Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots (12 page)

* * *

C
eri rarely laughed
.

She’d never thought there was much to laugh about. Even when Will had been central to her life, filling it with acceptance and safety, she hadn’t felt like laughing. As a child, she remembered laughing with her mam a time or two, but Dilys would go off with a man eventually, and leave her alone in their flat. She never laughed when she was alone. Elis had lightened her life and she’d laughed a time or two with him. But then he’d left for good. And the thought of laughing when she’d been with Gareth was absurd.

The laugh filled her lungs, making her lightheaded. With happiness? Surprising, unexpected happiness? When she met Lorne Ross’s eyes again, they were intense and focused. No longer blank.

She grinned, surprising herself once more. “Definitely.”

He moved then and it all came back to her. His near-nakedness. His pearl skin and fire hair. His sex-tinged scent and overwhelming presence.

When he’d come upon her singing, he’d been sweaty and unbelievably gorgeous, which had riled her. She didn’t like to think she was attracted to an enemy. He’d compounded her frustration by dragging his shirt off, making her mouth go dry.

Lean beauty.

Male allure.

He’d turned from her, to her relief. Yet, he’d made it utterly worse when he’d thrown water on his fair skin, making it glisten in the morning sunlight. The strong muscles of his back flinching as the cold water trickled down. The movement of his biceps as he swished more water on his arms and chest, making her want to clench her fingers on him.

He’d stood. Stared at her with his blank eyes.

Came to her with a surge that threatened to make her squeak.

Ceri Olwen didn’t squeak. Had never squeaked. Even when Lorne Ross came onto the rock, she hadn’t.

Still, she almost had.

She’d almost squeaked again when he’d reared onto his heels, giving her an excellent view of how wide his chest was.

Still, she hadn’t then, either.

This time when he moved, he came at her not as a warrior, but as a supplicant. How she knew that she had no idea. She had no experience with men coming at her other than with fierce sexual intent.

He didn’t do that.

There wasn’t lust in those slate-blue eyes. There was something else. Something that made her throat tighten as if she were about to weep.

A long, rawboned finger reached towards her face.

Her first instinct was to move away, but then she noticed the finger trembled.

She held still.

His touch was cool; a quiet, tender caress along the skin of her cheek. His gaze followed his finger like he had to make sure he was touching in the exact right place.

Ceri closed her eyes.

Because he was too much. Too much of broad shoulders that had their own sprinkle of freckles. Too much of the traces of flame hair covering his naked chest. A contrast of red to white making her want to touch. Too much of Lorne Ross could make a woman lose herself.

Closing her eyes did no good, though. He was still too much.

For the first time in her life, she lost what was most important.

Herself. Her mind. Her will.

His finger moved to her jaw and ran along the line of it to her chin. He stopped there for a moment. Then slowly, his touch moved to her lower lip and paused once more.

God. She wanted to suck. Suck a man’s finger.

Never, ever, had she wanted to do that with her late husband. Even the thought made her skin crawl. Because sucking a man’s finger would give him ideas. Ideas she’d never, ever, wanted to act on.

Her eyes flashed open and she reared back.

His eyes widened and his hand fell to the stony rock.

If she had the room, she’d have moved farther away. But he’d already pushed her to the edge of the rock and it was too far of a drop to the ground on this side.

“Move,” she said.

His gaze never left hers. He didn’t move.

“Move back,” she said once more, and this time, she put force behind the demand.

“Your eyes have changed color.” His voice was gently dangerous now, instead of being hoarse and real like before.

His tone reminded her: he was the enemy.

“7F5217.” He looked at her expectantly, as if he were waiting for her to laugh again or accept him again or be happy again.

She wasn’t that much of a fool. “Move back so I can leave.”

“It means red dirt.” His brows rose, asking for another of her laughs.

There was something so boyishly endearing about him, she almost caved. Lorne Ross clearly hadn’t developed the ability to charm or flirt. Which didn’t surprise her. Yet, he was trying, she was almost sure of it.

Before she let herself fall for him one more time, she reached out and pushed. Right in the center of his chest.

A mistake. A fatal, mortal mistake.

He sucked in a deep breath, and his chest rose under her palm. The heat of him shot straight from her hand, down her arm, into her core. A fire lit inside her, burning through so many memories and intentions it scared her.

She had to get out of here.

Yanking her hand away, she put on a glare. “Move back so I can leave.”

“Leave? But I don’t want ye to leave.” His gaze held lust now. A typical male reaction that fired her determination to get away.

“Yes, you do.” She brought back their war, put it right between them. “It’s what you’ve been saying to me since the moment we met.”

His gaze went blank. He finally gave her space to move.

Ceri scrambled off the rock and onto the soft grass lining the burn. She kept her gaze in front of her as she strode over the ridge to the path. She kept her mind empty while she paced to the cottage and into her bedroom. She spent the rest of the day in the garden, working hard and long.

Not until the night, did she remember.

Much to her regret.

“
M
s. Olwen
!” The voice echoed from above her. “Did ye want this one cut back, also?”

Shading her eyes with one hand, Ceri glanced up to look at one of a half-dozen landscapers who had arrived this morning. He was perched on a tall ladder. “Yes, all the birches, please.”

“That’s fine, then.” He gave her a jaunty grin before pulling out his pruning shears. “I’ll take care of it.”

She returned his smile before hustling across the garden to the two men who were unloading the six Celtic maples she’d ordered. Making sure they had a clear idea of where she wanted the trees, she next walked over to the three men who were digging out the dead quince bushes to be replaced by the rowans she’d decided on last month.

Satisfied everything was going well, she allowed herself a quick glance at the castle.

Nothing.

No lights sparkling from the top of the tower. No redhead peering at her. No gentle and dangerous voice demanding she stop.

Good. That was good.

It had been seventy-two hours since she’d seen him. Three days spent worrying about going forward with the tours and knowing she had no other options. Three nights of tossing and turning, fighting against the dreams trying to seep into her soul.

She hadn’t spotted him since she’d left him on his rock.

His
rock.

Snorting at the thought for the dozenth time, Ceri went back to work.

The landscape crew had arrived on schedule ten days before the tours began. They’d piled out of their trucks early this morning, and had made quite a racket throughout the day. They’d return tomorrow and the following day to finish everything.

Then, next week, would come the real test.

The cleaning crew would arrive to make the castle shine and to arrange the crowd control posts and ropes. They’d lay the tartan carpet runners across the hardwood floors of the living room and the stone of the great hall as protection. They’d invade his room and…

Drive him away.

That’s what she wanted. No bumbling, boyish charm or broad, freckled shoulders would to change her mind. The memory of him floated back into her head for the thousandth time. His dark-blue gaze, so intent. His gentle touch, so arousing. His compliment, so genuine.

His awkward, enchanting offer.

Her instinctive, abrupt rejection.

“Ms. Olwen, a moment please.” The leader of the crew waved her over. “Did ye want the maple here?”

“Yes.” Will had decided on these maples right before he’d died, and they’d cost a pretty penny. She couldn’t afford to let any one of these trees die, because she wouldn’t be able to replace them for a couple of years. There was the continuing attempt to keep costs down, but Will had been intent on building back the garden to its glory days. She supposed she’d inspired him when she’d taken on his garden four years ago. Her work had made him see what was possible. And he’d become intense about the whole thing.

As intent and as intense as his son.

The thought made her pause. She hadn’t liked to think of Lorne Ross being anything except a London billionaire. But the more she came in contact with him, the more she realized: he and Will had many things in common.

They both had the lean, hard build. They both focused in on one thing at a time. They both had the Ross pride.

Her friend lived on in his son.

Realizing that made her want to weep. She missed Will so much, and to know there was someone nearby who could bring him back to her in some ways, made her wretched. Because the son was still her enemy. Still the man trying to steal her dreams. Pushing her troubled thoughts away, she helped pull the first maple into place. The men dug and a big hole opened in the dark earth. With a push the tree trembled into place.

“What kind of tree is that?” A now-familiar voice came from behind her.

She jerked around to see a man she’d never seen before.

A Lorne Ross who fit.

He wore jeans, new by the look of them, and a navy jumper with a black-tabbed zipper. The jeans made his legs appear impossibly long, and the jumper lay open to reveal his neck and the beginning of his chest hair. His boots were leather with rubber outsoles that looked like he was ready to take on Ben Ross and all the land in between.

He was beautiful. Vividly alive.

Exactly right.

“The tree?” His gaze switched from the landscapers to land on her and her silence.

“Maple,” she snapped.

Nodding, he went back to looking at the tree.

He didn’t appear fazed by the work going on, and she didn’t know what to make of that. Didn’t he see this was in preparation for the tours? Didn’t he understand she was determined to push forward?

“Da never much cared about the gardens.” His contemplative words drifted toward her. “Neither did mum.”

“He did during the last few years.” She tucked her hands into her pockets, afraid she might reach out and touch the new Lorne Ross. “He was the one who picked the maples.”

“Did he?” His red-gold brows lifted.

“Yes.”

Before she could think of anything else to say, he turned toward her and took a step closer.

Too close.

For a man who shied away from close, he’d suddenly developed the ability to come right into her space. The space around her body that made her skin tingle and her heart race. The space inside her that wanted him with a desperate need she’d never experienced. A need that had nothing to do with what this man wanted or desired and what she could win as a concession because of it.

No, this was a need that was all hers, all her wants and desires. The realization shocked her.

She stepped back.

His brows lifted again. His slate-blue eyes went right to hers and they weren’t blank. Not in the least. They burned with a fire as hot as his fiery red hair.

Another shock ran right down her spine. She’d seen this look in many men’s eyes. A look of sex. A look of pursuit. A look of intent.

From Lorne Ross.

She struggled to pull out her weapons but couldn’t find them. She wanted to thrust out her breasts and put on a smile and drop her eyelids. Yet she couldn’t. Not with him. Ceri didn’t know why, she just knew that it was so. The recognition scared her.

She took another step back.

For a moment, he appeared perplexed as if he couldn’t understand what to do next, but then the rumble of a truck coming along the lane diverted his attention and hers.

What was this?

The truck rolled into view. On the side scrolled the name
MacIntyre Masonry
. Ceri squinted at the truck as it stopped and two sturdy-looking men stepped out.

“Good,” Lorne Ross said. “I came down exactly on time.”

Swinging her head around, she glared. “What have you done now?”

“I don’t plan on doing much at all.” He strode off toward the truck.

She scrambled after him, every thought of how he fit in and how much he resembled Will and whether or not she’d really seen sex in his eyes falling from her head. The man was up to something again. Was he going to install some other modern thing in her castle? She still hadn’t figured out how she was going to get the satellite dish off the side of the tower before the tours started. Now, apparently, she was going to have to deal with even more.

“You have no rights,” she hissed at him when she came to his side. “This place is mine.”

“Mr. Ross?” One of the men stepped forward with an outstretched hand.

“Yes.” Ignoring her and the man’s hand, her nemesis swerved and started toward the castle. “Follow me.”

MacIntyre’s hand dropped and his face went somber.

“That’s my castle,” Ceri stated in a loud voice.

Both of the MacIntyre men glanced at her and then looked back at the retreating figure. “He’s paid us quite a bit of money to check on the roof,” one of them finally offered. “I think it’s best we see the extent of the work that needs to be done.”

“The roof?” Her brain froze.

“Yes, ma’am.” The taller of the two slid the side door open on the truck and pulled out an odd-looking hammer and a trowel. The other man grabbed a ruler and a clipboard. “We’ve already been paid to give him a quote, so we’ll be following the man who paid the bill.”

The two men started off toward the now-open and empty castle door.

“A quote?” She shuffled after them, her mind whirling with possibilities. Was he going to install some newfangled thing on the roof? Some other kind of satellite? “What’s the job?”

Neither of them answered as they clambered onto the stone steps and into her castle.

Lorne Ross stood at the top of the stairs looking mildly vexed. “Hurry. I need to get back to my work.”

“Yes, sir.” The MacIntyre men both chimed in at once while heading for the stairs.

“You need to stop right now,” she snarled at the man standing above her. “This is my castle.”

Predictably, he didn’t even glance her way before turning and striding down the hall. She had to endure the indignity of following in the three men’s wake as they all walked up the first set of stairs leading to the tower and then the second set leading to the roof.

The sun shone hot here without the shade of the trees. Both the MacIntyres wiped their brows with the cuffs of their long shirts. Ceri felt the crawl of sweat under her arms.

Lorne Ross stood in the middle of the roof, looking as cool as an icy loch.

“There.” He pointed at the far-east wall. “And especially there.” He pointed another rawboned finger at the north wall.

What did he mean?

The roof had been one of those areas she and Will had reluctantly decided not to include in the tours. The views were stunning and the history of the battlements wove in and out of Scotland’s own. It would have been the pinnacle of the tour. But it was too precarious with the damage to the walls. The insurance quote they’d gotten had been astronomical.

Before Lorne Ross’s arrival on the scene, she’d hoped to have a bit of extra money at the end of the season. Perhaps enough to do some basic repairs here ahead of the winter storms. Since his arrival, though, all she’d thought about was saving any extra to fight against his billions.

The thought made her anger rise again. “Whatever you have planned for this roof, you can forget about it.”

The MacIntyres didn’t even glance at her this time. Both sets of male eyes lit as if they’d seen a pretty woman. “Och,” one said. “This is a lot of damage. Quite a project, sir.”

“I know.” He frowned at the walls. “I don’t know what my da was thinking.”

The words held an edge of disappointment, making her angrier. “What do you mean by that?”

He finally glanced at her, his gaze the usual blank stare. “I mean, he should have taken care of this.”

Her anger turned to protective rage. “Perhaps he couldn’t because he didn’t have the funds. Did you ever think of that?”

The blue of his eyes turned pitch black and his mouth fell open. “What do ye mean? Da never said he was having trouble with money.”

Knowing Will, she didn’t find that hard to believe. But she wasn’t about to let this man off the hook. “You could have asked him.”

“I did.” His hands fisted at his sides. “Several times.”

“Right,” she scoffed, not trusting him in the least.

The two MacIntyres ignored their argument and walked to the north wall. One of them pulled out the tape and began to measure. The other murmured while he wrote on the clipboard. Ceri’s attention swerved back to them, and she suddenly understood.

Taken care of this. A lot of damage. MacIntyre Masonry.

Masonry.

“You’ve hired them to fix the walls?” she gasped.

“Yes.” His gaze left her to fall on the men, his hands slowly relaxing at his sides. “I’ll be downstairs in the first room to the right when you’re done assessing. I’ll expect a full quote.”

“Ye want all of it in top shape?”

“Aye.” He walked right past her to the stairwell.

Ceri took one last look at the ecstatic workmen before following him. They had every right to be ecstatic. Will had run a quote a few years ago and the cost had been close to a hundred thousand. Why he hadn’t called his son for help, she still didn’t understand. Because clearly Lorne Ross had money to burn and was willing to spend it.

On her castle.

She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. If she were a generous woman, she’d say thank you, but she’d never been generous in her life. She’d learned to hoard—herself, her time, her money.

His fiery hair disappeared under the portal leading to the main hall.

Stopping on one of the steps, she tried to cudgel her brain into some action plan. All she could think was she was beholden to him. He hadn’t asked for a boon to do this for the castle. He hadn’t swung it in front of her for a concession. He hadn’t demanded she pay for half or threaten her with the withdrawal of his money.

Lorne Ross is true
.

His partner’s words floated into her memory, bringing a flush of astonishment to her heart. She still didn’t understand what he’d meant, yet somewhere inside, something pricked to life, like a simmering ember.

Her enemy appeared from around the bend. “Are ye needing my help to get down here?”

It wasn’t a sneering question or a demanding one. It wasn’t a question designed to make her feel like a little woman incapable of handling things herself.

The question was sincere.

The simmering ember inside her flickered.

With fear.

With shock.

With wonder.