Kate wanted to come in first for once. She wanted to matter.
She wanted to win.
This time, when she resumed her place on the couch, she was careful to sink lower into the cushions, not stopping until her thigh was inches from Julian’s. Her dress even had the good fortune to creep up until her whole thigh was exposed, and she just let it, her skin flashing brazenly in the warm space between them.
“Thanks.” Julian took the beer but didn’t drink it. He fiddled with the label until Kate was settled, without so much as a second glance at her leg. “Will you let me apologize now?”
“No, I won’t.” Kate ran her fingers through her hair and gave her head a toss. She flashed him a smile and licked her lips invitingly. “I’m inclined to stay mad at you right now.”
“You are?” He shifted away from her—not enough to increase the distance between them, but enough so Kate’s confidence wavered.
“Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned,” she pointed out, her eyebrow arched. At least, she thought it was arched. How did Jada manage to make it look so easy?
“I don’t understand. Have you been scorned?”
Kate sat up straight and furrowed her brow. Sure, she was a little out of practice, but she’d never had such a hard time seducing anyone before. All a woman had to do was show up—wasn’t that Sexual Chemistry 101?
“Well, yes, last night at the bar. There were words. Inappropriate ones. I was definitely scorned.”
“I know you were. That’s why I’m apologizing.”
Kate caught a quiver of a smile at the corner of his mouth, a chip in that cool façade. “But I’m not accepting it.” She waggled a finger at him. “Therefore, I remain scorned.”
He reached forward and grabbed her finger, setting his beer on the table in one smooth move. His hand was rough, the texture of hard work and honesty. “And what am I supposed to do about that?”
She widened her eyes and gulped—a reaction that wasn’t completely faked. His hand moved up hers, little prickles of sensation following everywhere he touched. It suddenly seemed very difficult to determine who was seducing whom.
“Nothing,” she whispered as his hand reached her arm. His fingers grazed lightly over her forearm, the little hairs standing up in anticipation of his arrival. She licked her lips. “But I might be persuaded to let you make it up to me.”
He traced the path of her tongue on her lips with the warm pad of his thumb, his hand cupping her neck and pulling her closer. This time when he shifted, it was in her direction, so close she could have moved a tiny bit and found herself entirely ensconced in his lap.
“I think that sounds like a great idea.” His words came out in a warm tumble of breath and heat. His lips hovered above her own, so close, so inviting—
The phone rang, a shrill break that cleared Kate’s head at once. She sat back with a jolt. That wasn’t the sound of her cell phone—it was her land line. A number used only by telemarketers, her mother and Jada. Telemarketers never called on Sunday, and her mother never called after cocktail hour. Jada, on the other hand, would keep trying until Kate finally picked up the phone. It was a rule they had to prevent the untimely consumption of Kate’s potentially dead body by a starving Gretna.
“I have to get that,” Kate apologized.
Julian flashed a smile—one she was rapidly becoming to associate with him. Small and private. Almost too quick to catch. Meant only for her.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep.”
Her phone, a vintage 1920s contraption that brought to mind the telephone Mrs. Martin always used to call the police when Timmy had, once again, fallen down the well, was tucked in a cozy alcove off the kitchen. A door and a seat turned it into a private phone booth designed for her.
“Your decades are ridiculously out of order,” Jada had protested when the instrument first arrived. “If you really want to be historically accurate, you shouldn’t have a phone at all. Or penicillin. Or tampons.”
“Jada, you’re missing the entire point of my aesthetic,” Kate had protested. “It’s not the details of history. It’s the idea, the impression.”
She’d snorted in reply. “You need help, Kate.”
But the privacy of the booth came in handy, especially in moments like these.
Kate slid onto the brocade cushion and picked up the receiver, a black porcelain mouthpiece she had to hold right up to her lips. “Jada, we have a situation.”
“I know. I left my purse there this morning.”
“Not that,” she hissed, cupping the receiver with her hand. “He’s here. Now.”
“Damn, that was fast. How’s it going? Is he eating out of the palm of your hand? Ready to slay dragons and bestow on you the rights to all his royal lands? No—don’t tell me! He’s getting ready to plunder your booty!”
“Those are pirates, not Scotsmen. Besides, it’s all gone backwards.”
“He’s not falling for it? You must be doing something wrong. Are you wearing the dress?”
Kate kicked at the wall in impatience. “No, Jada. Stop! Listen. He’s somehow turned everything around—I think he’s seducing me.”
Jada let out a low whistle. “Clever. Damn clever. I didn’t see that coming—he’s better at this than we thought. Okay, you definitely need to get in control of the situation. Option A, you hang up the phone right now, rip off your clothes, saunter in there and tell him where he can lick it.”
“Ja-da!” Kate muffled her laugh.
“No? Okay, Option B, you say to hell with all this park stuff and go enjoy that big hunk of man love.”
“That’s it? That’s your sage advice? Jada, it was your idea for me to seduce Julian and get him to back off the land in the first place.”
She heard the shatter of a full beer bottle hitting the floor. The sliding door to the alcove was ajar, and it moved easily underneath her palm as she jumped out to find Julian standing in the middle of the kitchen, a puddle of amber liquid pooling at his feet.
This was not part of the plan. He didn’t look at all like a man about to give in to her feminine demands. He looked…furious.
“Julian… I…” She didn’t know how to continue, so she walked forward with her hand outstretched, hoping that small bit of human connection might give her the words. “It’s not what you think.”
He backed away from her as if she might burn him with her touch, and the look he gave her was one she would never forget. Like she’d risen from the dead—or from an underworld that was much, much worse in its eternal consequences.
“This is a game to you? This whole time—all of it? You’re playing a game?”
“No, it’s not a game. It’s Jada, she…” The words sounded lame even to her own ears.
“Oh, I see. It’s one of those many tricks your friend makes you do. How flattering.”
Kate felt as though she’d been slapped. Her face burned and her ears rang. “It’s not what you think,” she repeated.
Julian kicked at the broken shards of glass. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. You tried to get your way, but it didn’t work. That’s all there is to it. I’m glad I know what you are now, before things went any further. Thanks for the beer and the good time, but I’m out of here.”
He stopped when he caught a glimpse of a stack of papers on the kitchen island. They were the invitation mockups for the Fauxhall Gardens. She and Jada had been looking them over earlier—years ago, it suddenly seemed. Julian picked one up and waved it around.
“This party of yours isn’t going to happen, so you might as well give up now.”
“Give that back.” Kate jumped forward to grab it out of his hand, but she slipped in the pool of beer and went careening right into the kitchen island. She was about to fall into the shards of glass when one of Julian’s warm arms wrapped around her waist.
She could hear a string of muttered curses as he placed her gently down on the ground, a safe distance from the kitchen island. But he didn’t look at her once, and his h
ands didn’t linger for a second longer than they had to.
Without another word, Julian shoved the crumpled invitation in his pocket and stalked out the door, leaving Kate sitting on the floor next to a spreading puddle of lukewarm beer and feeling sorrier for herself than she had in a long, long time.
Chapter Five
A Scottish Rogue
Julian pulled into the parking lot of the tiny tailor shop and pounded on his brakes, gravel crunching under the weight of his Ford F-250. He was about to leap out of the cab and slam the door to complete the effect, but he saw his mom’s car parked a few spots down.
Relaxation settled over him, and he found his legs were perfectly capable of functioning in calm, walking mode. In the whirlwind of activity over the last few days, he’d forgotten she mentioned meeting him here this morning.
“Julian!” she called as he pulled open the door, the tinkling of bells heralding his arrival in the small, twenty-by-twenty space that was the only location in the entire city capable of properly sewing and fitting formal Highland dress.
“Hey, Mom.”
She jumped up from her chair and gave him a hug, her arms not quite able to circle all the way around him. It was good to see her. So far, he’d been spending most of his time at the sparse apartment he kept for his stays in town. He’d been meaning to visit his mom’s house, but fate, in the shape of Kate Simmons, had intervened.
That was the one thing he’d been trying to avoid. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by Kate in the first place, and now it seemed his mom had been the one to pay the toll—a fact that was reinforced by the tears gathered in the wrinkled corners of her eyes. Julian suddenly felt all the guilt of the world come crashing onto his shoulders, an Atlas playing catch with the gods. He should come home more. Send money more. Do more. Be more.
“You look well,” his mother gushed, clearly thinking none of those things. “But you always do. So much man in there.” She pointed at his chest and beamed.
She was a short woman—half Japanese, half Chamorro, almost as wide as she was tall—but that didn’t stop her from the ceaseless activity that had characterized her for as long as Julian could remember. As a young kid, it had been twelve-hour nursing night shifts that kept her moving. When he was older, his mother’s marriage to his stepfather, Harold, had allowed her to cut back her work hours, but she’d thrown herself into raising his sisters instead. Julian didn’t think he’d ever seen her sit still for longer than a few minutes at a time.
“Mom, I think you should go on a vacation,” he said suddenly, motioning for her to take a seat before settling next to her. It sounded like Irina, the tailor, was busy in the back room with another client. This time of year was always busy for her.
“A vacation? Isn’t that what this is? Seeing you?”
Julian’s stomach fell heavily, guilt creeping along the edges. “I meant something fun. Just for you. Like that boat we talked about before.” He’d been on her to go on one of those old-lady cruises for years. She could play bridge and flirt with old men carrying crates of Viagra onboard—Lord knew she deserved it, having a son like him to look after.
“Oh no, Julian. Not me.”
“It’s not like I’m asking you for thousands of dollars to fund a band or something, Mom. Or telling you I’m giving up the Games and taking monastic vows. All I want is for you to do something for yourself for once.”
She offered an ambiguous smile. “And what about your sisters? Or the house? You’re a sweet boy to say so, but I’m doing fine. Now, if only you’d transfer some of that concern to a nice girl—”
Julian held up one of his hands. “Fair enough. Subject dropped.”
The last thing he wanted to start discussing this morning was women. Women who caused him to lose sleep and precious practice time. Women with deep-seated impulses to lie and manipulate.
He got up and started pacing the waiting room, scanning the different plaids on the walls. Irina kept a swatch of every tartan she’d ever worked with, overlapping them until the entire space was almost completely wallpapered in them. Yellow, blue, green and red stripes of all colors filled the walls, a patchwork of history and tradition.
He fingered a deep red plaid crossed with a slate blue, the Wallace family tartan, the woven wool heavy and comforting. A man couldn’t wear the rough plaid and not be aware of every single movement, the weight of history wrapping around his waist and forcing his chest to swell with pride.
There was nothing like a kilt to set men to rights and women aflame.
It was the unofficial family motto, one that Julian had learned from his stepfather long before most boys knew what it meant to ignite a woman’s passions. It was one of the many things he’d loved about his mother’s husband. Bright, bold and sprouting hair from almost every inch of skin, Harold had been exactly what a shy, awkward, fatherless boy of ten had needed.
Harold had given Julian his first kilt that year, when he was still so young and far from convinced that there was anything about the colorful plaid that didn’t signal “kick me in the ribs until my internal organs bleed”. The fabric had hung down to Julian’s painfully knobby knees, the white shirt billowing around him and making him look like an elf in giant’s clothes.
“They’ll murder me,” Julian had whispered then, standing next to Harold, who was also in full dress and beaming with the pride of it all. Whereas Harold had looked as though he’d stepped right out of the Highlands, the big, hairy sporran hinting at the male prowess hidden underneath, Julian looked ridiculous. He was a little island boy who’d never seen the ocean, the result of an island girl’s one-night stand with a tall, handsome navy officer. His heritage was written in the planes of his face and the color of his skin, and until then he’d never been able to feel a physical connection to the warrior culture that had bred him.
Harold breathed might and power and confidence. With a tweak of Julian’s ears, which stuck out painfully far from his recent buzz-cut, his stepfather gave him the oldest and most paternal advice known to humankind.
“Man up and own it.” With a wink and a laugh, Harold had added, “Stand with your legs at least a hip’s width apart and keep that chin held high. Women will fall in your wake. I guarantee it.”
And they had.
That weekend, Julian’s first ever visit to the Scottish Highland Games, every single girl over the age of sixteen had fallen immediately to her knees, squeezing him with affection and declarations of “adorable!” All those breasts pressed against him were soft, pliable and warm—and they had changed him. It was one of those pivotal moments of boyhood when he realized there was much more to the world than backyard forts and bicycle races. There were boobs. And they were wonderful.
There was more too. Women dancing the fierce, practiced steps of the Highland Laddie became a line of bouncing parts. Hair, skirts, breasts. The men with veins outlined on their forearms and necks were fierce barbarians one moment, demonstrating superhuman might on the playing field, only to be transformed into regal idols fit for feminine adoration the next. Over the next few years, Julian came to learn the whole thing was one big, pulsating orgy waiting to happen.
The key to becoming a part of it was the kilt.
And when that kilt was paired with a unique coloring that added a hint of mystery and individuality, it only greased his entrance into this enticing, feral world.
He’d stolen his first kiss at a Scottish Highland festival. It had been a hasty, wet affair he’d known needed a little work. When he’d confessed the entire escapade, Harold patted him on the back and promised many more untold delights in the magical mystery that was woman.
God, he missed that man. He’d been gone six years, and Julian still didn’t know who was suffering the most—his mother, his two sisters or the little boy who occasionally peeked out from underneath his own rough exterior.
“If it isn’t my two favorite Scots,” the tailor called out, interrupting his reverie as she emerged from behind the dark curtain sep
arating the storefront from her workspace. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Irina was tall, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, thin wire glasses seemingly stapled to a face that was composed almost entirely of angles. She was the kind of woman one would have expected to turn out impeccable suits that cost more than most people’s cars. She should have known nothing about kilts and everything about European design—but she could work a man in a skirt like no one else.
The client Irina had been attending emerged out from the curtain behind her. There was a slight swagger to his steps, and he carried an almost palpable aura of antagonism.
Julian stopped. He recognized that antagonism. He’d known Duke Kilroy as long as he’d known Peterson and Michael. They’d been something of a brat pack back then, four young men learning the ways of the Highlands—only Kilroy had failed to learn the most valuable lesson of all. Honor.
Julian forced the smile on his face to freeze there for as long as he could possibly hold it. “Kilroy,” he said, nodding.
Duke Kilroy’s own face was held in a mask of barely concealed hostility. “Wallace. What a pleasant surprise.”
Julian tensed. There was nothing pleasant about being caught in a confined space with that man.
“And Mrs. Wallace,” Kilroy called. He grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips and offering her a dazzling smile Julian knew worked well on women of all ages. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since last year’s Games. My mother had hoped to see you at her Christmas party this year. You couldn’t make it?”
His mother smiled politely but didn’t respond. Julian had to bite his tongue to accomplish the same level of outward calm.
All of them knew his mother hadn’t received an invitation to Kilroy Hall for this Christmas or any other holiday event. Duke and his family had made it patently clear over the years the Wallace family wasn’t quite up to their caliber—not even fit to wash the precious marble steps leading up to their twenty-acre estate.
Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 Page 7