KiltTease (2 page)

“I promise to never find a way to smite you. Swears.”

He sighed just like he’d done when Victoria had won their argument. It sounded full of exasperation and a touch of amusement. “You know, you do have to cook and clean.”

“Light cleaning, healthy cooking.”

He muttered a curse. “Fine. Let me walk you through the pub. They’re having something here tonight for the wedding. Are you supposed to be here for that?”

“I prefer morning work, old habit, but if you need me here tonight, I’ll come.”

“Awright. I’ll refill your drink and put a splash of scotch in it. You’re going to need it.”

She waved off his offer. “Just the Coke while I’m technically on the clock.”

That mischievousness glinted. “Aye, of course.”

That didn’t sound like an agreement at all. She laughed. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he said, and it sounded like a pirate’s growl.

Shaking her head, she turned to get her glass and froze. Quinton had disappeared. Not surprising he was stealthy. He looked shifty at best, delicious at worst. Her stomach still felt tight from the punch of need just looking at him and talking with him had caused. She shook it off, glad for his absence, because she had a job to do.
Promises to keep
.

Flirting with a Scotsman was not on the schedule. Feckless wanderer, yes. Hump a sexy Scot, no. Hell, her grams would want her to hold out for a Parisian anyway.

CHAPTER TWO

Quinton Baird closed the pub’s office door and considered ignoring the buzz from his mobile. It had been ringing since the morning, and now that nighttime had rolled around, his patience with the incessant noise had grown short.

Only Mick would obsessively phone him like that and not give a fuck if the first ten calls were ignored. Usually his sports agent tended to want two things: a favor or to talk him into a potential deal.

Tonight was supposed to be about celebrating his brother Callan’s upcoming nuptials, but it had turned into a clusterfuck. There were too many people here. Too many who wanted something from him.

One more thing wouldn’t make shite worse
. He cursed softly. That didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. This was supposed to be his retirement. He answered his mobile. “Fuck me in the arse.”

“I know someone who would be willing, if that’s what you need.” The brisk reply was delivered in a serious tone. Brisk best described his agent. Oh, aye, he was a smarmy bastard, but he tended to get to the heart of anything.

Quinton prowled in the small office space. His shoes scrapped over the tough carpet. It was clean but dark. Fitting since the latter was his current mood. “What do you want, Mick?”

There was a pause then a curse. “You haven’t seen today’s headlines.”

His muscles tensed as he braced himself. “No.”

“Well, then I’ll give you the good news first. Debra Kincade wants to sell you her jewelry store.”

His next step faltered. Shock poured into him at the announcement. Part of his retirement plan involved Debra’s store. For two years, he’d had Mick push for a deal, even though his agent felt rugby players shouldn’t own things like jewelry stores. It wasn’t manly enough and conflicted with his image, one they had honed together over the years.

Quinton spoke well, so they used that to charm cameras, magazines, and gossip columnists. That had led to charming women with the same amount of ease. He loved rugby though, and that made him the man’s man. He was ferocious as a scrum-half on the field and a playboy off it.

Since that was and wasn’t the real him, and Quinton could be cunning when he wanted to be, he had pointed out the kind of money that could be made from selling baubles. Diamonds and gold were a solid market, much more so than any shoe or energy drink. Though he did own quite a few shares in some shoe companies.

More importantly, Quinton didn’t need to be the face of an endorsement. Unfortunately that’s exactly how Debra Kincade treated him. She believed everything she read in the tabloids about him. Despite the fact he now owned a chain of stores that did relatively well, he lacked the breeding and reputation to go balls to the wall with them.

Debra’s store would be the—pun intended—crown jewel that could change everything. She’d built her brand on her blue blood and family values—a brand he wanted to use but couldn’t until now.

His brows pulled into a frown because… “What do tabloids have to do with her finally agreeing to sell?”

“There’s a picture of you looking very cozy with a woman in your uncle’s pub. They suspect you’ve taken her to meet your family since it’s your brother’s wedding.”

“What woman?” He hadn’t had a taste for a woman since his ex. And his ex had left a bitter, shite taste in his mouth.

“A looker,” Mick said. “Maybe. I can’t tell. She’s a black woman, but not your brother’s wife-to-be. She doesn’t look pregnant. It’s a shite mobile pic and through the window. Your fans stalk you. It’s a little disturbing when you think about it.”

“I’m used to it,” he muttered, which was probably a depressing thing to admit. “Are you sure it’s me?”

“It’s you. In your uncle’s pub. Sitting behind her in a booth.”

Ah
. How could he forget
her
?

A heady warmth filled his gut. Katherine aka Kitten if you paid her extra. He smiled as his heart sped up at the memory of her.

His uncle had asked him to drag in the stock from the truck. When he’d finished, he’d heard the arguing in the pub and then caught sight of Kate sitting in one of the booths.

All his synapses had fired up at once. If she had been that interesting to look at, talking to her had to top the experience. Against his better judgment, he had. When his common sense decided to show up again, he’d left the pub to get ready for the wedding rehearsal later that night.

So, no, he hadn’t forgotten her. He’d forcibly blocked her out of his mind because she was trouble. He could feel it in the way his scalp tightened when they had talked.

“Auch, that’s nothing,” he said to his agent.

Though a small part of Quinton wouldn’t mind if it turned into something.

Mick’s scoff was filled with disbelief. “You’re whispering in her ear, and she’s wearing a smile that I’m sure means you got lucky. This news has hit all the gossip blogs. According to Debra, a man is serious about a woman when he takes her to meet his family. Then I was forced to listen to how she met her husband for the next thirty minutes. So I don’t care who this woman is. Keep dating her until the papers are signed. Then you can go back to rogering anything with tits.”

The warmth in his gut turned into lead at the advice. Debra, her family values, and her fucking obsession with tabloids. His idiot agent for…knowing him too long. Quinton’s career had started when his dick hadn’t been too picky. And when he’d listened to it too often.

Quinton murmured, “That’s going to be a problem.”

“Make it a non-problem. I’ll send you the details.”

The mobile went silent on the other end. He shoved it into his slacks’ pocket, inhaled, then splayed his hands on the cherrywood desk. This was his life. He’d signed up for it back when his balls had practically been hairless. Then he’d liked the idea of overzealous fans, money.

It meant getting away from his bastard father and the constant reminders that he was a motherless child. His fame had changed how people treated him. Everything, everyone had conditions or a price. How could that not have changed him too? He used to be open with anyone. He used to be a man who would have flirted with Kate the entire afternoon. He wasn’t that man anymore.

His mother was still dead. His father was still a bastard. The man probably wouldn’t even show up for his youngest son’s wedding unless he got the right incentive.

Quinton shook his head since that was a headache for later. He needed a solution, one that didn’t involve Kate. Though a small part of him wouldn’t mind that nothing turning into something, Quinton knew better than to listen to his libido.

He wasn’t above omitting facts until the contract was signed—no. Quinton had an agent just so he wouldn’t have to be smarmy himself. He muttered another curse and stepped out of the office.

A tap of heels against the hardwood floors drew his attention down the hall in the other direction. His heart gave one hard thump, then kicked up. His breath got in on the deal and got stuck somewhere around his throat.

Kate.
Fucking Kate
.

She stared into the storage closet, a frown pouting her full lips. That afternoon she’d worn jeans and a jumper. Tonight a red dress molded to her lithe frame, finding every curve and accentuating it. Her small breasts were more than enough to fill his hands and mouth. Her arse though, same as earlier, a blasphemous man could worship it.

He couldn’t see them now, but her whiskey-brown eyes held shadows and secrets, ones that belied every sassy retort that fell out of her mouth.

For months he hadn’t had an itch or an urge for a woman. They were too much fucking trouble. But Kate? An itch to taste her and her secrets tickled his throat. He swallowed.

No woman is a solution to any problem
.

Instead of listening to that smarter, more cautious inner voice, he moved closer and lounged against the wood-paneled wall. Kate started to reach into the closet but froze, tilting her head to the side before glaring at him.

“What’s the Scottish equivalent to the CIA?” she asked.

Caught off guard by the question, he crossed his arms. Just like that morning, he was settling in because talking to her was so much more interesting than looking at her. “That answer is complicated, but let’s just say the MI6.”

He’d scared her, but she’d only shown the slightest tell. Interesting. She was a mystery. A prickle of awareness tightened his scalp and then his stomach. Aye. He knew that familiar sensation—need.

Despite his smarter, more cautious self throwing big red flags in his mind, Quinton still asked, “Why do you want to know about MI6?”

“I’m trying to figure out how you managed to creep up on me twice. It has to be a skill you learned so you could snuff folks out. Or…” She closed one eye and put a hand to his heart.

It jumped, erratically and eagerly, at her gentle touch. He’d been around the block enough times to know she was using this as an excuse to simply test him out. Quinton grunted while that thrill of need sluiced down to his cock.

She pressed her hand into his pec and made a sound of approval. “You’re real, all right.” There was a rasp in her voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Very real,” he confirmed, his voice gruff and his muscles taut now.

She met his gaze, awareness of his reaction to her clear and strumming between them.

Listen to that voice of reason, you fucking idiot
. He rolled his shoulder to shake off the attraction. “What are you doing back here?”

She shook as though a shiver ran through her but said in a blasé tone, “Well, I met some of the local colors. Douglass insisted because he apparently wants me to understand what he does when I’m not around. I think he just hoped I’d use my charm to sell some beer tonight.”

Quinton chuckled, knowing how the story played out. He’d spent enough of his life in his uncle’s pub to know all the regulars. “You met Bobbie, the local lecher.”

“Bobbie, such a nice fellow,” she said in a wry tone. “After he played grab ass with me, I accidentally put my elbow in his nose. I’m back here to find the first aid kit and to get a complimentary bottle of Baird’s Whiskey to pay him off.”

“Ah, I see.”

Pushing off the wall, he returned the favor of touch and grasped her elbow—probably the same one she’d used to clock Bobbie. When he passed her, he ran his thumb down her forearm to urge her aside. Her skin felt like silk between his fingers. And if her eyes were the color of whiskey, then her skin had to be Scotch—both intoxicating. His cock ached, just as eager as the thump of his heartbeat. Ignoring the attraction pulsating in his veins, he moved into the closet and squatted.

Half of the rows were Baird’s homemade brew. The others were stocked with general supplies for the pub. He pulled out a plastic red-and-white case, then tucked a bottle of whiskey under his arm.

When Quinton straightened, he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Aye, her interest in him was clear, but something else lurked there. The intriguing emotion was veiled by the heat of the moment and their proximity.

He glanced down at the whiskey and the first aid kit he held. Once he handed the items over, he’d have to face his former colleagues littering the pub and childhood friends—people with questions he didn’t want to answer. The ever-present throb in his right shoulder piped up as if on cue.

Decided, he held the items hostage and leaned against the doorjamb. The ache dulled from the subtle pressure. Remembering every little detail of their first meeting, he picked out the one thing that would force her to dig in her heels. The lass seemed to go stubborn on principle.

“Kitten?” he said with a smile.

She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Is Quinton really your name? Do Douglass and Victoria even know you? I find it strange that you didn’t talk to them earlier and now here you are again, alone.”

He took note of her reaction and filed it away. “Interesting theory, and all because I called you Kitten.”

Her face flushed, but she lifted her chin. “I’d call you Dr. Quinn, but I don’t think you’d get the reference.”

Quinton knew. He’d be arsed though if he let anyone call him a softhearted female, especially a woman who came up to his chest. “Who?” he asked with a brow lift.

She sighed and then put out her hand for the items he refused to give up. “Never mind.”

He glanced at her delicate fingers. They’d fit wonderfully around his…He mentally groaned and met her gaze again. “How’d a Yank end up in Scotland?”

“You’re pushy.”

He shrugged at the truth. “Do you really want to go back and help Bobbie?”

She didn’t blink before saying, “I always wanted to travel.”

For the second time in ten minutes, he laughed and felt like his old self. Like the kid who’d had to work for a woman’s attention instead of just saying his name. Like the man who never felt, intimately, the punch of mistrust with everyone he met.