by Kam McKellar
Her pulse kicked up a notch as he stepped closer, his wide shoulders blocking the light. Her grip on the table tightened. She didn't want to meet his penetrating gaze, but found herself doing it anyway.
As soon as their eyes locked, a wave of blatant need rushed through her body. Only an inch or two separated them now, and Harper couldn't deny she wanted that space gone, obliterated, wanted him to press that sexy as sin, hard body against hers.
Finally, he closed the gap. Butterflies erupted in her belly. One of his hands came to rest on the table by hers, the other slid past her jaw and neck, through her hair and cupped the back of her head. Intensity poured off him. Her lips tingled. She couldn't look away. It was like he wanted her to know it was him, like he was giving her the chance to stop this, to speak up. Not that she could.
His gaze flicked to her lips and Harper thought she'd died right then and there. The need in his expression made her shiver.
Then, his mouth descended, a sigh of pleasure escaping her as she parted her lips and felt that first warm brush of his mouth, like a feather, as though it wasn't real, a sultry erotic dream. A contrast to the hammering of her heart and the flood of blood rushing through her veins, making her feel wanton and so turned on, she was halfway to seeing stars.
He scrambled her senses, his big body dwarfing hers, the torment of his lips playing with hers, never really kissing, just teasing her with his closeness, just content to share breath, to ever so slowly wait and build a fire by anticipation.
Unable to stand it, Harper released the table, grabbed his hips and pulled him close, as close as he could get. His groin pressed against the juncture of her thighs, sending spasms of pleasure through her.
Ross' deep groan told her he'd felt the same. She slid a hand under his shirt, sighing at the hot skin over hard, tensed muscles. "Ross," she whispered against his mouth.
"Harper," he muttered, his control finally snapping as he angled his head and slid his hot tongue into her mouth. Slow and deep and steady.
His hand tightened in her hair, and he kissed her like he was trying to pull her inside of him and consume all she had. Harper's hands were everywhere, trying to do the same damn thing, pull him in, wanting it all, overwhelmed.
He ground his hips against her and she moaned into his mouth, pulling back and gasping for breath, looking him in the eye and unable to think clearly, lost in a heavy sexual haze. She grabbed the ends of his shirt. He lifted his arms and ducked his head, as she pulled it up and off, tossing it aside.
Greedy, she ran her hands all over his back, over his shoulders, and down over his biceps. Dear Lord. It was better than she remembered. He was so . . . hard, so fit. So male. Her hands went to his flat stomach and she reveled at the feeling.
"Your turn." Ross fisted her shirt and yanked it over her head, then unclasped her bra and bared her the way she'd bared him.
Cool air hit her skin, making her shiver but then his hot hands were on her sides, gliding up, so rough and sure. He ran his palms over her breasts, kissing her deeply as he did, and Harper's eyes crossed behind closed lids. He muttered something that sounded like a curse of appreciation, slid his big hands behind her back and crushed his body against her, taking her mouth harder.
The feel of his skin on hers, the way he kissed her, like she was everything, Harper knew she wouldn't stop. She wanted him. Even if she found the notebook and left, even if he said it was a mistake later, she wanted this now, wanted to feel again. It had been so long. Tears burned her eyes even as her desire mounted. She hadn't felt like this since the first time with Ross. Always, with the other men she'd allowed into her life, it had been muted, somehow missing . . . something.
How often had she, over the years, tried to remember him, to remember the feelings. How often had she thought of him when she was with someone else? To hell with consequences. She wanted him. For twelve years she'd wanted him and damned if she'd deny herself now.
Hand shaking, she found the button to his jeans. His hand clamped over hers and he broke their kiss. Breaths ragged, she knew he was just as overwhelmed as she was. "You started it," she managed to say. "Don't back out now."
He removed her hand and unzipped his pants. "The only thing that could make me stop now is you, Harper." He grabbed the condom from the pocket before she shoved his jeans off his hips.
Ross tucked a finger beneath the waistband of her jeans and gave a sexy tug, his thumb pushing the jean's button through the hole. He paused, his face so determined and beautiful it made her heart give a painful lurch. "No regrets, Harper," he said, unzipping her jeans and kissing her shoulder.
"No regrets."
He dropped down, pulling her jeans over her hips and down to her ankles. As she stepped out of them, he kissed her bare stomach. Harper threaded her fingers through his hair as he lifted his head and looked up at her. Then he slid his big hands up the outsides of her thighs and kissed the skin just above the white bow on the top band of her underwear. "Might want to hold on to the table, lass" he said in a husky, confident tone, as he pulled down her underwear inch by inch.
Harper grabbed the table as Ross bared her to his mouth. Pleasure tore through her as he licked and worked her into such a state of lust that she felt drunk, surreal, like nothing else mattered but him and his beautiful tongue, and the rise of hot, silky pleasure that overtook everything, and then making her come harder than she'd ever had in her life.
They definitely hadn't done that the first time.
Ross rose in front of her and kissed her parted lips. He shoved his boxer briefs down and rolled on the condom. "Still with me?" he asked, waiting for her nod before he hooked his hand beneath her knee and brought her leg around his hip.
And then he was pushing into her, sliding in with a slow, sure thrust, seating himself deeply. Her entire body sighed in pleasure. The feeling of him filling her up, connected like this, was more than she remembered and so much more than she'd ever fantasized.
He kissed her, then let out a ragged shaky breath, giving her time to get used to him. His forehead came to rest against hers. "I have to move, lass."
She couldn't speak; she was too overwhelmed by emotion and sensation, so she wrapped her hands around his shoulders, slid them down his back, and then squeezed his perfect ass.
With a groan, Ross lifted her to sit on the table, held her tightly, and moved.
What followed was the hottest sex Harper had ever had. Ross moved like the devil and kissed like an angel. And she could only hang on for the ride, awash in one carnal sensation after another until pleasure built in one powerful, volatile wave that crashed over her so hard she screamed.
And she never screamed. Never had her heart beat that hard. Never had her body shatter like that.
Their breaths came out like they'd just run all the way from Balmorie to the distillery. Their skin was damp. She could feel Ross' heart hammering strong against her breast.
After a minute he lifted his head and leaned back.
This was the moment where embarrassment usually crept in, where she'd suddenly remembered she actually did possess some modesty. But as she met his unreadable gaze, a smile split her face before she could stop it, and she wanted to laugh like a damn fool. The lop-sided grin that came over Ross' face made her heart constrict.
Ross gave her a quick kiss and then left her to deal with the condom as Harper wiggled off the table. "Hold on," he said before she could get down. He pulled up his boxer briefs and jeans, grabbed her underwear from the table and held them out so she could put her feet in. "I got it," she said, letting out a small, embarrassed laugh.
Ross left his jeans unbuttoned as he went for his shirt. Harper paused to watch him stroll away. A sigh rose inside her. The man was way too good-looking for his own good.
After she dressed and Ross put on his shirt, he went onto the patio, down the bank to the burn, and splashed water onto his face, rubbing it around to the back of his neck.
The sudden urge to run hit her, but she stayed
on the patio, biting her lip hard to make herself stay where she was. She didn't run from things, that wasn't her M.O. She wondered, watching him, if it was still his. Would he run from her again? Not that she expected anything from him this time.
The choice had been hers. She'd gone into it with eyes wide open, and she'd never trade what just happened for anything. No matter if he gave a damn or not. All that back there in the studio was for her. Because, damn it, she deserved to take what she wanted from him and be the one to walk away.
Not that she'd come here for that kind of revenge.
No. It wasn't revenge, she thought, frowning. That hadn't even factored into her decision to be with him.
Ross ran a hand through his hair and straightened, turning toward her and taking her breath away as he strode up the bank with an easy lumber. His damp hair was mused in a just-out-of-bed kind of way. His eyes appeared bluer and brighter, framed as they were by wet, spiky eyelashes. His lips were a shade redder than usual, too. If he was anything like her, it was probably due to all that blood still flowing around.
Surprised filled her as he walked right up and kissed her, his lips wet and cool and soft. Damned if it didn't make her stomach do somersaults. "Ready to stop screwing around and get back to work?" he asked, his lips spreading into a smile, his voice low and intimate.
"Ha ha."
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and then walked into the studio, leaving her feeling like she'd just been run over by the sexy train. One that carried way more than just a good time. Worry, fear, hope, regret, and the stirrings of old, repressed emotions barreled straight through her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Harper bit her lip as she stood there, staring at the open doorway, her blood pressure climbing. She swallowed, unsure of what to do.
But maybe nothing needed to be done. Maybe she could be mature about this. They'd gotten it out of their systems. No need for anything to change. No need to keep revisiting the past and injecting those old feelings onto the present.
Sounded like a plan to her. She could do this.
Deep breath in, refocusing, Harper lifted her chin a notch and headed back into the studio.
CHAPTER TEN
Ross had pulled a chair up to a set of clear plastic, stackable drawers and was going through the first drawer; mostly paint supplies from what Harper could see. He glanced over and immediately nerves shot through her system. "So where should I start?" she asked quickly.
"Anywhere. There are a few file cabinets behind that table there." He pointed to the large wooden trestle table at the end of the room.
With a curt nod, she headed that way, feeling the weight of his quiet, curious gaze following her as she went. She didn't want to talk about what had just happened, and wasn't about to ask him if he wanted to. She needed to find the damned notebook and get the hell out of Scotland before she completely lost it.
Harper knew herself well enough to know that the more time she spent with Ross, the harder it'd be to leave, and before she knew it, she'd be thinking herself in love with him and forgiving him for breaking her heart.
But it wouldn't be love this time. Not really. It'd be trying to recreate something that had ended a long time ago.
Harper grabbed the wooden chair tucked beneath the table, turned it toward the cabinets, and got to work. The first drawer was filled with a stack of sketch books. She flipped through these quickly. Mary MacLaren was a pretty good artist, rendering mostly landscapes and still lifes with charcoal pencils or pen. There were some unfinished sketches and some were scratched through, and there were some Harper recognized. The distillery, the house Ross lived in, Balmorie Castle...
In another drawer, she found sketches of Ross and Liam as toddlers. One, in particular, she stared at for a long time. It was a portrait of Ross, maybe three or four years old, staring off into the distance, interest and curiosity somehow captured in his gaze, his mouth slightly parted. She couldn't help but think of children. His future children. Ones who'd look just like that with those big eyes and chubby cheeks and mop of unruly dark hair...
Disgusted with her sappy thoughts and the maternal pang in her chest, Harper closed the old sketch book and set it aside with a huff.
Distracted, she pulled out a another book, not even realizing at first that it fit the description of the notebook with green leather and thistles impressed on the corners.
Holy crap.
This was it. The notebook her father had told her about.
Gently, she ran her fingers over the impressions and then glanced quickly at Ross. He was still digging through the art drawers. Biting her lip, she decided not to call him over just yet, wanting to see for herself what lurked inside.
As she flipped through the first few pages, a relieved breath escaped her. It was all there. The entire notebook had been dedicated to brewing. Notes on equipment, making mash, yeast lists and recipes, ingredients, flavors, experiments... There were dates, too, she realized, flipping faster to find the year Mary and her sons had moved to the States. But the pages went blank. And there was nothing.
No. That couldn't be right.
Gripped with panic and trying to stop the dismay that was slowly snaking up her spine, Harper flipped through the rest of the blank pages and then rummaged through the drawer, hoping there'd be another identical notebook.
There wasn't.
She sat back baffled, bitter tears rising. Why would her father tell her those things? There was not a single note from him anywhere in the book. Everything had been written months before Mary had set foot in Kentucky.
It didn't freaking make sense.
Staring in a daze at the notebook in her lap, she felt like she'd just fallen down the rabbit hole and was mentally scrambling to gain a foothold. This was the notebook he'd spoken about. Not knowing what else to do, she checked the pages again, looking for evidence that pages might have been torn out, determined to prove her father had been right, and, more importantly, had been telling her the truth.
A folded piece of paper dropped onto the floor as she flipped a page. Picking it up, her heart beat a little faster. The paper was lined and slightly faded. An ominous sensation settled into her gut as she unfolded and read.
It was a letter. Addressed to her.
From Ross.
On the eve of his mother leaving the States, he'd written her a quick note, telling her that they had to talk. That he loved her. To meet him out by the old tree swing in the backyard. That he wasn't leaving without her.
Shock crept slowly through her system. Her hands began to tremble.
Her chest pounded with hurt.
Folding the note slowly, Harper slipped it into her pocket and just sat there in a stupor. She'd never gotten the note.
Obviously, Mary and/or her father had found it and taken it. Her father must have tucked it into the notebook or seen Mary do so. Otherwise, he never would have sent her after it.
He'd known what was in it.
It didn't take much for her to understand his motives.
He'd been making amends. Trying, after twelve years, to make what he or they had done right. To reconnect her with Ross. She closed her eyes and remembered every detail of that day in the hospital when he told her about the notebook. His face had been filled with sadness. Regret. Worry for her. He'd apologized, told her he wanted her to be happy. To accept love. He must've figured out that her heartbreak had had an impact on her subsequent relationships, ones that never, for whatever reason she came up with, worked out.
His true purpose hadn't been saving the company. It had been saving her.
Harper blinked back tears and lifted her gaze to the ceiling with a rueful smile. Somewhere her father was looking down on her. Why? She questioned him silently.
A hand landed on her shoulder.
Harper shot to her feet with a gasp and spun.
It was just Ross. Of course it was just Ross. Who else would it be? Wiping her eyes, knowing she must look like a wreck, she made some lame c
omment about not sneaking up on her.
Ross' eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"
She rolled her wet eyes and shook her head, making a wild shrug, the notebook still clutched in her hand.
"You found it."
"Oh. Yeah. I found it." She could barely get the words out as she handed it over. "There's nothing in it from my dad. It was all a . . . lie." That word rose up like a hot knife through a grieving heart. "I have to go now."
Ross reached for her as she darted past him, but she was too quick, too motivated to run. He called to her, told her to wait. But hell if she was waiting.
Run. Just run.
Tears swam in her vision and rose in her throat making it hard to breathe, but Harper continued, running from the distillery and down the road until her lungs burned, and her leg muscles started to tremble. Once she made it to the castle drive, she finally slowed, casting a glance over her shoulder, relieved to see that Ross hadn't followed. She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to think or feel anything more than she already did.
Inside the castle, she took a moment and paced the Great Hall, hands on hips, trying to catch her breath. She didn't know what to do. Well, that wasn't true. She wanted to scream at her father, wanted him back, standing in front of her so she could confront him. And yet even with all the anger she felt, there was so much love, too. Because, in the end, he'd wanted the best or her. He always had.
After her mother had deserted them, Harper and her father were left on their own. A team. She knew him too well, knew that he'd never want to leave her, knowing she'd be alone. Without a champion, without someone who cared for her as he had.
He and Mary had taken that note thinking it was for the best.
Maybe it had been.
A feeling of defeat came over her. She'd never really know for sure. She and Ross were never given the chance to find out.
Hamish walked through the hall, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw her. They stared at each other for a long moment. He had such a grandfatherly look about him that it made Harper think even more about her dad, about missing him, losing him, and then she burst into tears right there in front of him.