by Anna Durand
I came like a bomb detonating, my strangled cries muffled by his mouth. Every spasm in my sex made me feel his thrusts even more, feel the thick length of him penetrating deep into my body. I threw my head back, tearing my lips away from his, the breath trapped in my lungs.
He plowed into me with even more strength and held stone-still, his cock buried inside me. His chin fell to my shoulder, and with his mouth grazing my skin, he let out a long, guttural groan of intense pleasure. We were both breathing hard. The weight of him crushed me to the door.
My companion stepped back and zipped his pants. He tossed the used condom into a nearby trash can I hadn't noticed before, blinded by a carnal need too powerful to deny.
I stood there paralyzed, shocked by what I'd done even as a new excitement tingled to life inside me at the thought of spending all night with this man.
He tugged my dress down and pressed a hand to his cheek, his gaze aimed at the ground.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
My companion raised his head, his expression blank. His brows crinkled, and he stretched out a hand to touch his fingertips to my cheek.
I opened my mouth to speak.
He grabbed my hand and towed me back down the alley to the street. We collided with a group of laughing girls who shouted French curses at us. I assumed the words were curses based on the gestures and expressions that accompanied the phrases, though I had no idea what anyone had said.
My companion halted at the curb, released my hand, and flung out an arm to hail a taxi.
Somehow, my purse had stayed on my shoulder throughout this…experience. I gripped the purse's strap. My heart pounded, adrenaline burned in my veins, and I still couldn't summon a coherent thought.
The stranger yanked open the door of the taxi that had pulled up to the curb in front of us. He waved for me to get inside.
Dazed, I climbed into the vehicle.
He slammed the door shut.
I stared at him through the window.
The stranger stared right back at me, rubbing his jaw. He whirled away and stalked off down the sidewalk, swiftly vanishing into the Parisian night.
The taxi driver rattled off something in French. Deciding he wanted to know where to take me, I mumbled the name of my hotel. As the streets of Paris whizzed by in a blur, I reached a solitary conclusion. What I'd done in Paris would stay in Paris. No one would ever know, not even Serena.
The next day, I went to the Approach the Future conference only to learn the mysterious Evan MacTaggart had canceled his speech. Another CEO took his place. I attended every workshop and round-table discussion, scribbling notes for the report I would write for Vic. All the while my thoughts kept rewinding to my first night in Paris and an even more mysterious man who had tempted me to be wild and reckless.
Chapter Two
Evan
Ten months later
I leaned against the tall windows in my office, one foot braced on the sill, surveying the view beyond the glass. This building, my building, stood high above the tops of the shorter structures clustered around it. In the distance, the dark ribbon of the River Ness snaked through the city, out into Loch Ness, and further out to the rest of the Highlands. My roots lay out there in the village of Ballachulish, surrounded by mountains and lochs and fields of heather. I'd grown up in the countryside on the outskirts of the village, but I hadn't gone back there in a very long time. I visited my cousin Iain, who lived near the neighboring town of Loch Fairbairn, but I stayed away from Ballachulish.
Too many memories there.
With one finger, I pushed up my glasses. Other memories had distracted me this morning. For ten months, I'd had frequent flashbacks to a sultry night in Paris and the sensual woman who had captivated me. The woman I'd fucked in an alley. The woman I'd abandoned without any explanation. I hadn't bothered to learn her name, but I remembered every exquisite detail of our brief time together. That body. Those green eyes. The dark hair that had brushed my skin, silky and soft.
The intercom on my desk buzzed.
I turned away from the windows and approached my desk. It was, I admitted, too bloody enormous. The mahogany monstrosity hulked in the center of the room, three meters wide and one meter deep, like a mountain barricading me from whoever sat in either of the two chairs opposite the desk. Why had I bought such a boulder of a desk? It had seemed appropriate at the time.
Stopping at the desk's edge, I hit the intercom button. "What is it, Tamsen?"
"Miss O'Shea is here. Should I send her in?"
A business meeting. I used to love those, but ever since Paris, I'd been less and less interested in growing my company. Keely O'Shea had flown all the way from America to meet with me, so I had to see her. I hoped the lass hadn't been confused by my executive assistant and her English accent. Miss O'Shea might wonder if she'd stumbled across the border by mistake.
With a sigh, I pressed the intercom button again. "Send her in. Thank you, Tamsen."
I dropped into the leather chair behind my desk, the oversize one that matched the desk in scale but made me feel like a bairn. I straightened my jacket and tie, rolling my chair up to the desk so I could settle my arms on it. Playing the part, I was. The billionaire CEO of an international corporation ought to appear professional at all times.
Bod an Donais. I was fair sick of being professional.
My mother would've smacked my erse for mentioning the devil's penis, or anyone's penis, even in Gaelic. Mother. Just thinking the word made my jaw tense. Why did I curse my life, anyway? I'd never known how to do anything except work. Nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The door swung inward, and a woman walked into my office.
Not just any woman. All the blood drained out of my body. That's how it felt at least. While I gaped at the woman, the office door clicked shut.
She saw me and froze, her striking green eyes flaring wide.
I should have stood up, to be polite and professional, but I couldn't move. We contemplated each other in silence for a moment that grew more and more awkward with every passing second. I couldn't look away. Was I hallucinating? No, I would've imagined her in that green dress, not in businesswoman clothes. Even without my glasses, I'd gotten a clear, up-close view of her face on that night.
She held a leather binder in one hand, and a purse hung from the other shoulder. Her raven hair was pulled back in a crisp bun. She wore a beige skirt suit and modest heels of the same color, but the skirt fitted to her body in a way that accentuated every curve. Her white blouse dipped low but not too low, making her ensemble an enticing combination of sexy and professional.
And those legs. I flashed back to the alley in Paris and her leg wrapped around my hip while I drove into her.
Clearing my throat, I swerved my gaze away from her and waved toward the chairs. "Have a seat, Miss O'Shea."
I resisted the urge to clean my glasses and comb my hair. My glasses were clean, and my hair was too short to need much combing. Why did I feel the urge? It was nonsense.
Miss O'Shea fiddled with her purse strap, biting her lip, then squared her shoulders and shuffled to one of the chairs. As she settled her shapely erse onto the seat, she set her purse on the floor and clasped her hands over the top edge of the binder that rested on her lap. "I take it you're Mr. MacTaggart."
Her voice was calm and level.
I tried to exude a similar calm. It should've been easy. Studied composure was my specialty, until the moment she'd walked into my office.
"Yes," I said. "And you are Keely O'Shea, vice president of Vic's Electronics Superstore LLC."
Why in the name of heaven was I reciting her title?
"Vice president?" she said with the barest hint of a laugh. "I guess Vic must've told you that. Probably thought it was more impressive than assistant manager, but that's my real title."
"Nothing wrong with being an assistant manager. Mr. Bazzoli trusts you enough to let yo
u negotiate a distribution deal with me, so you clearly deserve to be called vice president."
"Do you call everyone by their last name? Vic tells everyone to call him Vic. Besides, you've been talking to him on the phone for two weeks. Getting pretty chummy by the sound of it."
Vic Bazzoli was gregarious and exceptionally cheerful. During our conversations, I might have given in a wee bit and let him call me Evan. Sometimes it was more expedient to make a concession, especially when I liked the other person.
"Formality," I said, "is a show of respect. I ask for the same courtesy in return."
"Yes, your executive assistant told me I should always call you Mr. MacTaggart." Keely crossed one leg over the other, making her skirt slide up enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her thigh. "But we're negotiating a deal with your company, not you personally."
"There is no difference. I am the company." The statement sounded arrogant even to me but seeing her again had done something to me. I could not hold my tongue no matter how hard I bit down on it. "It's called Evanescent Security Technologies Limited. Evan-escent."
She regarded me blankly for one point five seconds, as gauged by my watch, before she leaned back and shook her head. Her mouth crimped as if she fought off a smile. "Oh, I get it. You are the company because you named it after yourself in a kind of clever way."
Kind of clever? I wanted her to see me as more than slightly intelligent. I wanted her to be as captivated by me as I was by her.
We both fell silent, watching each other like we each needed to size up the opposing side.
The woman I'd dreamed of for ten months tapped her nails on her leather binder. "Are we going to pretend we haven't met before?"
"No, I could never forget you." I linked my hands on the desktop. "At least I know your name now. Keely O'Shea. A name as bonnie as the lass who bears it."
"Evan MacTaggart doesn't suit you." She bobbed her foot, the heel of her shoe popping free. "You should be called Don Juan."
"Afraid that one's taken by my cousin Aidan. He used to be known as Don Juan MacTaggart." I dragged my focus away from her leg and all that creamy skin, forcing myself to meet her steady gaze. "Maybe we should discuss what happened in Paris."
"What's there to discuss? You screwed me in an alley, shoved me into a taxi, and took off."
"I didn't take off. I walked away…rather swiftly."
"Bolted is more accurate."
Her foot kept bobbing. Her lovely ankle stretched with each downward swing.
I wanted to fall to my knees at her feet and lick my way up her ankle, up her entire leg, until I reached that sweet spot between her thighs. I remembered with vivid detail how it felt to thrust my cock inside her and make her come, but I had no idea what she looked like without clothes. My mind conjured an image of me stripping her naked and laying her across this desk so I could bury my face between her legs.
Her curt voice snapped me back to reality.
"Just to be clear, I do not have sex with strangers. Not ever." She wriggled in her seat even while maintaining a cool expression. "Except for that one time with you. Maybe we shouldn't talk about this after all."
"Please let me apologize."
She straightened, her hands clasped primly on her lap. "Go on, if you must."
"I am sorry for the way I behaved, more than you can imagine. Every day since, I've regretted it and wished I could see you again to tell you that."
"You've told me. Thank you." She dropped her foot to the floor. "Let's keep to business and move on."
Business? I'd focused on nothing else for six years. Longer, actually. All my life, I'd focused on goals and accomplishments in school and in business. Here with her, just like in Paris, I could think of nothing except having her. Ten months ago, I'd wanted to make love to her. Today, I wanted more than sex.
"Have dinner with me," I said.
She stopped blinking for two point eight seconds. Her lids fluttered, and she smoothed her fingers over the leather cover of her binder as she recovered her professional demeanor. "Thank you for the offer, but I don't date anymore."
Of course she didn't. I'd never wanted a relationship with a woman until today, so naturally, the only woman I wanted to date would have none of it.
I pulled in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and leaned back in my chair. "Why don't you date?"
Keely resumed bobbing her foot. "I'm here on business, Mr. MacTaggart. My personal life is irrelevant."
Mhac na galla. I suppressed a groan. Son of a bitch was right. I had a long road ahead of me to earn her trust and get her in my bed—and in my life. If I had learned one lesson, it was to never give up on what I wanted.
"You'll need to eat at some point," I said. "Why not do it with me?"
"Business, Mr. MacTaggart. Please."
Her schoolteacher tone made my balls ache. I'd never let a woman boss me around, but I would've let her do anything she wanted. The fact she managed to be polite while commanding me to stop pestering her for a date impressed me.
And turned me on.
Keely retrieved a pair of reading glasses from her purse and put them on so they perched near the end of her perfectly shaped nose. The rims of her glasses were a golden shade of tortoiseshell. She opened her binder and plucked out a sheet of paper. "You asked Mr. Bazzoli to present you with a sample contract to start off the negotiations."
"I thought he preferred to be called Vic."
Her eyes sparkled with a humor she seemed to be trying very hard to repress. "I'm in your office, speaking to you, and Mr. MacTaggart prefers formality."
I grinned like a bloody eejit. "You are wonderful."
The spot above the bridge of her nose wrinkled in the most endearing way. "Because I'm following your rules? Tamsen was very specific about how I should behave in your presence. I'm simply showing the deference you require."
Deference? I shifted in my seat, unable to get comfortable when I felt on the verge of developing a raging erection. No one had ever reminded me of my own rules. Certainly not in that calm, patient schoolteacher tone she kept using. My fantasy about spreading her over this desk naked began to change. Now, I was the one naked and sprawled over the solid-wood surface while she slapped a ruler on her palm and recited my rules.
While calling me Mr. MacTaggart.
Keely arched her delicate brows. "Are you all right, Mr. MacTaggart?"
Christ, she'd called me that again. And it made my cock twitch.
I coughed into my fist. "Call me Evan, please."
"Tamsen said—"
"Never mind that. I'm making an exception for you."
"Okay," she said carefully, eying me with a hint of suspicion. "Could we talk about the contract please, Evan?"
That was worse. My name, spoken in her sexy voice, sounded erotic.
I grinned like an eejit again.
That spot above her nose wrinkled again.
Keely O'Shea turned me into a stark-raving bampot, in Paris and here in my office. If I didn't calm down and start acting like myself, like the businessman she'd expected to meet today, Keely would run from me this time.
I punched the button hidden on the underside of my desk. A wall panel slid open ten feet to the left.
Keely jumped and twisted sideways to peek at what had been revealed. "You have a secret wet bar in your office?"
"I find a wee dram can grease the wheels during negotiations. Would you care for a drink?"
Bloody hell, I needed one.
She faced forward and straightened, reassuming her professional demeanor. "Thank you, but no. I don't drink before dinner, much less before noon."
It was still morning. The back of nine, by my watch. And I'd offered the woman a drink. She must've thought I was a drunk as well as a lunatic.
"You're right," I said. "I'm sorry. That was an inappropriate suggestion. I don't normally drink at nine a.m. either."
She waved the paper she still held
in her hand. "The contract—"
"Let me give you a tour of my headquarters first."
"That's not necessary."
I sprang up from my chair and marched around the massive desk.
Keely's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. "You're wearing a kilt?"
"Aye, of course. It's Monday."
Her mouth fell open, but she clapped it shut swiftly. "Are you saying you wear a kilt to work every Monday?"
"Yes."
Her gaze lowered to my legs. Her tongue slid out to wet her bottom lip.
I approached and offered her my hand. "Come, lass. Let me show you my kingdom."
She swung her attention up to my face. "I'm too old to be called a lass."
"No woman is ever too old for that."
"I'm forty-one, which makes me definitely past the 'lass' age." Her gaze flicked down to my kilt again. "How old are you?"
"Thirty."
Her mouth opened again, but she seemed incapable of speech. "Oh."
Why was she shocked by my age? Women could be strange about numbers, whether they referred to age or bank account balances.
I thrust my hand toward her. "Come."
That was exactly what I wanted her to do, but not at this specific moment. I needed to regain my equilibrium. Nothing calmed me faster than focusing on work. Taking Keely on a tour of my headquarters would give me time to recover from the shock of seeing her again. What were the odds the woman I'd shagged in Paris, whose name I had never known, would walk into my office ten months later? Maybe my cousin Iain was right, and fate did exist.
Bullshit.
Then again, I was standing in my office with the woman I'd dreamed about for nearly a year.
Keely grabbed her purse and took off her glasses, dropping them into the bag. Rising, she hooked the purse over her shoulder and slipped her hand into mine. "After the tour, we discuss the distribution contract. Vic will be very upset if I don't come home with a signed deal for us to sell your spy gadgets in our store."