“I’d love one of your special toddies,” Natasha said with an eager smile. “Thank you.”
“No whiskey,” Ian said firmly.
“Yes, whiskey,” Natasha countered, bristling.
Dugie cleared her throat. “Shall I bring out the boxing gloves, then?” she said, glancing from Natasha to Ian with a raised brow.
“That’ll be all, Dugie,” Ian said.
Natasha frowned at him. "Why can’t I have whiskey?” she asked when Dugie was out of earshot.
“I’m looking out for you. Liquor and antibiotics don’t mix well,” Ian said, noting her disgruntled look. “You’ll survive.”
Natasha patted her lips with her napkin and set it down on the table. "I think I’ll join Maggie and Ranald in the library," she said, rising from the table.
Ian’s hand closed over her wrist, noting how delicate it felt in his grip. "Don’t go.”
She stood before him with her hand on her hip and her head tilted to the side. “Why should I stay? I don’t want to argue. Your mood hasn’t exactly been light this evening.”
"I want you to stay, Tasha," he said inflexibly.
His iPhone buzzed with a text message and he released his grip on her. He read the text and seethed at what he read. “What the fuck,” he said, staring at the phone before he shoved it in his pocket.
“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked, shocked at his sudden outburst.
“Bloody hell.” He slapped his palm on the table. “I’m going to throttle the conniving bitch!”
Natasha sank down on the chair and stared at Ian. She could feel his simmering rage from across the table, in his severe eyes and the harsh set of his jaw.
“Who sent you the text?” she asked softly.
“The woman claiming half of my rightful inheritance,” Ian grated through clamped teeth.
“Who is she?”
Ian’s mouth formed a grim line as he struggled to contain his temper. “My father’s mistress.” The veins in his neck stood out as he knocked back the rest of his wine. “I inherited the bulk of Dad’s estate, but he left half of Glenhaven castle and the surrounding land to her.”
According to Maggie, since his father’s death, Ian had purchased a Kensington Garden flat and a New York penthouse in Central Park West. But none of those properties held the strings to his heart as his family estate. No wonder he was livid that he had to share it with his father’s mistress.
“If your dad was already a widower, why didn’t he marry her?”
“Because she was married to another man,” Ian said scathingly. “She and Dad had a clandestine affair for over a dozen years.”
Natasha’s jaw dropped. The whole thing sounded like a soap opera. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m contesting the will. Dad signed it on his deathbed, probably delirious from morphine. His mistress kept his illness a secret and had her lawyer draw up a new will when she knew he was close to dying.”
“That’s so evil. Are you sure your father was in love with her?”
Ian snorted. “She has the galling nerve to claim she was the love of his life,” he said roughly, his face flushed dark red. “It’s a lie. Dad adored Mum to her dying day. They were childhood sweethearts.”
The way Maggie had stated things, it hadn’t sounded as if Ian’s parents had had such a loving relationship. Of course, Fiona died when Ian was only eight, so he had seen it through a child’s eyes.
“You never suspected anything?” Natasha asked, even though Ian’s face had become shuttered. She didn’t want to end it there, not when he was finally opening up.
“No.” Ian poured another glass of wine and drank deeply. He raked a hand through his thick hair and met her questioning gaze with a half-hearted smile. “Let’s change the subject. No use letting her ruin the evening.”
“Okay,” Natasha said, bolstered by his smile. Whether she liked it or not, she had to tell him about the flash drive right away. The timing was unfortunate, especially after the recent text, but she couldn’t wait any longer if she was going to alert the detectives tomorrow.
With Ian’s full attention on her, she took a fortifying breath. “Promise me you’re not going to go ballistic when I tell you…”
“What is it?” Ian’s dark brows drew together over narrowed eyes as he watched her.
"You know the flash drive the mob is looking for?" At his nod, she said, "It incriminates the whole Capelli crime syndicate."
"And?" He drummed his fingers on the table top, his sharp gaze steady on her.
Natasha drew in a tremulous breath. "It's upstairs.”
Ian’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Where the hell is it?”
“In the lining of my suitcase. I found it when I unpacked before coming down to dinner.”
A muscle in Ian’s jaw ticked as he went very still. “Bloody hell,” he said, the guttural sound deep in his throat.
“Can you help me get it to Detective Carson in New York? I don’t trust the regular mail,” she said in a rush, her heart thumping.
Ian’s hands formed a steeple, his fingertips grazing the cleft in his chin as he considered what she’d just said. "Did you see what was on the flash drive?”
“No. It wouldn’t open for me.”
He slanted a look at her. “It might be encrypted."
"I don't think Tony was enough of a techie to know how to do that."
"Don't be too sure.
"How can we find out?" she asked anxiously.
"I'll take care of that. Tomorrow I have an appointment to visit a wee patient in Edinburgh. You can come along. We'll go to Edinburgh University. Maggie’s cousin, Connor, is an internet technology whiz. He’ll know what to do."
“Oh good. I’d love to come along. Thank you,” she said, relieved he was being helpful and understanding.
"Connor is closer to my age than Maggie. We grew up spending many summers together." Ian rose from the table. “Let’s join Maggie and Ranald in the library.”
On the way there, Gerald informed Ian that his aunt and uncle had already retired for the evening, and that they insisted on keeping Evita with them.
Natasha shook her head with amusement. “If Evita was pampered before arriving here, she’ll be spoiled rotten by the time she leaves,” she said, following him into high-beamed, oak-paneled library. Looking around, she luxuriated in being surrounded by so many rare, valuable books. “I swear, Ian, your assortment of first edition medical books would make any book collector green with envy.”
“I’ve tracked another one in Oxford that I’m keen on buying.” He placed his hand in the small of Natasha's back, sending shivers skittering up her spine. “
“How is your injury?” He motioned toward the cognac-colored leather couch in front of the large stone fireplace. "Sit there and I’ll take a look."
Natasha’s breath caught in her throat and her pulse tripped up. “Here?”
“Sure, why not?” he asked as it were nothing out of the ordinary.
“It feels awkward here. I mean, outside of your office,” she said, her cheeks heating up.
“Rubbish. Let’s have a look.”
She sat down and Ian hunkered down in front of her.
“Turn a bit to your side. That’s it,” he said as she leaned sideways to rest on her left hip.
A shaky sigh escaped her when Ian’s long fingers lifted the hem of her skirt high enough to check her thigh. Unhinged by the sudden intimacy of his touch, she wondered if he could see the pulse leaping at her throat. His warm hand on her bare thigh left a trail of gooseflesh everywhere it touched. Holding her breath, she stared at the top of Ian's dark head bent forward, precariously near her breasts. Her pulse fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings as she remembering the velvet softness of his lips kissing her breasts and nipples. He used to love to bury his face in her breasts and inhale her scent. She drew air into her lungs and tried to calm her racing heart.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, jarring her back to the present. His voice s
ounded hoarse as he gently touched the area around her wound, his face bent forward in concentration.
“No. Not anymore,” she said in a strangled voice. Ian’s dark hair tumbled over his forehead, glinting like flint in the light of the chandelier. She ached to smooth it back and kiss the faint furrow between his brows. His closeness made her burn with desire, and when he finally lowered her skirt, she felt a stab of disappointment.
“It’s healing nicely. Be sure to finish the antibiotic just in case,” he said briskly, reverting to his medical persona.
“I will.” She inhaled a shaky breath and licked her dry lips.
“Are you staying in the blue room?” he asked.
“No. I’m sleeping in the hidden chamber tonight."
Ian froze and a disapproving look in his eyes shot into her like lasers. "Who gave you permission to sleep in my hidden chamber?" he asked in a quiet tone.
"You sound like one of the three grumpy bears chastising Goldilocks," she scoffed. When he remained silent, she lifted her chin. "Maggie thought it was best for me to stay there. We didn’t think you were going to be here.”
“It wasn’t a good choice. The blue room is on the bottom level. Climbing so many stairs puts a strain on your wound.”
“Oh well. There’s not much we can do about it now,” she said with a shrug.
“Yes, there is.” Bending, he lifted her in his arms and carried her toward the staircase.
"Put me down," she protested like a hypocrite. “I can make it upstairs on my own." Held this close to his solid chest, she could hear his solid heartbeat and feel the heat emanating from his strong body. She suddenly wanted him so badly it hurt.
Ian ignored her protests and climbed the stairs.
“I think you just wanted an excuse to hold me,” she teased softly.
His face boarded up at her harmless taunt and she regretted it. “Ian, I never meant for things to end the way they did between us. You must believe me. On the flight over, I wanted to—”
“Not now, Natasha,” he cut in tersely. The dark look in his silver-green eyes silenced her.
Ian was back to calling her Natasha and with not an ounce of warmth. Her spirits deflated. She much preferred hearing him call her Tasha in his rich Scottish burr. She would have loved hearing him call her “angel” as he once had, but one look at his distant eyes told her she was being delusional.
He set her on her feet when they reached the second floor. Sliding open the door to the hidden passageway, he said, "Get some rest. I plan on getting an early start tomorrow morning. Be downstairs at seven. Sharp."
So he was back to being curt and bossy. He sure was moody tonight! Frowning at his back, Natasha saluted him when he closed the connecting door to his quarters.
Chapter Seven
Ian crossed to the fireplace in the master bedroom and kindled it, then sat in his favorite Moroccan leather armchair before the fire. He kicked off his loafers and propped his feet on the matching ottoman. He poured two fingers of whiskey into the crystal cut glass on the silver tray left by Dugie and noted with disgust that his hands were shaking.
He stared at the blaze. The flames flickered golden orange, reminding him of Natasha's glossy curls. His grip tightened on the glass as he downed the whiskey in two gulps. He shouldn’t have invited her to go with him to Edinburgh, but he’d had no other choice. He couldn’t exactly leave her there to figure things out, and he didn’t want to cancel the appointment in Edinburgh. He felt compelled to protect Tasha, but he didn’t want the type of involvement that would bring. She would distract him from the reason he'd returned to Scotland—to open his clinic and reclaim Glenhaven.
Unfortunately, she had an uncanny ability to get under his skin and land in his heart like a precise bullet. His body had reacted strongly to merely touching her bare thigh. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? When he’d carried her in his arms tonight, he'd had to fight the urge to take her straight to bed and make love to her until she couldn’t walk.
For the past seven years, he had told himself she wasn’t the girl he’d thought she was, that she was just like her mother, self-centered, vain and ruthlessly ambitious, with an outsized ego that craved constant stroking. But deep in his gut he knew it wasn’t true. Tasha was still the radiant girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, constantly giving and caring about others. Others, but not him, he reminded himself derisively.
She had tossed him aside once and she would do it again just as easily. He’d be a fool not to remember that. Acting was in her blood, just as healing was in his.
His insides churned at the memory of how soft she’d felt in his arms when he’d carried her upstairs. Her rose scent had ignited long ago memories of her fragrant body clinging to his, her pale, round breasts rising and falling with each shivering breath, her naked limbs entwined with his. The last image he wanted to conjure was of Tasha lying in his bed, beautiful and naked, lazily smiling at him with a satiated smile.
Raw primal desire reared up in him. So forceful it bordered on savage. He had claimed her as his own a long time ago. He wanted her under him, writhing in ecstasy, welcoming his hot length inside her with wild abandon.
Ian’s member engorged to the point of pain as he stalked to his bed and stripped. He yanked the coverlet down and sprawled on the mattress. Breathing heavily, he willed his roused body to settle down as he braced his arms behind his head and stared at the crackling flames. He finally drifted into fitful slumber with erotic visions of Natasha, gorgeously naked with nothing on but his pearls in her earlobes.
Natasha struggled between the labyrinth of deep slumber and the urgent need to wake up. Her skin prickled with a sensation of imminent danger that forced her eyes to open. A startling flash of lightning entered through the narrow, slotted window in the stone wall, illuminating the room and jolting her awake. Her heart buffeted her ribs when the explosive crack of thunder followed.
She relived the awful dream again. But it wasn’t a dream; it was a living nightmare. At seven she had gotten lost in the woods in a blinding rainstorm, paralyzed with terror every time lightning had struck the earth. Her friends had gone on ahead of her while she’d stayed behind to practice a song she would sing at the end-of-summer party at Camp Merry Cascades. The trees looked like gargoyles, frightening her as bone-jarring thunder resounded in her ears repeatedly. Lightning struck the tree beside her, knocking it to the ground. A sharp branch ripped through her T-shirt and sliced her arm. She could hear her high-pitched child’s voice screaming “Help!” repeatedly until her throat was raw, but nobody came to her aid.
Tears streamed down her face and clogged her throat as the spurting blood mixed with the pelting rain. She passed out and woke up in the hospital emergency room asking for her mommy, but she never came. Daddy was the one who brought her home from camp. The incident happened twenty-three years ago, but the nightmare always felt agonizingly real.
Reeling from the dream, Natasha’s pulse galloped out of control. Calm down. Breathe. You’re awake now. It was just a dream. She groped in the dark, switched on the wall sconce and ran to the window. Lightning struck again, followed instantly by deafening thunder signaling the electrical storm was directly above the castle. The sconce light flickered and went out.
Ian. Going to him was all Natasha could think of as she made her way to his room, her hands using the wall as a blueprint. She reached the connecting door, slid it open and pushed the tapestry aside.
Her heart almost stopped when she saw him sprawled on his back, asleep in the center of the bed—naked. Taking measured steps she reached his side and gazed at him, mesmerized by his raw male beauty in repose. Ian’s strong arms and legs were outspread, his handsome face turned to the side as his muscled chest rose with each deep breath. His sex nestling quietly between his lean hip bones was deceptive—she knew the powerful engine it became when aroused. Paralyzed with mind-numbing fear and dizzying desire, she stared at him, willing him to wake up and take her in his arms. Lightning struck
again, followed immediately by a thundering boom.
Natasha shivered and clutched the sides of her nightgown. “Wake up, Highlander,” she implored, her heart leaping in her throat.
Ian's eyes opened at the sound of Natasha’s voice. Illuminated by white lightning, she stood before him like a primeval goddess, fiery curls forming a halo around her pale face. The light outlined her body, rendering her nightgown transparent. Spellbound, he caught a glimpse of round breasts and the outline of her supple thighs and mons, bare beneath the gossamer fabric. Hardening instantly, he pulled the sheet over his groin.
A loud crash of thunder struck with ear-splitting force. Natasha catapulted into Ian’s arms, clinging to him as her pliant body molded to his hard length.
“Still scared of a wee storm, Tasha?” he murmured gruffly. He smoothed her hair from her face and gently tugged one of her curls.
“I had that awful nightmare again. The one where I got hurt in the woods,” she said, passing her palm over the hard planes of his chest. She turned her face and nuzzled the crook of his neck, her soft nose tickling his skin. “Let me stay here with you. Please. Just for a little while,” she pleaded as if he were heartless enough to kick her out of his bed.
Ian struggled to control his body’s treacherous reaction to her as he nodded silently and Tasha kissed his jaw.
“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely, her lips moving hesitantly toward his mouth.
The silky softness of her lips so close to his shredded the last remnant of restraint. Hot blood roared in his ears, bringing his body close to boiling. He began a slow and steady exploration of her sweet mouth as he maneuvered her onto her back and underneath him. Like a starved man, his tongue mimicked what he wanted to do to her. Damn the consequences. He had to have her one last time before letting her go.
He held her beautiful face in his hands and looked deep into her wide eyes. “Do you want me to continue?”
“Yes. Please,” Natasha breathed into his mouth, winding her arms around his neck.
Ian slid her nightgown up and over her arms until it tangled about her wrists, anchoring them above her head. His eyes roved over every inch of her bare skin as she lay trapped in his web of desire. She moaned low in her throat, a faint, raw sound when he kissed the rapid pulse at her slim wrists and inside her elbows. Ian’s hands trembled with need as they caressed her satiny skin from her shoulders to her firm thighs. Natasha rained kisses on his face and neck when his hands closed over her round buttocks and pulled her close. Palming their supple firmness, he pressed his swollen erection against the silken cradle of her womb.
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