The MacTaggart Brothers Trilogy

by Anna Durand

  I laughed. His smile demolished the pang in my chest and the pitiful wall I'd tried to build around my heart. I leaned my head on his shoulder. "I can't leave the state, but I could go for a little road trip. Get away from the city for a few days." I propped my chin on his shoulder. "How's that sound?"

  "Perfect. We've had the main course — these weeks together here. It's time for dessert."

  "A road trip sundae with sex and a cherry on top?"

  His brows knit together. "There are times when I think Americans speak an alien language."

  "Right back atcha, Mr. Highland Sex God."

  His eyes glittered with amusement. "Sex god?"

  "Don't let it go to your head. If your ego swells any bigger, you'll never fit on an airliner."

  He hauled me onto his lap, straddling his hips, our faces level. His hands roved up and down my back, grazing the silky fabric of my shirt across my skin. "Tell me one thing?"

  "Okay." Anything in the world for you.

  Lachlan's hands came to rest on my hips. He tensed and cleared his throat. "Am I a substitute for Cliff? The eejit you were meant to meet at the club."

  His question made that pang come back, under my ribs, right over my heart. "I don't understand what you're asking me. Cliff was a jerk who stood me up."

  "But you wanted to meet him. He… excited you."

  There he went with the excitement stuff again. What was his deal with it? I scrunched my lips, exhaling through my nose. He wanted to sneak into the forbidden zone of conversation, but I couldn't tread anywhere near it. Still, he watched me with that pitiful-puppy look, expectant and fearful at the same time. How could any woman resist a needy, hunky Highlander? I sure couldn't.

  You're hopeless, Erica, falling for another numbers guy with secrets. I was a hopeless romantic, which I decided I could live with for the moment.

  I splayed my hands on Lachlan's chest, exploring the muscles concealed under his T-shirt. "It wasn't Cliff that excited me. It was the idea of a fling, of chucking all my inhibitions and letting my inner wild child come out to play. I needed to feel alive."

  "You chose me because I was the first man to approach you."

  My hands rushed up his chest to his broad shoulders. "Actually, a rather enticing specimen bumped into me before you showed up. He smelled like beer and vomit, and he said I was hot but my breasts are too small for his taste. He staggered out of my life forever. I was devastated."

  Lachlan almost smiled, but his dark mood seemed deeply rooted. "I'd no right to ask you about that."

  "The topic is borderline off limits." I pushed my hands up behind his ears to bracket his head. His lips parted, his chest still with a breath held inside. I slid my mouth over his, sweeping back and forth, our breaths mingling. "From the second you spoke my name that night, I wanted you. Cliff could take a flying leap. Every other man in the club disappeared. I saw only you. I wanted only you."

  "The same for me, lass." His voice had gone hoarse. "You excite me like no other."

  Did he mean no other in the club that night? Or no other, period? My heart pounded at the possibility, and I brushed my tongue over his bottom lip. "You're no substitute, Lachlan."

  He cupped my nape in one big hand and pulled me in for a scintillating kiss. My body tingled from the tip of my skull to the nails of my toes. He tasted of maple syrup and whipped cream, with a tantalizing hint of chocolate. His tongue danced with mine, coaxing me to delve deeper into his mouth as I wrapped my arms around his neck. My toes curled, and I moaned into his mouth.

  "Lachlan," I said, when our kiss finally ended, "do me one favor."

  "Anything you want."

  I rested my forehead on his. "Never stop surprising me."

  "Wouldn't dream of it."

  The natural scent of him wafted over me and I rubbed my cheek against his, oblivious to the scruffy texture of his morning stubble as it scraped over my skin. "I'm sorry I keep calling you a bastard while we're having sex."

  "I am a bastard. Just ask my wife."

  I lifted my head to study him. "You're divorced, right?"

  He shrugged one shoulder. Not a yes, not a no. He had to be divorced. I would not have an affair with a married man.

  As if he'd read my thoughts, Lachlan smiled tenderly. "My wife is out of my life, permanently."

  "Oh. Good." The Bitch was gone. Yay. "Did you have any children?"

  The unreadable look overtook him again. I slid my hands out from behind his neck, down onto his chest. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I counted the folds of my knuckles. "Sorry, that was too personal a question, wasn't it?"

  He exhaled a long sigh. "I've no bairns, though I want them very much."

  "So do I." Lachlan perked up, though I had no idea why. The familial desires of his American fling shouldn't be of any interest to him. But I kept babbling. "I didn't have any siblings, and I guess that made me want a family of my own. Lots of kids scampering around the house. And of course, a husband who loves me as much as I love him."

  "A lovely dream." He sank his fingers into my hair, his palm on my cheek, and I leaned into his touch. "I hope you get it someday."

  "I hope you get yours too."

  A silence settled between us, not exactly uncomfortable, but echoing with questions unasked and declarations unspoken. Maybe I was indulging in wishful thinking and I was the only one holding back unspoken things. I nestled my head on his shoulder, my face against his neck. He did the same, his heated breaths tickling my skin. For the longest time, we just held each other. Seven days. This all would end, and he'd be gone from my life. Part of me believed he wanted to stay or ask me to go with him, but something held him back. The sensible part of me understood he'd meant what he said about no relationships. And yet he held me, his embrace firm, as if he never wanted to let me go.

  But I'd have to let him go. He was going home, and I was going to prison. What a pair we made — him locked up in fears I couldn't understand and me framed for a crime my asshole ex-boyfriend committed. Both of us imprisoned in our own ways. Given time, maybe we could find a way out of our bonds and be together. I tightened my arms around his neck. Don't you dare let go of me, Lachlan MacTaggart, because I won't let go of you.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My tailbone hurt, and a spot up against my right shoulder blade had begun to pinch. Bright sunlight stabbed into my eyes and, despite wiggling my butt every which way possible, I could not find a comfortable position in the metal folding chair. On the corroded metal desk in front of me, a bobblehead leprechaun made clicking noises, its motions activated by tiny solar panels on the figurine's base. To the left of the desk, a window air conditioner blustered moderately cool air into the room.

  I drummed my fingers on my thighs, forcing myself not to clench my teeth. Waiting was not my strong suit. To avoid insanity, I let my thoughts travel back to my wake-up call this morning. Lachlan had called my cell phone and, still drowsy, I'd forgotten I was in his bed until I rolled over and the whisper-soft sheets slipped over my skin. Lachlan purred sweet words to me through the phone, rousing my body faster than my mind could shake off sleep. I recalled mumbling something dirty, about what I wanted him to do to me. Then I'd realized he'd called me, which meant he'd left me, and I bolted upright. "Lachlan, where are you?"

  "Right here," he'd said, as the bathroom door swung open and he ambled out. "I'd never leave you, especially when you're naked and wet."

  "I'm not wet. Haven't taken a shower yet."

  He'd crawled onto the bed then and inched up my body, licking my skin as he moved. "Not that kind of wet."

  In the present, I allowed my eyelids to close, lost in the beautiful memory. Anything to evade the reality in front of me.

  "Erica." Doretta Harper's voice cut through my reverie. She snapped her fingers. "Wake up, girl. I need your full attention."

  My attorney bent in front of me, her concerned eyes focused on my face. Having just walked into the office, Do
retta held a stack of file folders to her chest. With a shake of her head and a disapproving cluck, she retreated around her desk and took a seat in her cracked and creased executive chair.

  I rubbed my eyes, straightened, and folded my hands on my lap. My conservative skirt suit was black, to match the somber mood of this meeting. "I'm here. What's going on?"

  "Are you awake now?" Doretta's mouth quirked in a half smile. "Seemed like you were daydreaming a minute ago."

  "I'm fine." I cleared my throat and looked straight at her. "I'm listening."

  "Good." Doretta leaned her elbows on the desk, atop two piles of file folders, one higher than the other. Her pantsuit, a lovely shade of salmon, complemented her cocoa skin. Her close-cropped hair glistened honey blonde in the sunshine. Her coffee-colored eyes probed into me. "The DA's made an offer."

  "I told you no plea deals."

  "Hear it before you shoot it down, hon. Please."

  "Fine." I slumped in my chair.

  Doretta tapped her red-painted fingernails on the file folders. "DA's offering probation plus restitution."

  I clenched my teeth and pangs shot through my jaw. Restitution? Like I had a quarter million bucks stashed in my sofa. "No."

  "Erica." Her tone reminded me of a teacher scolding her student. "No jail time. You hear me? No jail time."

  "I get it." My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat as my chest tightened. A thousand curses popped into my mind, but swearing wouldn't help. I had no choices left. No way out. If I went to trial, I'd surely lose. Who would believe me over the powerful and connected Cichon family? The entire clan had rallied around Presley, labeling me a gold-digging, senior-citizen-robbing slut.

  Weariness plunged down on me, heavy as an iron blanket. I buried my face in my hands. God, I wished Lachlan were here. Stupid, but I couldn't help it. He soothed me. In this moment, I needed that more than anything. But this was my mess, not Lachlan's.

  "I know this isn't perfect," Doretta said, her voice full of sympathy, "but the evidence all points to you. A deal's your safest bet."

  Nausea roiled in my gut anew, pressing up into my throat until I could taste the bitterness of it. I drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and lowered my hands. "I appreciate you taking me on pro bono and I know you're doing the best you can, but no. I cannot and will not accept any deal that requires me to plead guilty." The anger I'd repressed for so long erupted, scorching my soul and hardening my voice. I spat the words. "I did not steal the money. I am innocent. If I plead guilty, it's over, no second chances. If I'm convicted and go to prison, at least I might appeal."

  "Oh hon." Doretta shook her head, her dark eyes filled with sympathy. "I believe you. Presley Cichon is a jackass and a scam artist to boot, but neither of us has the resources to prove it. I don't want to see you go to prison. Someone like you…"

  Can't handle prison. That's what she intended to say. I was a stupid girl, easily duped by a charming con man. How could I hope to survive behind bars? Baloney. I was stronger than anyone gave me credit for and I would get through this. About time I started acting like it.

  "No deal." I rose and offered Doretta my hand. "Thank you for all your help. You'll never know how grateful I am."

  She clasped my hand but didn't shake it. "Baby, I hope you know what you're doing."

  So do I. "I'll see you at trial. Goodbye, Doretta."

  When I reached my car, I collapsed into the driver's seat, overcome by the need to weep out my fears and frustrations. I fought back the urge, though, and twisted the key in the ignition. My throat tight, I steered the car in the direction of the one place I swore I'd never visit again.

  Presley Cichon's apartment.

  *****

  The doorbell chimed inside the apartment, muted by the massive wooden door. Scratching my arm, I glanced left and right. I half expected security guards to surge out of the shadows and tackle me to the floor, but nothing happened. After a minute, maybe more, ticked by without any sign of life in Presley's apartment, I punched the doorbell button again. Bing-bong-bing sang the chime.

  Footsteps. Inside. Coming closer.

  My gut clenched. My mouth went dry. This had sounded like a good idea, to assert myself and be the strong woman, but as I watched the pinpoint of light in the peephole vanish, my pulse accelerated. He was looking at me. Calculating. Assessing. He wouldn't hurt me physically, I was sure of that. Cowards like him blustered but didn't have the nerve to follow through.

  I straightened, grasped my purse strap tighter to my shoulder, and lifted my chin. Let the creep look.

  The door pivoted inward, and there stood Presley Cichon. Half naked.

  I felt my lips tighten as I compressed them. Yeah, he was leaning against the door wearing nothing but a low-slung pair of short-shorts. Muscles on display. Toned thighs exposed. A smirk distorting his pretty face. Gaze sweeping up and down the length of me. He licked his lips and cranked up his playboy smile.

  Once upon a time that smile would've set my belly aflutter. Now, it gave me acid indigestion and made my fingers twitch with the urge to smack him.

  "Hey babe." He tilted one hip, making the shorts dip a little lower on the opposite side. "What can I do you for?"

  "Cut the act, Presley. I don't fall for it anymore."

  "Act?" His shoulders lifted, and he glanced around in confusion — the totally fake and sarcastic version of it. "Don't know what you mean."

  The breath hissed out of me. "We need to talk."

  "Sure thing." He swung the door wide, gesturing for me to enter. "Always a pleasure. For both of us."

  His innuendo rankled, but I'd made a decision on the way over here. No matter what he said, I would not give him the satisfaction of unsettling me.

  I stalked past him into the spacious apartment, which could've fit my entire house and then some. Stark glass windows spanned one wall, floor to ceiling, for the whole length of the studio layout. Modern furniture — all glass and metal, with the occasional sterile white trim — sat in strategic places throughout the apartment. Unfortunately, I knew this place very well. I made a beeline for the only semi-comfortable chair around, a chrome number with white leather upholstery and minimal cushioning. My tailbone smarted the second I perched on the chair.

  Presley ambled to the nearest window, braced one hand on the metal frame, and crossed one ankle over the other. His shrewd gaze landed on me. "Ready to dump Scotch Tape and come back to America?"

  "Come off it, Presley. You don't want me back any more than I want to get back together with you. I was your scapegoat, nothing more."

  "Huh." He rapped his fingers on the metal window frame. "Can't imagine what you mean."

  "Why did you steal the money in the first place? You're rich, you sure as hell don't need it."

  "Don't know what you're talking about."

  Okay, I hadn't expected him to confess his guilt and vow to straighten out the whole mess, but I had at least hoped… I don't know. Some kind of hint he might actually feel bad about what he'd done, deep down, on a subconscious level. We had dated for three months. Was a smidgen of remorse too much to ask for? Not that I wanted him back. No way, not ever. But I needed closure.

  I just managed to keep my shoulders from deflating. "Did you ever even like me? Just a teeny bit? Or was it all one long con?"

  He eyed me sideways, that calculating gleam in his eyes. "Don't know —"

  "Oh please." I sprang to my feet, every muscle tensed as if for a fight, and glowered at him. "Quit pretending you're clueless. We both know what you did. You seduced me so you could set me up as your patsy, and holy mackerel, you did a bang-up job of it."

  Those lips, the ones I'd kissed so many times — ew — ticked down at one corner for the briefest moment. He turned his gaze to the vista outside, the skyscrapers and Lake Michigan in the distance. His fingers rapped on the glass like a drum roll. When he spoke, his voice was taut as a high-tension wire. "It wasn't personal."

 
; A harsh laugh exploded out of me. "You have got to be kidding me. Sex is as personal as it gets."

  The memory of Lachlan flashed in my mind right then, in a montage of every time we'd been together. Nothing personal, that was our agreement. Yet I'd told Presley the truth. For me, sex was intensely personal. I swallowed a groan. What a time for an epiphany about my current, er, situation. The realization pierced me deep, right in the heart. Lachlan was more than my casual lover, at least to me.

  Next stop, self-destruction station. Disembarking in ten minutes.

  Presley frowned at me, his gaze flicking over my purse. "What you got in there? You're holding onto it like the thing's gonna fly away."

  I loosened my fingers, which I still had clamped around the purse strap. "Answer me one question. Why me?"

  He stared at me like I'd spoken Swahili.

  "Why me?" I repeated. "Lots of girls to choose from in the office. You could've found a perky ditz who wears miniskirts to work — you know, your usual type."

  Eyes narrowing, he glanced at my purse again. His lips puckered.

  I hugged the purse closer. "What is your problem?"

  He stomped to me, lunged down into a squat, and spoke directly to my purse. "In case Erica's recording this, anything I say from here on is under duress because my crazy ex — Erica Teague, the embezzler — is behaving in a threatening way. I had no knowledge of her stealing money from moldy old farts."

  Presley looked up at me with a self-satisfied smile.

  I scuffled backward a couple steps. "My purse is not a surveillance device, you moron."

  He rose, stretching and yawning. "Just covering my ass. Since you won't do that for me anymore."

  "Grow up." I shook my head, jaw so tense it hurt. "Answer my question. Why me?"

  "Isn't it obvious?"

  "No."