KiltedForPleasure (7 page)

“Sous-chef.”

Right. He was crabby, sometimes rude and sometimes kind and a connoisseur of food and whine—wine. She curled her feet beneath the folds of the dress and did her best not to touch any part of him. His long legs and arms dwarfed the couch. It would be so easy to turn around, settle between his legs and let his chest be the best human pillow known to woman-kind. So easy to make rationalizations.

Even before the fuck-up she’d never taken the easy road. She curled a bit more into her corner and considered her next option. He was more interesting than a phone call to her mother, who would fret about Victoria being halfway around the world. Her sister would pry and ask about Scottish men.

And despite the flirtation and grouching, he looked troubled.

“You never answered my question,” she said. “Why are you in a suit?”

“I had a late-night meeting in town.” He drank deeply from the glass, his eyes darkening. “Also stopped by the cemetery. Talking to Baird reminded me I hadn’t taken flowers there in awhile.”

She frowned. “I thought your mother was buried in Glasgow.”

He jerked his shoulder. “She is.”

Victoria took his lack of an explanation as a clear sign he didn’t want to name the deceased. A cousin or a friend he probably would have told her. A lover then. She tried to imagine him with a fiancée. The woman would have to have been a saint to deal with his mood swings. Or…maybe, he hadn’t become this gruff man until this person died.

She was spending too much of her brain space thinking about him, who he used to be—like it mattered. She leaned forward and grabbed the folder from the table, making her strap fall again. He didn’t put up a protest when she opened it. Original Copy was stamped at the top of the newly signed contract. This one was for her records since she didn’t have it yet. He’d come to grouch, yes, and he’d literally gone out of his way to bring her a copy of the new contract.

He didn’t smile when she glanced at him in surprise, but the soft, warm light spilling from the hearth made his irises as blue as sapphires.

“Thank you,” she said.

His gaze roamed over her again, this time stopping on the fallen strap of her dress. He reached over, curled his finger beneath the material and slid it up. He took that excuse to touch her and caressed her shoulder before letting his hand drop back to the couch.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Her nipples tightened painfully. “So…the McCulloughs?” she asked.

“We won’t have sex if you don’t want to,” he said. “Relax. Or at the very least stop rambling about work.” The smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes.

She should have been able to breathe easier at his reassurance. Her keen awareness of his every movement should have lessened, but the Callan she’d known so far would have never said that. She tilted her head, taking in the sharp angles of his face. There was something there she couldn’t understand. “Who were you visiting at the cemetery?”

He heaved a sigh that was so weary it made her ache. “Someone I’ll love till the day I draw my last breath.”

Her lungs squeezed and she couldn’t find the air to even ask another question or give him condolences. How could she when Victoria couldn’t fathom the grief hinted at in his voice? Their eyes met and what she saw made her heart hurt for him. He laid the grief out for her now without trying to hide it by being rude or a pain in her ass. And it simply was an abyss. He didn’t come by to grouch or to drop off a copy of the new contract. He hadn’t wanted to be alone.

“Callan,” she murmured.

His jaw clenched and unclenched before he looked away. He puffed up his chest and settled deeper into the couch. “When your reasons for saying no to sex seem trivial, let me know.”

She flinched like he’d slammed a door in her face. In a sense he had, but did he really need to explain? The message was clear. Drop the subject. Act like she hadn’t just seen him open and hurting, because it wouldn’t matter. Sex with him might have consequences if they got caught, but it wouldn’t be complicated between them.

She gravitated into his space, tempted to cup his cheek just to comfort him and maybe ease the ache twisting her stomach. He didn’t want that kind of comfort, and she couldn’t give him the kind he needed.

Before she could retreat back into her corner, he reached up and ran his thumb over her cheekbone. A sound filled with longing almost ripped from her throat. He was looking for any invitation to do what they both wanted, to do what he clearly needed—Callan wanted to forget.

He swept his thumb over her bottom lip. “I’m sorry if I gave the impression I’d sit by idly until you changed your mind.”

He had his hands in her hair before she could set him straight. A nice good grip too. He tilted her head up. “Tell me you want this,” he demanded.

The way she curled into him screamed yes. “I’ll never—”

He kissed the “no” away. She balled her fists, ready to hit him if she had to, but he pulled back, sucking on her bottom lip gently.

Do it again. Don’t let me stop this.
She said, “Just because—”

This kiss was deeper, longer. She wrapped her fingers around his arms and held on. She couldn’t think when his tongue flicked at the corner of her mouth. All she could do was part her lips and let him in. The wet heat of him was too damn tempting, but the moment he stopped, she’d try again to talk him out of this seduction…

Soft. So damn warm and convincing. She wanted his mouth everywhere. Little by little she just melted into him, letting his lips and hands tip her world, push her closer to the edge of insanity. It was wonderful and stupid.

She crawled deeper into that small corner of the couch to steal some room and maybe some of her sanity back. Her breath panted out as she pushed his chest. Heat burned her cheeks, her every limb. She throbbed from need. She needed to stop.

“Leave.” The only word she managed to get out came out as a plea, but she’d take it.

“Say yes, Burke.” He scraped his teeth along her top lip and groaned. “You taste good.”

“It’s the wine.” She balled her hands on his shirt. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Do you
want
me to?”

The answer right on the tip of her tongue should have filled her with conflict, but his chest felt as firm as it looked. His bared chest would probably feel divine. “Yes, you’re hurting,” she finally choked out.

He bent and murmured against her neck, “Are you cold?”

“Can’t feel it.” She spread her hands over his pecs unable to help herself.

He caught her lobe between his teeth. She bit back the moan. He gave it a nice tug and then whispered, “Then what’s making your nipples hard?”

Like he didn’t know? He gave a soft pull on her hair and closed his mouth on her neck. A tingle brushed over her nipples. The more he lavished her skin with licks and sucks, the more she wanted to scream yes over and over again. He let go of her hair and lifted her against him.

Shit. Shit. Shit. He was moving his tongue over her collarbone and back up to her ear, his breath heavy on her skin. This man, this need he stoked was beyond her control like she was trying to grab hold of a tornado to change its course. She was buckling under it and him. Though, obviously, some part of her loved the thrill making her heart skip…She bit hard into her lip to snap her out of the daze.

He stilled, maybe feeling the sudden tension in her, and then met her gaze. “Do you want this?”

The tornado ebbed enough for her to breathe and catch hold of a thought. His eyes were still haunted. Lust hadn’t dimmed the emotion one bit. How had she not been able to see it before? How the hell could she ignore it now?

She inched forward following the need to comfort him, but stopped. Closing her eyes, she said, “Callan, no. I don’t want this. You don’t either. Not really. We can talk if you need to.”

His sigh was deep and heavy against her skin but his heat lessened. She opened her eyes. The hint of grief had transformed into something that made her throat feel thick.

He pressed his lips against her forehead for a second. “I’m sorry. You said no before and I should have listened.”

And then he stood and left before she could form words to make him understand the complicated emotions swirling in her breastbone. She wanted him. She knew she shouldn’t. Her work was important. She was horny beyond the telling of it. They’d known each other for a few days and still she wanted to be the one to comfort him. The pain she’d seen was too much to ignore or to placate with sex.

But he’d left with his tie and jacket still on her coffee table and his glass half empty. She shivered at the blast of air that had blown in when he’d opened the door.

None of her words were necessary. She picked up her wine, finished it in one gulp. Now it just wasn’t the worry she’d have sex with him but that she could care for him too.

“Dammit,” she muttered, picked up his glass and finished that one also.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Callan re-situated the laptop on his workbench so Douglass could see the problem on the computer screen. “Aye, laddie,” Papa Baird said, his voice booming from the tiny laptop speakers. “You’re going to have to cut the top of that screw off and then use a—”

“I know.” Callan scrubbed a hand over his face. Cutting the head off the screw meant hunting down a similar one from the same time period to replace it.

He set the table leg down next to the rest of the disassembled parts. “Some arse who worked on it before me stripped it.”

“Amateurs.” Douglass pulled back from the screen. “So how is my lassie doing?”

Callan glared at his uncle. “Your caregiver is fine.”

“If that’s all she was you wouldn’t be glaring at me.” He crossed his arms and smiled. “Now tell me the truth about this Yank you brought to babysit me.”

Callan had spent too much time with Victoria the day before. He had honestly meant to drop off the papers she’d need for her records. After visiting his wife’s grave he always felt like someone had reached inside him and scooped out all his insides—the good, the bad, everything until only something cold and empty was left behind. But Victoria had opened the door in a shaggy dress, smart spectacles and tousled hair. The scent of vanilla brushed across his senses and the cold stopped nipping at his heart.

His lips tightened in anger. Why couldn’t she be fucking forgettable so he could fuck her and move on? Callan didn’t want to wallow in his grief either; he’d done that for the first six months after his wife’s death. If not for his cousins he might have lingered much longer, but it had still taken a year to indulge in the physical aspect of life again. And that was only a year ago.

Wanting to remember he was a man with needs had been hard to reconcile with the fact that “death do us part” had such a finality. It wasn’t just Diana’s laugh he had to live without, but the bed she’d left as cold as a grave.

The first few forays had involved endless comparisons. Diana’s breasts had been firmer, smaller. Whenever he had licked her neck like this she’d be wetter, tighter. There were no freckles to adorn with kisses. At some point, he’d accepted his wife would always and forever be the woman every other woman fell short of. Her death had immortalized her every perfection and washed away any flaws.

He didn’t attach strings for that very reason. He didn’t hope to find the love of his life. His had already died.

And Victoria?

Callan flexed his fingers and then picked up the wrong tool. Douglass reprimanded him. He’d done it in hopes of distracting the old man and maybe himself. Unfortunately, his uncle asked again.

He sighed and confessed. “The Yank works for Ian. She’s an appraiser.”

Papa Baird looked confused for a moment and then he laughed. “What’d you do?”

Callan smirked. “She wanted me to sign some papers.”

“Oh, you shite. I’ve raised you better than that. Tavin is a bad influence on you.”

His smirk slipped at the mention of his father. After his mother died, Tavin hadn’t been much of one. He’d been too busy searching for a replacement that would fill the hole his wife had left. Even at a young age, Callan could have told his father it was a useless endeavor. Having lost his own wife now, he could almost understand the illogical need to keep looking. Something, someone had to fill that hole. No one should have to live the rest of their life feeling as though they were missing a limb.

His knuckles popped. He took a breath and loosened his hold on the tool. “Awright. You’re no better.” Absently Callan added, “Don’t tell Ian.”

“He’d be pissed you’re using one of his own. She might quit or fall in love with me, and where would that leave him?”

Callan scowled at the computer screen since his uncle was only half joking. “I think she might already love you a bit. Otherwise she’d have poisoned dinner to do away with you.” Slyly, he picked up the wrong tool again. He didn’t want to talk about her anymore. His mind kept straying to her enough as it was. “I need to get to work, old man. If you’re done helping, I’ll let you go. I know how much you hate computers.”

“Bought me one anyway,” Douglass grumbled.

The man was almost sixty, drank like a fish, smoked on too many occasions and ate like shite. That would all catch up to him eventually. Callan didn’t want Douglass to drop dead from a stroke or a heart attack before considering, maybe just maybe, someone should have looked in on him more often. “Can’t always be there.”

“’Cause your work is so important and you must take care of me because Ian and Tristan trusted you. Auch. You act like I’m some withered bag of bones.” Douglass made another sound of displeasure. “The three bit. Use the three bit or you’re going to end up stripping the rest of the screws.”

Callan hid his smile and picked up the tool. The rest of the screws fell out perfectly. Once he found a replacement, he could do the final stain and be done. That would take a few hours at best. Most of that time would be letting it dry.

This is what he should have been focusing on, not
her
. Tension gripped the nape of his neck as the memory of her mouth—He threw the three bit onto the table. She wanted him but not the consequences, and he couldn’t fault her for that. He would respect her wishes and ignore her desires. It’s why he’d called MacDougal that morning so he could avoid going to the castle. A truck would come by later to drop off the first repair job.