The Wedding Dress (2 page)

The low burr of the sexiest Scottish accent Emma had ever heard sent a shiver of attraction through her. She turned to see who the voice belonged to and found herself face-to-face with the surly dark-haired man she’d noticed earlier. The Scot stared at the tabloid’s headline, every fiber of his being radiating scorn.

And there was a whole lot of
being
to radiate. From the time Emma had hit her growth spurt, she had been one of the tallest kids in class. Some of her leading men had to wear risers in their shoes. But this guy loomed over her by at least six inches, one of his big hands holding the “murder weapon” as negligently as if it were a postcard, his cable-knit sweater doing nothing to soften shoulders Brad Pitt would have envied. Wind-tousled mahogany hair curled in thick waves about a face hewn rugged as the Scottish crags she’d seen in books she’d used for research. Two days’ worth of stubble darkened a belligerent jut of jaw.

Fierce green eyes burned into Emma’s with such intensity she shifted her own a few inches down his face, instinctively trying to shield herself from a gaze designed to strip souls of their secrets.

She knew in a heartbeat she’d jumped straight into the fire. For an instant, she forgot to breathe as her gaze locked on one of God’s nastier practical jokes.

This arrogant bundle of raw testosterone had the most amazing mouth Emma had ever seen. Soul-blisteringly sensual, just a whisper sensitive, the left side of his full upper lip curling a fraction higher than the right.

A woman could get herself into big trouble if she spent much time around a mouth like that.

“Ms. McDaniel. You’ll have to excuse me,” he drawled. “I didn’t recognize you without your spandex suit.”

Ouch. Too bad the man’s personality wasn’t as gorgeous as his looks.

“I never wear spandex when I fly,” Emma countered breezily. “It seems to distract the pilots.” For once she wished she really was armed with the freeze blaster she’d carried in the last Jade Star—she’d point it at this jerk’s face and turn him into a giant snow cone.

He turned toward Sandy, then slid the tabloid out of the girl’s hand. “I’ll be doing you a favor by getting rid of this thing. Between movies like Jade Star and gossip rags like this, it’s amazing you have a single functioning brain cell left.”

Sandy looked as if the man had kicked her puppy. Okay, so the tabloid
was
trash, but Sandy was already embarrassed Emma had caught her with the thing—utter humiliation wasn’t necessary.

Emma pasted on her ice-queen face as she flashed him the glare that had made Robert de Niro back down in
Jade III: Revenge of the Star Demon.
“Actually, I was about to autograph the article for Sandy,” she said, digging a pen from her purse. “I wouldn’t be anywhere if it weren’t for the support of my fans.” Emma cringed as the words spilled out of her mouth. So much for keeping a low profile.

“By all means, sign your picture.” He held the tabloid out to Emma as if he were disposing of a dead rat. “I wouldn’t dream of coming between you and your
work.
”

“And I wouldn’t dream of coming between you and whatever it is you do when you’re not butting into conversations that are none of your business.”

She scooped the tabloid out of the man’s hand and made a huge deal out of choosing which of the pictures to sign as she waited for the jerk to go away. But he stayed put, as persistent as chewing gum in the tread of her little sister’s running shoes. Finally she scrawled her name in red ink across the picture of her brittle smile. Emma the actress, pretending not to care.

Pretending, just like she was pretending now. She handed the magazine to Sandy, who thanked her and fled into the crowd. Then Emma snapped up the handle on her suitcase and started to wheel it toward the exit.

A hard hand flashed out, grabbing her by the arm. She whirled around, heart hammering against her chest. Sexy Mouth was so close she could feel his breath hot on her cheek. Alarm prickled the hair at Emma’s nape.

“Take your hand off me,” she warned. Her right arm swept up hard. The man swore in surprise and pain as she broke his hold, the book he held in his other hand crashing onto the toe of his scuffed leather boot. If there was a God, Sexy Mouth should have a bruise the size of Manhattan come morning.

“Bloody hell!” Green eyes fired with fury. One second too late, she remembered her stepfather’s warning about the defense moves her ex-Army Ranger grandfather had taught her as a child.
The old man’s tricks are great, but don’t ever pull them on somebody who really
could
kick your ass or you might get a nasty surprise.

The Scot glanced around, evidently aware people were starting to stare. His rugged cheeks darkened. Jake had been right. Making this stranger mad wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. The Scotsman rubbed his arm, hard biceps outlined against the cream-colored yarn as he took a menacing step toward her.

“Do I have to call security?” Emma demanded, searching for a uniformed guard.

“Go ahead. Try it.” His gaze pierced her. “
I’m
the one who nearly got a broken arm here. I figure I’ve already got you on assault, hands down.” Too late Emma could hear warning bells that sounded a lot like
lawsuit, lawsuit.

“Listen, Mr…” She didn’t know his name, but he sure as heck knew hers. Not good, Emma. Not good. “I’d like to say it’s been nice talking to you, but that would be a lie.”

“Isn’t that what actresses do for a living?” he asked cynically. “Lie?”

Emma’s breath hissed between her teeth. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made her this furious. Hadn’t felt any emotion this sharp since she’d plunged into the haze of regrets and grief, rejection and self-doubt that had plagued her for the past two years.

“Why, you pompous, arrogant…”

“Have you made enough of a scene?” he asked. “Or do you want me to have the PA system announce to the whole world you’re here?”

“I don’t want you to do a damned thing except leave me alone!”

“That makes two of us. But it looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

“No. We’re not. Because I’m leaving.”

The left corner of those wicked lips ticked up a notch. “You want to walk to the excavation site in those ridiculous shoes, it’s fine with me. I’ll see you sometime next month.”

“Excavation site?” Horror flooded through Emma. “Oh, God.” So much for rumpled suits bought sometime during the 1930s. The man standing before her hadn’t even been born then. And as for
life’s work…
how long could that amount to with this guy? All of ten years? “Please,” she said, knowing the axe was about to fall, “don’t tell me you’re—”

“Dr. Jared Butler at your service, milady.” He executed a bow dripping with sarcasm, ridiculous in the modern-day airport, and yet strangely suiting him better than a handshake ever would.

Emma’s stomach flip-flopped as his eyes narrowed on her.

“I own you for the next six weeks,” he growled, “or until you come to your senses and ‘cry hold, enough.’ Or did you skip MacBeth on the way to your spaceship?”

Emma couldn’t help but wince. Kids in high school drama class knew calling “The Scottish Play” by its name was bad luck. But then, could her luck
get
any worse?

“‘Lay on, MacDuff,’” Emma quoted the play, challenge in her eyes.

“The bottom line is this,” Butler said, ignoring her, “Barry Robards hired me to teach his lead actress how to live, how to move, how to breathe medieval Scotland. How to
be
Lady Aislinn. That’s right—it’s pronounced
Ash-leen.
You can start by saying her name correctly. You Yanks have been massacring it for two years now.”

“Well,
this Yank
looked it up in a Celtic baby-name book the first time she saw the script, so you can move on to more important things.”

“Fine. How about this, then? When Barry Robards asked me to take on the role of historical consultant, I figured I’d have a fair chance of success with Angelica Robards to work with. But
you?
” He snorted in derision.

Emma glared. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

“I might as well.” He crossed his arms over that impressive chest. “I told anybody at the studio who’d talk to me that you’ll never be a believable Lady Aislinn.”

This arrogant jerk who spent all his time digging up dead people had been complaining to the studio about her being cast? Who did Jared Butler think he was?

“So now you’re an expert on acting?”

His scruffy-looking chin tipped at an angle that made her want to smash it. “I know what it will take to portray Lady Aislinn. Courage, intelligence, tenacity,” he asserted, a sudden distance in his eyes, as if he saw a world beyond the Scottish mist. “She held Castle Craigmorrigan for eight months, besting Sir Brannoc with no weapon but her wits. There’s a subtlety about her, a…”

“And you know this how? Did you have a chat with her sarcophagus? Or did some psychic channel her for you?”

Butler’s eyes flashed and Emma realized she’d managed to strike a nerve, get back some of her own.

But the good doctor was quick, almost as accomplished as Emma at shuttering vulnerability away.

“Why don’t you save us both a lot of trouble and just head for some ritzy spa on the French Riviera,” he challenged. “Go back where you belong.”

“According to Barry Robards, I belong right here. Playing Lady Aislinn. And if that means I have to deal with
you
for six weeks, I guess we’ll both just have to suffer. I have to admit one thing though, Dr. Butler. You
are
a brilliant teacher. I’ve known you all of five minutes and you’ve already helped me get into character. I can’t
wait
to get a sword up to your throat.”

Butler rolled his eyes. “I told the bloody screenwriter that part of the legend is rubbish. There isn’t a woman alive who could beat a seasoned knight and get a blade to his throat.”

If Butler had smacked her cheek with a gauntlet the challenge couldn’t have been any clearer. Adrenaline rushed through Emma. She was going to make the man eat his words if it was the last thing she did.

“You’re quite sure it’s impossible?” she inquired with acid sweetness.

“I’d stake my life on it.”

“Hmm.” Emma laid one finger along her cheek, considering for a moment. Suddenly her gaze dropped to the bulge in his brown canvas cargo pants. “Maybe I’ll just aim a whole lot lower.”

Ten minutes in Scotland and she’d already declared war.

Chapter Two

“N
OTHING LIKE HATE
at first sight to make a lady feel welcome,” Emma muttered under her breath as Butler all but rolled his battered Mini Cooper on yet another hairpin corner. The right shoulder of the narrow road plunged down in a boulder-strewn cliff, while a dozen yards to the left, a mountain soared skyward. If it weren’t for the biting chill that had whipped her raincoat in the airport parking lot and the lowering thunderheads gathering on the horizon, she might have been tempted to get out and walk to Castle Craigmorrigan.

Her legs ached from bracing herself against the floorboards, her fingers clamped in the upholstery to keep her arm from touching his. For God’s sake, could the man take up any
more
room? It was like being wedged in a clown car with MacTavish the Pissed-Off Scot Giant. Not to mention the fact that Butler’s testosterone overload was sucking up all the oxygen in the cab of this ridiculously small vehicle.

“Getting us both killed isn’t going to do you any good,” Emma said.

“You’re right.” The corner of Butler’s sexy mouth twisted. “I’m already in hell.”

Before Emma could think of a comeback, a fuzzy brownish-red hill loomed in their path. Emma choked back a scream as Butler swerved with annoying expertise, the car bouncing over the road’s shoulder so hard the top of Emma’s head hit the roof in spite of her seat belt.

She whispered a Hail Mary, sandwiched for a heartbeat between mountain wall and the weirdest cow she’d ever seen. She glimpsed long horns and terrified bovine eyes all but buried under a shaggy red topknot as the car sped past. Butler wrestled the toy car back onto the road, spraying gravel in his wake.

No doubt about it, Emma thought. She was going to die. But damn if she was going to give Jared Butler the satisfaction of knowing he was rattling her nerves before they’d even reached the castle.

“So, in between trying to give the local rescue team practice with the Jaws of Life rescue tools, why don’t you tell me exactly what books I’m going to be reading?”

“Reading?”

“Or do I get to sit around with you feeling the bumps on the old chicken bones you dig up? Archaeology 101: Observe, Ms. McDaniel, this piece of broken pottery we found when Farmer MacSomething was digging a loo.”

“I’m not going to have you contaminating my excavation site, do you hear me?” Butler slashed her the look his highland raider ancestors must’ve fired off when they were about to burn and pillage. “You’re not to go near the sections of the castle that are being excavated unless I’m with you. I’ll pack you back off to America faster than you can say Hollywood Boulevard.”

“And here all the tour books said people in the British Isles were supposed to be charming.”

“You want charming, head across the channel to Ireland. I have work to do.”

Fat raindrops plopped onto the windshield. Butler flicked on the wipers and, with a low growl of irritation, slowed the car as the drops transformed into a cold, driving rain.

“Part of your job is teaching me,” Emma said, easing her death grip on the seat. “So why did you volunteer if you’re so all-fired busy?”

“Angelica Robards arrived in April to start training for the riding and swordplay. She was supposed to be gone by the time the summer’s work on the dig began.”

“But she fell off a horse and landed in traction. Rotten break for you, Butler.”

“Right, but it was your lucky day, wasn’t it?” he challenged. “Don’t you feel guilty at all? Knowing that you’ve only got the part because the director’s first pick is lying in a hospital somewhere? I’d have too much self-respect to—”