Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots (5 page)

Jen gave the door another tentative knock.

Silence.

Though she dreaded the confrontation, now, when it appeared there’d be none, her heart sank. Her stupid, stupid addiction to him.

Wanting to ignore that, she pried the door open and peeked inside. The library’s fire wasn’t roaring as it usually was. The antique light hanging above the desk wasn’t lit. No big man paced by the windows.

Her heart sank further, making her angry at herself.

Easing herself into the room, she pushed the door shut behind her with a soft snap.

“Instead of thinking of him,” she said to the empty room. “Think about searching this place for the ring.”

She’d never been alone in here, not since the first day when Mrs. Rivers had surprised her. Her speculation that the ring could well be in this room rushed back. He had all his mementoes here. She’d spotted every one of his thrillers lined up on one shelf. Why wouldn’t it be reasonable that the ring was in some drawer or on some shelf in his lair?

Jen glanced at the grandfather clock.

Nope, she wasn’t late. He was. And that gave her an opportunity. Perhaps only a small one, but one she needed to take. Her grandfather was running out of time.

Walking to the desk, she began her search there. At first, she only found mounds of his usual papers, with his familiar chicken scratch she could barely read. It seemed he wrote down every stray thought about his story before he began to tell it in his luxuriant voice.

All four drawers on the one side were filled with only papers.

She yanked the front drawer out to find an assortment of pens lined up in rigid military order on a velvet mat. Odd pens.

Pens made of wood with fine steel points.

Pens made of dark leather and pens with gold lacquered surfaces.

Pens that no one would find in a regular office.

She picked up the one she’d used to sign the contract. The wooden barrel shape of the body ran down into a black and silver end. The clip looked like actual ebony. It suddenly struck her; this collection resembled some of the other collections she’d found in her hunt. Extensive, well organized, unique.

Could her employer seriously be collecting weeds and shells as well as these unique pens?

As if the thought of him conjured him into reality, the door blew open.

Jen jumped in her chair and dropped the pen.

“Sorry.” His voice was brisk. “I’m late.”

“Yes, yes you are.” She tried to ease the drawer closed, but his predator gaze had already spotted the transgression.

Except he didn’t think it was.

His golden-brown eyes lit with excitement. “You’ve found my pens.”

“Um.” She glanced down at them because the burst of pleasure in his expression took her breath. “Yes.”

“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” He paced to her side and leaned in. “I’ve collected them from all over the world.”

“Um, yes. They are brilliant.”

“I like this one the best.” He plucked up the barreled wooden one, the one she’d signed her contract with. “It comes from an old Scottish clipper ship. The last of its kind.”

The enthusiasm in his voice shocked her. She’d heard intensity in his voice as he told his story. She’d heard the mocking tease of his voice. But she’d never heard this childlike eagerness.

A sudden knot in her throat made it hard to breathe.

“Look.” His hand, with its dusting of dark-blond hair on his wrist and the well-cut nails, filled her vision. “See the lines of the wood and the detail.”

The only thing she could do was nod. No words could move beyond the knot.

One of his fingers danced along her jaw and pushed her chin up until she had to meet his gaze. “Are ye all right?”

“I’m fine.” She shouldn’t be choked up about this man. Not in any way.

“You’re sure?” His tawny frown, so familiar now, in such a short time, tugged the knot from her throat straight down to her heart.

“I’m sure.” Pulling away from the dancing finger, she sank into the chair. “It’s time to get to work, isn’t it?”

A quizzical look flashed across his face before he stepped back. “Are ye becoming my slave master, then?”

She was fast becoming his slave, though he didn’t know it, and never would. She needed to find that damn ring and leave. She had to take from this man and if she gave any part of herself to him, the taking would be impossibly hard to live with. With a snap, she pushed the drawer closed and placed her hands on the keyboard. “I’m ready when you are.”

He laughed, a low, feral sound. “A challenging turn of phrase. And I always like a challenge.”

Jen thought she knew what he was inferring, but didn’t look at him because she didn’t want to give him any fuel for that particular fire.

Silence descended.

He didn’t move.

She didn’t either.

“Before we begin the story again.” His voice was still low, still feline. “We need to sort a few things.”

Her fingers curled into fists on the keyboard.

“Ye remember.” He moved farther away, to stand in the window bay. “My bedroom.”

A flush of mortification heated inside. Not only because he’d caught her there, but because he’d seen something no one had seen for years. One of her attacks.

“Where do ye want to begin, Ms. Douglas?” His voice, the magic instrument that seduced her more than his body or his arms or his gaze, turned from enigmatic to harsh.

Jen snatched her hands off the keyboard.

“Shall we start with your panic attacks?”

His choice, when she’d been expecting another inquisition about her trespassing, startled her enough she jerked her head to stare at him.

“Yes,” he murmured, those odd eyes of his gleaming with interest. “Let’s start with that.”

“There’s nothing to say.” She returned her focus to the computer.

“How often do ye have them?”

If she had a pound for every time she’d had to answer these questions, she’d be as rich as the Queen of England. The attacks had started from the moment she’d lost her parents and even though she knew how to handle them now, they never ceased to scare her.

Because they reminded her. Every time.

She was alone.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Her lips firmed. “We need to start working.”

“The story will still be there in my head and heart when we’re done with this conversation.”

His determination fired a small glint of rebellion in her. Jen swung around in the chair and gave him a good glare. Or she thought it was one. She didn’t usually glare. “Is this some sort of sport for you? Do you think because I’m some plain, little nobody, I don’t have a right to my own privacy?”

“Plain, little nobody?” One brow arched. “Is that how ye see yourself?”

“No.” The rebellion flamed. Not only against him and his questions, but against all the people who’d taken her for granted and believed they knew what was best for her. “It’s how you see me.”

“Do I?” He leaned on the wall in his familiar, negligent way.

“Yes.” She stood, her body trembling because she didn’t do this. She didn’t fight or confront. She didn’t throw words at people or attempt to change their mind. Whenever she’d tried in the past, it caused another attack. So she’d learned not to do this. This fighting and yelling. “I’m leaving since we aren’t going to work.”

He prowled to the door and closed it before she could disappear. “No, you’re not.”

“I don’t want to be here.” No words could ever be truer. She didn’t want to be here to steal or have her heart stolen. “You can’t make me stay.”

“Hmm.” Purring his signature sound, he stationed himself at the door, arms crossed, a formidable barrier.

“Move.” She kept herself behind the desk, unwilling to place herself within his grasp.

“All right.” His gaze never left hers. “We’ll leave that particular subject alone for now, since you’re being obstinate.”

Obstinate. A word that had never been used about her before. She supposed she should be offended, yet something deep inside swelled with an odd pride. “Then I’ll stay. If we work.”

“Let’s instead talk about why ye were in my bedroom.”

His swift switch back to the topic she’d dreaded made her brain freeze.

His mouth curled at her silence. “Nothing to say once again. That’s interesting.”

“I was interested,” she blurted, grabbing onto his last words as inspiration.

“What?” His big body straightened, and the light of something she didn’t want to deal with flashed in his eyes. “What do ye mean by that?”

She couldn’t go backward. She couldn’t tell him she was snooping. The only way was forward. Sod it. Shrugging her shoulders, she pasted a bland look on her face. “I just was looking around.”

“In my bedroom.” His voice had gone silky, an implicit message rounding each word.

Jen’s heart trembled as the message wove around and around her. “I need to leave.”

“Ye do that a lot, don’t ye?” He didn’t move from his stance. “Leave when things get a bit rough.”

He had no idea what he was talking about. The opposite was true, so true it had almost ruined her life. Not until two years ago, when she had made her stand. Finally leaving behind a life fashioned for her far before she’d had the courage to say no. “Please move away from the door.”

He did, yet not in the direction she’d wanted him to go. Instead of pacing to the window bay, he prowled right toward her.

Her heart rose to her throat. What she saw in his eyes made her want to squeak and run. Rather than do those ignoble things, she started around the other side of the desk.

“No, ye don’t.” Chuckling, a soft, satisfied sound, he shot out his hand to snag her arm.

“Let me go.” Jen didn’t want to give him any more satisfaction, but it was hard not to wiggle.

He used this to his advantage, pulling her into his grasp in one short jerk. “I don’t think so. At least, not for now.”

The wool of his jumper—another of his inevitable black jumpers—scratched her hands as she pushed on his chest. “This is unacceptable.”

His chuckle turned into a laugh. The movement of his chest beneath her hands made her heart gallop. “I love it when ye get all English on me.”

The implied slur made her glance up into his face. “I’m English. What else would I be?”

“What else indeed.” His odd eyes gleamed with…interest. And something else, something that matched what ran in her blood against her will. “So you’re interested, eh?”

“I think you should let me go.”

“And I’m thinking I should be giving ye a wee kiss.”

H
e tasted wild
.

He tasted like heat and edge and restless need. Unlike her one other lover, Cam Steward didn’t take the time to nibble.

He dove right into her.

His hot mouth took. Took her mouth and her mind. Jen sagged in his arms, overwhelmed by the racing beat of his heart and hers, overcome by the raging, turbulent want he revealed in the sweep of his hands across her back and hips. Somehow, some way, she found her own hands twisting in his hair, urging him closer and deeper.

Into her.

He murmured encouragement as he slanted his mouth in another angle, his tongue flicking on her teeth and sliding farther in. The burn she’d concealed for so long roared to life, scorching all her hard-won patience and hard-learned lessons to ash.

“Hmm.” His teeth skimmed her jaw and bit lightly on her neck. “Ye are a lethal lass.”

Lethal
.

Everything froze inside. The desire, the burn, her heart. What was she doing?

Yanking herself from his arms, she skirted around the desk in a dash to safety. She forced herself to look at him.

His hands slowly dropped to his sides. His gaze never left her face. His mouth, his lethal mouth, finally quirked. “I guess we’re done with that for now.”

“Forever.” Sucking in a breath, she was shocked when it didn’t choke in her throat. “This isn’t something we should—”

“What ye mean is,” the quirk went to a full-blown grin, “it’s not professional.”

His smile kicked off one more of the many thumps she’d endured since meeting this man. But this thump hit dead center. Not in her heart and not in her gut. No, the hit slammed right into the pit of her soul.

This was bad. Very, very bad.

The kiss and his smile and the impossibility of leaving this place and him was bad enough. What was far worse was what he unleashed inside of her.

The burn.

“Nothing to say once more?” Folding his arms, he leaned on the desk, amusement lingering in his tone.

“That won’t happen again.” She knotted her hands in front of her.

A predatory gleam lit his odd eyes. “No?”

“No.” Her nails bit into her skin. “It can’t.”

“Can’t.” His head angled in a tilt of curiosity and she noticed how wild his hair was. Because of her. “That’s an intriguing word.”

“It’s a word I mean.” If she kissed him one more time, she’d lose the thread of control she had on herself and the heat inside. She couldn’t afford that. She’d learned. “Are we going to get to work or not?”

“It’s a word that says so much.” He continued, ignoring her taut demand. “Won’t is one thing. Can’t is quite another.”

“Mr. Steward.” Jen marched to the door, unimpeded, much to her relief. “I’m leaving.”

How she wished she could leave permanently. Right now.

“Ms. Douglas.” He slid over the last syllable, like a big cat hissing displeasure. “This conversation is far from done.”

Yanking the door open, she swung around, determined not to show him her fear and turmoil. “You hired me to transcribe and you aren’t dictating. So I’m leaving.”

“Actually, I am.”

For a moment, she didn’t understand. Then it hit. He was leaving. For somewhere. His meaning flooded through her, bringing a huge wash of relief. And also gloom. She knew, right in the center of her; not having him here would be dull and boring.

The realization blazed through her.

“What a fascinating reaction.” His gaze turned keen. “Your face is an open book.”

“Where are you going?” she blurted, embarrassment warring with her relief and regret.

Straightening from his negligent slouch, his smile fading, he dropped his hands to rustle through a mound of papers. “Edinburgh.”

He didn’t appear excited, which was a surprise. For such a restless man, she’d have thought he’d be glad to get into the middle of a vibrant city.

“I’m meeting my agent.” His paw messed with the papers some more. “Plus, some other things.”

Other women? The thought zipped into her head and she cringed when her heart twisted.

“You’ll have a bit of a break.” He glanced at her, his expression one of stoic indifference.

The disparity between this look and the one he’d had moments ago, when he’d been thinking about their kiss and teasing her about it, could not have been greater.

The contrast caught her breath.

He frowned, puzzlement crossing his face. “Are ye alright?”

Jen managed a nod.

“Are ye sure?” He took a step toward her before stopping when she took a step back. “You’re not having another attack, are ye?”

“No.” She focused on breathing in deeply.

“Are ye that upset by a damn kiss?” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he scowled. “Then, hell. I won’t go near ye anymore.”

Something wept inside, but her common sense came to her rescue. “I’d appreciate it.”

His gaze narrowed. “Ye liked the kissing. Let’s not pretend ye didn’t.”

She wasn’t a very good pretender about anything. If anyone in this room was, it would be the storyteller standing before her. Yet, this line was too important to step over. He’d drawn it, now she had to make sure it was enforced. “I don’t want you to kiss me again.”

The biggest lie she’d ever told, and according to Cameron Steward, she was a terrible liar. Still, he didn’t seem to pick up on the lie. His cheeks grew dark with a ruddy flush and he jerked around to pace to a window bay. “Fine. You’ll not have to worry about any advances on my part. Not that I’m that interested anyway.”

The jab went straight through her and yet there was something about him that made her heart hurt for him, not herself. He turned to stare at the loch. The way he held himself reminded her of the first night. The night when she’d seen him standing, so alone, so sad.

She wanted to reach out and touch him, say something that would draw him to her. Bring back the man who smiled and teased.

But she didn’t. Because she wasn’t a fool.

* * *

T
he spring wind
whistled through the budding orchard trees, giving a bracing slap to Jen’s cheeks. She leaned on her heels and surveyed the work she’d done these past three days.

Whoever had originally planted this garden, knew what they were doing.

She’d cleared the area around the trees, and then, using an ancient pruner, cut back the dead growth. What she’d found was a batch of apple trees mixed with several plum and pear stock. The unknown gardener had chosen well for the climate. The Grenadier apple, Invincible pear, and Belle de Louvain plums were perfect.

The four large flowerbeds were ready to be planted, and this afternoon, she planned on tackling the overgrown hedges lining the garden.

There was nothing else to do.

By the time her employer had leapt into his red Jaguar convertible and roared down the front drive, she’d figured out the key benefit of having him gone.

She could explore the entire house.

However, within the first day, she’d realized all over again—Cameron Steward was not stupid. The absent Mrs. Rivers now hovered whenever Jen stepped into any particular room downstairs. The woman always appeared at the foot of the staircase at the exact moment Jen thought about hiking to the second floor.

He didn’t trust her.

As well he shouldn’t.

The mix of anger and regret had kept her awake at night instead of any mournful crying. Trying to tire herself out so she wouldn’t thrash in bed for hours, she’d been outside most of the last three days working hard.

The garden looked better now than it had in years, she’d make a bet on that. She was no closer to finding the ring, though, than she’d been from the first moment she’d stepped onto this estate.

Cousin Edward had called again last night and scolded.

Sighing, she stood and arched her back. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t become used to the scolding. When she’d first arrived at Fellowes Hall, her grandfather’s vast estate in Kent, she’d been scolded on a regular basis. Chided about her manners. Reprimanded for always being outdoors. And more than anything, questioned about her attacks. By the time she’d been seven, having spent almost two years understanding the expectations, she’d learned.

To be quiet. To be obedient.

To never make a scene.

Sometimes she’d wondered why her cousin Lizzy was allowed to be wild and run down the hallways screaming with laughter. Occasionally, she thought about why it was okay for cousin James to shimmy down the grand staircase rails. But the one time she’d asked, the one time she’d made an attempt at a protest with her grandfather, she’d received her answer.

She was not going to be allowed to grow up like her mother.

That answer had settled inside her for almost two decades. Not until a few years ago had she begun to break free of the weight of it. And not until recently had the scolding and chiding and questioning returned.

“Why don’t you want to go to all the lovely London parties I attend
?
”
Lizzy had asked.

“Why didn’t you marry the bloke you dated at university
?
”
James had rebuked
.

“Why would you want to be a gardener
?
”
her grandfather had barked.

Picking up the timeworn shovel, Jen hiked to the shed. She’d take a quick break and have a bite, then tackle the hedges.

A flash of swirled blue caught her eye. Swinging around, she saw nothing.

Again.

“Sod you, whoever you are,” she muttered under her breath.

All through these last few days, the feeling of being watched had never left her. Yes, there’d been Mrs. Rivers, yet there’d been someone else, too. She was almost sure of it. The surveillance wasn’t only indoors. It was also outside.

And it wasn’t any damn ghost.

Wrenching the shed door open, she stomped inside and plunked the shovel down against the wall. She ripped the garden gloves off and slapped them on the wooden shelf hanging drunkenly along another wall. Her irritation roiled.

Who could it be?

If she had an internet connection here, she could do more research on Cameron Steward. Did he have another wife? Was there an old, cranky parent doddering about on the second floor?

Mr. Steward. You’re needed.

The crying had stopped.

Who was it?

Much to her disgust, there’d been no internet on her laptop. You’d think a man as rich as her temporary employer would find a way to get some bandwidth. Wouldn’t a writer need to do research? But, no. No connection meant no way of probing who actually lived in the family quarters, beyond her employer.

Marching out of the shed, she slammed the door closed and turned toward the house.

“Hi.” A young boy stood right in the middle of the path through the garden. “Why are ye angry?”

She jerked to a stop.

He wore a blue cape with some kind of gold lacing on the edges. It dropped well past his knees. On his head was a strange sort of a hat—a tartan tam had been pulled and molded into a sharp point like an old-fashioned tricorn. A burst of crimson plumes sprang from the top.

“Are ye angry at me?” Two familiar-looking eyes narrowed behind round rimless glasses. “Ye shouldn’t be. I’ve decided I like ye.”

“You’re the one who’s been spying on me.” She stuck her hands in her pockets, relieved she’d found the culprit, yet still irritated. “That’s not polite.”

“I wasn’t spying.” The kid swept one edge of his cape over his shoulder, as if he were some medieval courtier. “I was investigating.”

She couldn’t help the amusement swelling inside. “I suppose it depends on your position in the situation.”

“What?” His tawny brows frowned, bringing another zing of familiarity to her. “What do ye mean?”

“I mean, if you are the one being watched, you might say it’s spying.”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head in contemplation and curiosity.

The same signature noise her employer made and the same angle of the head. She knew. With a certainty. This was Cameron Steward’s kin. “What’s your name?”

“Robbie.” The information was cheerfully given, with a sudden, bright smile. “And you’re Jen.”

“Ms. Douglas to you.” Sparring with a kid shouldn’t be this fun, but he was smart.

“Naw.” The boy laughed as he danced down the pathway. “I don’t have to call ye that. Only my da does.”

Cameron Steward had a son. A smart, charming son.

Rather like his father.

She followed him down the path and into the house. “How old are you?”

“I’m seven,” he said, as he marched past the line of coats and into the wide hall beyond. “And I’m a pirate.”

“Are you?” Jen hung her wool coat on a peg before following the boy, a grin on her face.

“Yes.” Robbie stopped in the center of the hall and glanced back at her. “Do ye want to play pirates with me?”

“I was going to go up and have a bite to eat.”

Dejection flitted through his eyes.

“Would you like to come with?”

Her invitation wiped the loneliness from his expression to be replaced with eager delight. “I’m hungry, too.”

“Good.” She turned toward the staircase. For the first time after arriving in this monstrous house, she felt like she’d found a friend. “Come with me.”