. She was in neck deep. Callan grumbled something inappropriate as he cleaned the old ashes in the hearth. His forearms had streaks of soot mixed into the fine hairs. She sighed again since this wasn’t the Baird’s first attempt at a distraction. The flat, as they had insisted it be called, flowed from one room to another. Even though she stood in the kitchen, Victoria could see the front door in one direction and his bedroom in the other.

  A song played in the background. A sad beat that you’d slow dance to. The music fit the frayed furniture. Well, what she could see of it. Newspapers, take-out boxes and other assortment of clutter covered most of the space in the large flat. It had apparently taken the man two weeks to collect all this junk. She had hoped they wouldn’t be here all day and that Callan had only exaggerated the time needed. Nope. She glanced around again. He’d underestimated the work.

  Not to mention the Baird.

  There was a reason why a maid or nurse wouldn’t work. He’d sexually harass them and not feel an inch sorry for it. And to be honest, maybe the woman wouldn’t be so adverse to his seduction—a problem in and of itself. That all came down to no one sane or weak-willed would volunteer to corral the Baird.

  She pressed the end of the mop handle to his chest. “Stay right there. I warned you, old man. Touch me and I’ll pop you. And I still just might. I’ve seen the inside of your refrigerator and that’s next on my list.” She reached for the rag he’d tossed aside and threw it at him. “Help Callan. The pictures on the mantle need to be dusted.”

  He caught the rag with a huff. “None of the others made me clean.”

  “And none of the others are here.” She gave him an extra poke. “Go help and let me do my work. If you behave, I’ll make you something delicious. Your freezer and pantry are loaded.”

  “You know—”

  “Baird, some things are best left unsaid.” Callan didn’t turn as he spoke.

  The Baird gave his nephew a leveled look and then nodded. “Aye, I see.” He turned to grin at her. “So it’s not me you’re after, but Jacob.”

  She chose to avoid that trap. “He likes to be called Callan.”

  Douglass laughed. “My apologies. His mum called him Jacob.”

  Another trap and she couldn’t avoid it because curiosity got the better of her. “His mum?”

  Callan sighed as the Baird grabbed a picture off the mantle. Douglass wiped the coating of dust off the glass before handing it to her. The woman looked very young. She had a pert nose, wide blue eyes and a warm smile. Freckles decorated her heart-shaped face. His mother had a sparkle in her eye like she’d be the kind of mom who’d bake cookies in the middle of the night and start pillow fights. Her own mother had that same sparkle. So she could only imagine the grief Callan must feel.

  Victoria stole a glance at Callan. His expression had turned to stone as he scrubbed harder than necessary on the grate.

  “From what I hear labor is pretty tough,” she said, her throat a little raw now. “By rights you get to call your kid whatever name you want.”

  The mischievous light in Douglass’ eyes dimmed. “Giving birth doesn’t make you a mother.”

  She’d stepped into a minefield. It was obvious these men didn’t have many female influences in their life. “No. It doesn’t, but it says a lot that you still have your sister-in-law’s picture on your mantle.” She hesitated. “You called them your boys. Tell me about them.”

  “Is he yours?” Douglass asked.

  The point-blank question made heat rise to her cheeks. “No. I’m just nosy.”

  “Awright,” the Baird said. “So what was that kiss on my stoop?”

  Callan looked on with interest. “Aye. What was that?”

  He’d seen that? Not surprising the man was a peeper. “You’re not behaving.” She lifted a brow.

  They both sighed, but Douglass said, “You had to bring a feisty one. She won’t let me flirt with her or touch her. And she’s making me clean.”

  Victoria pointed out, “Which I’ve noticed you’re not actually doing.”

  Callan’s warm laughter filled the flat as he straightened from the hearth. He gave his uncle a pat on the back when he passed him. “And that’s why I brought her.”

  The Baird replied too low for her to decipher its meaning. Sounded vulgar though. But the man started to dust the rest of the pictures and tell her about his boys. Amazing what she could glean from the stories. Tavin was Callan’s father who, unbelievably, was more of a cad than Douglass. The Baird men loved women. Tavin was also an absent father.

  And the more the Baird talked, the more Callan relaxed and added a few details of his own. This wasn’t a man who stood on the moors brooding about whatever lot in life he’d been handed—a shitty one. Although his mother had fought it for years, she eventually lost the fight against kidney failure. He’d seen it all. Victoria couldn’t imagine being in her teens and watching her mother die. Good or bad, mothers were supposed to be invincible.

  They talked and Victoria maneuvered both men to do most of the cleaning. Oh, she dusted whatever the Baird missed and vacuumed, but after seeing the bathroom and the bedroom there was no way she’d touch either—even with gloves on.

  She kept them company, asking a million questions that they took turns answering. Turns out the Baird owned a pub, the one he lived over. The man needed a caregiver as much as Victoria needed a hole in her head.

  It was well past lunch by the time they finished. Since a little more than half the food in the refrigerator looked like a science project, she’d thawed a roast. The Baird sat back with a pint he’d brought up from his pub.

  Callan hovered behind her as she tried to chop carrots and not her fingers. The air had a chemical tinge to it but she could still pick out his scent. The kitchen simply wasn’t big enough. She had to find a way to get him to sit down. Though it was the lesser evil, because then he’d watch her with that hungry gaze of his.

  “Baird, do you know how to cook?” she directed the question at Douglass in hopes that’d help her not focus on Callan.

  He had leaned against the sink and the hairs on her neck stood. She was so aware of the distance between them and was struggling to forget what his mouth felt like slanted over hers or the way his cock prodded her stomach.

  The Baird took a generous sip from his large glass. “I can poach an egg, fry a sausage and burn some toast.”

  Unbelievable. She shook her head. “Which I’m sure you eat every morning. Let me show you how to chop an onion.”

  Douglass’ gaze swept to his nephew, his brows pulling down into a frown. “I know what you’ve been doing all day, and I let you. It’s hard to argue with you when you pull out that dimple. It feels cruel to say no.” Exhaustion deepened the lines around his mouth. “But I’m not as young as I use to be. Teach Callan.”

  Should have seen that one coming, but she had pushed the man as far as he would go today. Victoria sighed and turned to Callan. He’d raised his brow, the challenge thick in the air.

  “Don’t look so smug,” she said. “I’ve seen you in yellow gloves.” She handed him the knife. “Show me what you can do.”

  A smirk just wasn’t cocky enough to describe his smile. “Auch. I can chop an onion just fine. Who do
you think has fed him all these months?”

  He approached the chopping board and stood with his feet spread in a fighter stance and chopped big, ugly portions. Douglass laughed, hard. “That’s my laddie.”

  Callan met the older man’s gaze and chuckled. She knew she was missing some inside joke but what? Victoria pushed his arm away. “Let me show you.”

  “Please do.”

  And that’s when the trap became clear. He stood back so she could slip in front of him. Her pulse went thready with the solid wall of him at her back. He wouldn’t do anything X-rated with his uncle sitting by. Would he?

  Victoria closed her hand over his. He pressed closer, bending down until his mouth brush the top of her earlobe. She bit down on her lip to keep from moaning.

  “Like this?” He held the knife like he was about to gut someone.

  She fixed his fingers and it was clear hers held a tremble. “You’re an ass. I know you know how to do this.”

  “I do not.” He reached around her with his other arm so he could hold the onion in place.

  She was wrapped in him in that moment, and if there was someone else in the room, she completely forgot. Victoria guided his hand. He took his time, making mistakes when she tried to pull away, keeping her captive in his embrace. It was hard to feel like a fool when his cock so perfectly aligned against her ass. It was a small miracle she could breathe without moaning. When he finished, she escaped without an ounce of grace in her movements.

  Every inch of her vibrated from his touch, the scent of him—him. She cleared her throat. “You can do the rest of the carrots and I’ll finish seasoning the roast.”

  He motioned to the cabinet with the knife. “You forgot to grab the can of stewed tomatoes.”

  Her head was still scrambled from the embrace. “What?”

  He lined up the carrots and chopped through them like a pro. Not just like a pro but a chef. She glanced at Douglass who sported a mile-wide grin. Callan said, “Or you could make a gravy to replace the tomatoes.”

  Douglass tutted. “Don’t tease her so much.” He directed the last at her. “He went to Glasgow University. He started as a bus boy and worked his way up to a sous chef to pay for that expensive school all on his own.”

  Victoria suddenly wished she had an apron to throw at the back of Callan’s head. “I see.” She tried to be pissed but could only laugh. “It was because I made you clean the bathroom, wasn’t it?”

  The skin around Callan’s eyes crinkled when he grinned at her. “Aye.”

  “Well, good. You can help me cook then.” She chuckled at his groan and considered them even. “And now that I think about it, maybe we can make some casseroles that the Baird can heat up when I’m not here.”

  Douglass whistled, sounding pained. “Callan, you only have yourself to blame.”

  Callan met her gaze. “Don’t worry, Uncle. I have the perfect revenge in mind.”

  She ignored the thrill that filled her stomach. His scent filled her lungs again and reminded her how long it had been since she’d felt the touch of a man. Much too long if the sight of Callan effortlessly chopping all the vegetables made her body buzz. Had to be the flex of his forearms making her breathless.

  I can’t sleep with him. I can’t let him touch me again. I will not lick or kiss anything attached to his person.

  The mantras started to sound more like the very last desperate vows of a person who knew they were screwed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next day Victoria stood at her open cottage door and accepted that the universe had conspired against her. How could she fight the truth when she’d barely escaped another run-in with Callan at the castle that morning, and now, here he was.

  He’d changed into a suit for some reason since she’d last seen him a little over eight hours ago. The crisp white shirt, the starched jacket and pants in charcoal gray deepened the blue of his eyes and the sharp cut of his shadowed jawline.

  “Evening,” Callan greeted her. His voice sounded gruffer than usual.

  A pang of worry pinched her stomach, but she ignored it. “Hey, Callan.”

  His taut expression let her know trouble lurked beyond the horizon. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s rude, considering.” There was a touch of anger in his tone.

  Dammit. It wasn’t the universe crapping on her. Callan being here was a hell of her own making. Ian must have already contacted him about the additional work.

  Earlier that morning, she’d emailed her boss a list of potential antiques they could add to the original shipment. He’d called her back almost immediately, letting her know he wanted them and for Callan to get them ready. It was amazing how difficult it was to maintain a professional attitude with her boss when she knew he’d jumped bare-assed into the Loch Ness with Callan and Tristan.

  And when she managed to push that nugget aside, she’d remember the story about the night Callan had graduated from high school. They’d all drunk themselves into a stupor and sat outside Douglass’ pub singing Robert Burns’ diddies about love and loss.

  Something all three had known intimately even at a young age. Ian and Tristan’s mother had left them to start a new life and family. Callan’s had died. The same heartache if you only measured it by the ache of loss. Some things you shouldn’t know about your boss. Intimacy, in any form, bred familiarity. Boundaries disappeared and you ran the risk of being screwed over.

  It all messed with her head and made her heart soften. She stared into Callan’s flushed face as he stood on her cottage’s doorstep, a manila folder fisted in his left hand. His nostrils flared as they held each other’s gaze. Maybe this was how he’d felt when he’d first seen her—a mixture of exasperation, anger and a visceral need to cuss. And defeat. It soured in her mouth like a lemon, because she was trapped.

  Still, she had to swallow the foolish need to kiss him again and would choke the urge down if she had to. “I’m guessing you’re here to talk about the additional work. Ian contacted you about it, I’m sure.”

  Callan brushed past her into the living room. “The shite sent me the revised contract and more money. He deposited the money first.”

  After listening to their family’s shared history, it sounded like something her boss would do. The man didn’t ask, often. Seems to be a family trait.

  “That sounds like something you should bring up with Ian.”

  She quickly shut the door to keep from freezing to death and then pulled the loose straps of her dress up. Her I’m-feeling-homesick dress had maybe five more washings before it turned into a faded mess. This time she was the one under-dressed for a meeting.

  He’d planted himself in front of the stone hearth and looked out of place. Her rented cottage was one doily away from being a grandma’s haven. The soft lace curtains and floral wallpaper only cinched that image, and sadly it only made him more masculine in comparison.

  Realizing she’d just been standing at the door, staring at him, she moved to the couch. “If you’re clear on the new terms, then why are you here? In a suit of all things.”

  Callan pressed the folder to his leg and leaned against the mantle with his free hand. The muscles of his shoulders were high and tight. “My time is disregarded once again and again I can’t really say no. More money. More security. You—” his voice deepened, grew darker, “—are to blame.”

  A shiver of warning danced down her spine. From the sharp edge in his voice, he wouldn’t need much to tip him over. Cautious, she said, “More money? Sounds like you should thank me.”