KiltedForPleasure (6 page)

Callan met the older man’s gaze and chuckled. She knew she was missing some inside joke but what? Victoria pushed his arm away. “Let me show you.”

“Please do.”

And that’s when the trap became clear. He stood back so she could slip in front of him. Her pulse went thready with the solid wall of him at her back. He wouldn’t do anything X-rated with his uncle sitting by. Would he?

Victoria closed her hand over his. He pressed closer, bending down until his mouth brush the top of her earlobe. She bit down on her lip to keep from moaning.

“Like this?” He held the knife like he was about to gut someone.

She fixed his fingers and it was clear hers held a tremble. “You’re an ass. I know you know how to do this.”

“I do not.” He reached around her with his other arm so he could hold the onion in place.

She was wrapped in him in that moment, and if there was someone else in the room, she completely forgot. Victoria guided his hand. He took his time, making mistakes when she tried to pull away, keeping her captive in his embrace. It was hard to feel like a fool when his cock so perfectly aligned against her ass. It was a small miracle she could breathe without moaning. When he finished, she escaped without an ounce of grace in her movements.

Every inch of her vibrated from his touch, the scent of him—him. She cleared her throat. “You can do the rest of the carrots and I’ll finish seasoning the roast.”

He motioned to the cabinet with the knife. “You forgot to grab the can of stewed tomatoes.”

Her head was still scrambled from the embrace. “What?”

He lined up the carrots and chopped through them like a pro. Not just like a pro but a chef. She glanced at Douglass who sported a mile-wide grin. Callan said, “Or you could make a gravy to replace the tomatoes.”

Douglass tutted. “Don’t tease her so much.” He directed the last at her. “He went to Glasgow University. He started as a bus boy and worked his way up to a sous chef to pay for that expensive school all on his own.”

Victoria suddenly wished she had an apron to throw at the back of Callan’s head. “I see.” She tried to be pissed but could only laugh. “It was because I made you clean the bathroom, wasn’t it?”

The skin around Callan’s eyes crinkled when he grinned at her. “Aye.”

“Well, good. You can help me cook then.” She chuckled at his groan and considered them even. “And now that I think about it, maybe we can make some casseroles that the Baird can heat up when I’m not here.”

Douglass whistled, sounding pained. “Callan, you only have yourself to blame.”

Callan met her gaze. “Don’t worry, Uncle. I have the perfect revenge in mind.”

She ignored the thrill that filled her stomach. His scent filled her lungs again and reminded her how long it had been since she’d felt the touch of a man. Much too long if the sight of Callan effortlessly chopping all the vegetables made her body buzz. Had to be the flex of his forearms making her breathless.

I can’t sleep with him. I can’t let him touch me again. I will not lick or kiss anything attached to his person.

The mantras started to sound more like the very last desperate vows of a person who knew they were screwed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next day Victoria stood at her open cottage door and accepted that the universe had conspired against her. How could she fight the truth when she’d barely escaped another run-in with Callan at the castle that morning, and now, here he was.

He’d changed into a suit for some reason since she’d last seen him a little over eight hours ago. The crisp white shirt, the starched jacket and pants in charcoal gray deepened the blue of his eyes and the sharp cut of his shadowed jawline.

“Evening,” Callan greeted her. His voice sounded gruffer than usual.

A pang of worry pinched her stomach, but she ignored it. “Hey, Callan.”

His taut expression let her know trouble lurked beyond the horizon. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s rude, considering.” There was a touch of anger in his tone.

Dammit. It wasn’t the universe crapping on her. Callan being here was a hell of her own making. Ian must have already contacted him about the additional work.

Earlier that morning, she’d emailed her boss a list of potential antiques they could add to the original shipment. He’d called her back almost immediately, letting her know he wanted them and for Callan to get them ready. It was amazing how difficult it was to maintain a professional attitude with her boss when she knew he’d jumped bare-assed into the Loch Ness with Callan and Tristan.

And when she managed to push that nugget aside, she’d remember the story about the night Callan had graduated from high school. They’d all drunk themselves into a stupor and sat outside Douglass’ pub singing Robert Burns’ diddies about love and loss.

Something all three had known intimately even at a young age. Ian and Tristan’s mother had left them to start a new life and family. Callan’s had died. The same heartache if you only measured it by the ache of loss. Some things you shouldn’t know about your boss. Intimacy, in any form, bred familiarity. Boundaries disappeared and you ran the risk of being screwed over.

It all messed with her head and made her heart soften. She stared into Callan’s flushed face as he stood on her cottage’s doorstep, a manila folder fisted in his left hand. His nostrils flared as they held each other’s gaze. Maybe this was how he’d felt when he’d first seen her—a mixture of exasperation, anger and a visceral need to cuss. And defeat. It soured in her mouth like a lemon, because she was trapped.

Still, she had to swallow the foolish need to kiss him again and would choke the urge down if she had to. “I’m guessing you’re here to talk about the additional work. Ian contacted you about it, I’m sure.”

Callan brushed past her into the living room. “The shite sent me the revised contract and more money. He deposited the money first.”

After listening to their family’s shared history, it sounded like something her boss would do. The man didn’t ask, often.
Seems to be a family trait
.

“That sounds like something you should bring up with Ian.”

She quickly shut the door to keep from freezing to death and then pulled the loose straps of her dress up. Her I’m-feeling-homesick dress had maybe five more washings before it turned into a faded mess. This time she was the one under-dressed for a meeting.

He’d planted himself in front of the stone hearth and looked out of place. Her rented cottage was one doily away from being a grandma’s haven. The soft lace curtains and floral wallpaper only cinched that image, and sadly it only made him more masculine in comparison.

Realizing she’d just been standing at the door, staring at him, she moved to the couch. “If you’re clear on the new terms, then why are you here? In a suit of all things.”

Callan pressed the folder to his leg and leaned against the mantle with his free hand. The muscles of his shoulders were high and tight. “My time is disregarded once again and again I can’t really say no. More money. More security. You—” his voice deepened, grew darker, “—are to blame.”

A shiver of warning danced down her spine. From the sharp edge in his voice, he wouldn’t need much to tip him over. Cautious, she said, “More money? Sounds like you should thank me.”

He laughed and finally turned. “Thank you, Burke.” He tossed the folder on the coffee table. “Now you’ve committed to taking care of Baird for three months.”

She hadn’t thought of that. Her mind had been focused on her job, where it should be. “A deal is a deal.”

She pulled the straps up again. His gaze roved over her skin, following the thoughtless movements. Her nipples pressed against the thin material. If she crossed her arms to hide her reaction to him, it would only make things worse.

“Why are you here?” The words fell out of her mouth in a breathless ramble.

He tugged at his tie until it unraveled from its knot, his focus fixed on her. “Because I told myself to leave you alone on my drive home, but then there’s the cottage. There you are.” He bit out the words. “As soon as I walked in the door, I get a call from Ian.” He put up his hands and mimed wringing a neck, likely hers. “I wanted to throttle you, but I’m not entirely surprised. The McCullough frames needed work. You’ve got a good eye for catching it.”

She sifted through his grouching. He’d stopped by because he wanted to see her. He’d noticed the needed repairs, like she had. “Oh.”

Warmth spread in her chest. Dammit. She didn’t date men in her field for this very reason. Sex and their work crossed over too often. A late night in bed and he shows her some antique he’s working on. She gives an absent opinion, her mind really on sex or sleep. He runs with it because he knows her background. It was too much like playing with fire. Years had passed since she’d been burned, but she was still trying to claw her way out of the ashes.

Victoria crossed her arms. “You just wanted to bitch.” She kept up a tone of disinterest. “Go home. Drink yourself into an angry stupor and then wake up and spend the money my boss sent.”

He gave her a long, slow look before he turned to pace. “I should buy this cottage and kick you out. Then maybe I could have some peace.”

Nonplussed by his bark now, she replied, “You should have taken a nap. You’re cranky.”

“You’re a cool one, Burke, but I know you for a liar. You pushed for another month. Six months in the future wouldn’t make a difference. Ian could have just ran a new exhibition or an extended one with new materials.” He quelled his pacing, pulled the tie off and dropped it next to the folder on the table. “But you chose now.” He seared her with a stare. “Tell me why.”

She was so focused on not falling out of the top of her dress, figuring out how to get him to leave and staunching her own wayward urges, Victoria hadn’t noticed he wasn’t just getting comfortable. He’d dropped by to bitch, and maybe in the back of his mind he’d intended to seduce her. The only way the latter would become a niggle in his mind was if he saw her actions as an invitation.

Was it?
Six months was a drop in the bucket in their business. Sometimes it took that long just to plan an exhibition or to get the necessary contracts. She was the first cog in the machine that detailed the antiques, their condition and set a market value for insurance purposes.

Because of her background, Ian trusted her to scout for all possible antiques while on location and find the right restorers before shipping the items out. In six months, everything she appraised would still be traveling the world. There was no urgency, no need for an extension. Not even to impress her boss. If she did this single job right, she’d be fine. She could take a much needed sigh of relief.

The crux? Victoria wasn’t confused about wanting Callan. She was conflicted on what she should do about it. Scrubbing her hands over her face, she chose the right road, again, and didn’t stray from her path. “I came out here because my boss sent me. He trusted you. Then I met you. So I did some research.”

Any other man in their field would have expressed surprise or anger. They had their pride and ego. He tilted his head to the right at her announcement. She wanted to hate him for being so damn secure but couldn’t.

She sighed. “You do incredible work. If I were to shake Scotland to look for someone else with your skill and eye for detail, I might get two or three other names. One of them is retired with arthritis. It’s you or no one else.”

He shrugged out of his jacket as her little speech ended. She swallowed again. “What are you doing, Callan?” Her voice wobbled on a tremor.

“Scared?”

Since he didn’t remove anymore clothes, she shrugged with a modicum of relief. “My point is, it’s easier to lock you down for three months now than try to get you to drop everything in six months or however long it takes to get MacDougal to loan us more.”

He prowled over to her, taking in a cool assessment of all of her before he settled down onto the sofa. “So smooth but still a liar.”

The couch must have shrunk because he suddenly felt too close, his scent too potent. Her stomach tightened with need. “You’ve made my job extremely difficult,” she said and absently noted how husky her voice sounded now. “I try to be professional—”

“Our first
and
second meeting you accused Highlanders of being goat-fuckers. Now I don’t offend easily…”

Her and her damn smart mouth. “Why are you here?” she asked again.

“Offer me a drink and maybe I’ll tell you.” His gaze trailed down to her chest and lingered. Something equally potent and primal replaced the anger in his eyes. “Unless you really want me to leave,” he added, looking up.

“I had plans to call my mom or sister. Or read in front of the fireplace. You’re interrupting.”

Read
. She reached up and pulled off her glasses. She’d completely forgotten about them. Her image as a hard ass who never strayed from the straight and narrow had taken a beaten during their whole exchange. Adding glasses to her short stature, dimple and wide-brown eyes tended to make her look like a sweet elementary school librarian.

His smile was slow but the impact left shock waves. “And she takes off her glasses for me. Now what am I to make of that?”

“Nothing.” Her quick denial sounded like a damn lie to her own ears. “Reading glasses,” she added weakly.

The bastard laughed at her. “So am I to leave or are you going to offer me a drink?”

She released her pent up breath. He probably already knew the choice she’d make. Bastard. She rose from the couch, went into the kitchen and poured them both a glass of wine. By the time she walked back into the living room he’d stretched out on the couch and left her a corner unless she decided to sprawl on top of him.

His mouth pinched tight in disgust when he saw the wine. “You don’t have real liquor?”

She glared at him and shoved the glass into his outstretched hand. The man was insufferable. “Don’t grouch again. I was starting to like you.”

“You like me well enough. I think I’m safe there.” He took a sip and closed his eyes. “Nice Shiraz. I had you pegged for a Cab girl.”

“What do you know about wine?”