by Anna Durand
British? Technically, I supposed I was British — as in a resident of Great Britain — but every American I'd met called me Scottish. She seemed unaware of the difference, or unable to differentiate a Scots brogue from an English accent.
Another reason this brash woman was not for me, even for a single night.
Her hips swayed provocatively as she moved away from me.
I stood frozen in the spot where she'd left me, watching with tightening brows while the girl I'd rejected approached another man. He wore a hip-hugging kilt with a ragged-edged, sleeveless shirt. The woman leaned in close — to make another direct offer, no doubt. The man slipped his arm around her waist and led her past the bar toward the dance floor.
For a moment, I considered leaving the club. Spending the night alone in a house that belonged to my American friend, Gil, sounded better with each passing second. I forced myself to scan the club with my gaze, though I held out little hope I'd spy a woman worthy of my interest. Had I expected to find an intelligent, down-to-earth woman in an underground club? Bloody eejit ye are, Lachlan.
Yesterday, I'd spotted a lovely woman tending to her rose bushes in front of the house next door to Gil's, but I hadn't approached her. I wanted a casual fling, not a relationship. A woman like her, she'd want more. I shook my head at my own arrogance. How could I know a woman's nature based on the way she tended roses? Yet something about her — the way she snipped and trimmed the bushes with exquisite care, her focus entirely on them, her expression soft and almost wistful — had made me want to know her.
I did know something about her, aside from her skill at gardening. My neighbor for the next month was Erica Teague. Gil had told me as much. I couldn't introduce myself to her, no matter how much the bonnie brunette intrigued me.
A scunner of a man bumped into me, his bleary gaze flashing to me, and muttered a slurred apology before shuffling off.
I frowned, but then my gaze traveled to the bar — and my pulse accelerated.
There she was. Erica Teague.
She perched on a high stool, her feet dangling above the floor. The thin, dangerously high heels she wore gave her slender ankles an enticing curve. Her dress was the color of fresh cherries on the vine, ripe for the plucking. The hem must've ridden up when she climbed onto the stool, because it revealed most of her thigh, her creamy skin deliciously appealing. I let my attention wander up her body, over those womanly hips and her narrow waist, up to the plunging neckline of her dress. It exposed the inner slopes of those creamy, lush breasts.
Lust gripped me so hard I lost my breath. Erica was a decadent feast for the eyes. I hungered to savor her body, from her dainty toes to her flat stomach to her graceful eyebrows— and everywhere in between.
She lifted a brandy snifter and gulped down a mouthful. Her eyes drifted half closed for a heartbeat, then fluttered open as her lips formed a little smile of satisfaction. Her breasts heaved as if she'd pulled in a deep breath, completely sated.
Heat rushed through me, shortening my breaths.
Donnae stand here gawping, ye eejit. Get over there and speak to the lass.
I shouldn't. From Gil's description of Erica, she wasn't the sort to sign on for a one-night fling, and besides, we'd be neighbors for the month.
My feet had a mind of their own. They propelled me across the club toward her, and my pulse beat faster, harder, every thud of it pulsing through my veins.
Erica hopped off her stool.
The dress flounced around her thighs, kissing the tops of her knees. I'd never paid much mind to a woman's knees, but hers were… enchanting.
I reached her just as she tottered on her impossibly tall heels. With both hands, I took hold of her upper arms. The feel of her soft, warm skin had me swallowing hard. The scent of her enveloped me, evocative of roses and sweet soap and woman.
"Easy there," I said, steadying her.
She angled her head back, stretching her neck to aim her shimmering hazel eyes at me. The green flecks in them sparkled in the muted white lights of the bar, and even when the strobes splashed over her, they couldn't diminish the striking beauty of her eyes. Her chestnut hair flowed down to her shoulders, tumbling over them just far enough to trigger an urge to run my tongue over every millimeter of skin her hair touched.
Erica raked her gaze over me from head to toe. The pink tip of her tongue poked out between her lips, moistening them with a quick sweep.
"It's you, Erica," I said, like a bloody moron.
Her lips puckered briefly, then she said, "And it's you."
She sounded uncertain. Had she seen me watching her yesterday through the living-room window in Gil's house?
Erica brought out a phone and tilted it toward me, tapping one of her wee fingers on the screen. "It's eight thirty-nine."
"Quite the timekeeper, eh?" Maybe she had a fetish about always knowing the time. Gil hadn't mentioned anything of the sort.
Erica shimmied her shoulders to push my hands off her arms. "I've been here for thirty-nine minutes. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Had my luck not changed at all? I found a woman who stirred my desires, but she turned out to be a nutter. A beautiful, disarmingly quirky nutter.
She was staring at me, mouth tight, waiting for my response.
What had she said? Something about the time and didn't I care about it.
"Not really," I said, allowing myself to revel in the vision of her one more time. "Except your bum's oot the windae."
Her mouth fell open. Her hands rose, then fell to her sides again.
"Buckled, are you?" I asked. Drunkenness might explain her odd behavior. I wanted her to be sane, so I could quench this lust without feeling I'd taken advantage of a slightly deranged woman.
Aidan would've loved this. He enjoyed calling me uptight, though I knew it was teasing, not a criticism. Among the MacTaggarts, brothers and sisters and cousins alike, Rory was the most uptight by far. Still, the idea of me, the oldest and most serious, drowning in my lust for a woman I'd just met would've given Aidan a smug satisfaction.
Younger brothers were a trial, for certain.
Erica, the disarming bampot, spread her arms wide. "Do you see any buckles or belts on this dress?"
I chuckled in spite of myself. "I meant are you drunk, lass?"
"Me?" She snorted, and even that sound made me burn to kiss her. She waved a hand, dismissing my question. "No. Never."
My hope for inebriation as the stimulus for her behavior evaporated. Maybe I should double check.
I slanted toward her, and the feminine scent of her enveloped me again. My God, this woman was the embodiment of everything I'd wanted in a lover for the night. Stay with me tonight, I wanted to say. Share my bed, Erica, let me crawl over your body to lick and suckle and nibble your sweet flesh.
"Your eyes look all right," I told her.
Despite my every impulse compelling me to do the opposite, I pulled away from her.
"What?" she said, her forehead crinkling.
"Pupils get dilated when a person's drunk. Yours look normal and your breath is fine, so I'm assuming you aren't buckled after all."
"Gee, thanks. Why —"
"Let me buy you a drink." I gestured to the bartender, wondering why the bloody hell I was suggesting she consume more alcohol. I should've walked away and left the lass alone. Instead, I told her, "In the name of neighborliness and all."
She stared blankly at me.
I picked up her brandy snifter and swirled the amber liquid.
Erica canted her head, observing me with the confused curiosity of someone who'd encountered a strange new species of animal for the first time.
All of her, even her confusion, bewitched me.
I feigned disgust at her choice of liquor, wrinkling my nose.
"Brandy? That's a bairn's drink." I set the glass on the bar. "You're in a club. Have a real drink with me."
Erica leaned that body against
the bar, rolling her shoulders back. Her breasts bounced a little, enough to make my breath hitch and my cock jerk.
"Sure," she said. "What did you have in mind?"
If only she knew the real answer, the one I didn't dare speak, she would've run out the door as fast as her shapely legs could carry her.
Dirty old man, Lachlan, for certain.
Book 2 Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Aidan's Version of Chapter One
Chapter One
I marched down the hallway toward the swinging double doors that led out into the main part of the nightclub, pausing inches from the doors to consider my mission — track down a wayward male stripper. Seriously. My cousin Tara had begged me to "please-please-please" find the exotic dancer who was supposed to be the highlight of tonight's entertainment. Modern bachelorette parties, Tara had assured me, must include a striptease. And our entertainment was late.
She'd neglected to mention my maid of honor duties involved corralling the star of the show.
Just call me Calli Douglas, stripper wrangler.
Behind me, the cheering and laughter of female voices sifted down the hallway. The bridal party had gathered inside a private back room of the club, Dance Ardor, for a wild girls' night before the wedding tomorrow. The room's closed door couldn't fully contain the raucous sounds of revelry.
I glanced back, sighed, and pushed through the doors, out into the club. Thumping bass beats vibrated through the floor and my body. Strobe lights in shades of violet, indigo, and scarlet crisscrossed the cavernous space, once a warehouse but now an underground club. Their beams stroked across the dance floor and out onto the high tables arrayed around the floor atop a raised platform.
A draft chilled the bare skin of my back, shoulders, and arms. The neckline of my emerald-green halter dress plunged low enough to expose the entire inner slopes of my breasts. The dress hugged my hips, flaring out partway down my thighs but stopping well above my knees. Tara had insisted on buying me a new dress for tonight as well as the matching strappy heels I wore.
Rubbing my arms, I wondered how to find the man I sought. Maybe I should've run through the club yelling "here, stripper-stripper-stripper."
I discarded that plan and headed down the semi-circular platform that surrounded the dance floor, passing table after table occupied by laughing groups and cuddling couples. On the floor, more couples writhed and thrust their hips, arms raised above their heads or hanging loose at their sides in displays of wanton abandon. One woman had plastered her body to her slender partner, who clasped her buttocks to keep their hips locked together.
This wasn't my kind of scene. I would've rather stayed home in the woods of far northern Michigan, playing with my two six-month-old puppies. But I wouldn't miss Tara's wedding, no matter how much I disliked parties.
Scanning the club, I hunted for a man who looked like a stripper. Trouble was, every male in here could've qualified — the women too. My dress, the sexiest I'd ever worn, seemed downright dowdy next to the barely there attire of every other female in the place. I halted, raising onto tiptoes to get a better view of the opposite side of the club. All the men over there had partners, whom they were kissing or fondling amid the shadows, while the strobes swept over them in a dizzying blur of colors.
Swerving my gaze away, I started off again.
And slammed into a hard body.
With a yelp, I flung my hands up. They landed on a massive chest sheathed in a cobalt-blue shirt. The sight of tanned skin revealed by two open buttons riveted my attention. Muscles flexed under my fingers as the stranger laid his warm palms over my hands.
"Well now," the stranger drawled, his voice deep and husky, "I've been looking for a bonnie lass, but I didn't expect to literally run into one."
His accent. It was… Scottish? I stumbled backward, out of his grasp, and blinked rapidly. He wore a kilt fashioned from a blue-and-green tartan laced with orange lines. His shirt clung to his muscled torso, and the short sleeves hugged his impressive biceps. Honey-brown leather boots, stylishly scuffed, covered his large feet.
I swung my gaze to his face, and my heart stuttered. Eyes the color of sapphires watched me, glittering in the pulsing lights. His gaze traveled the length of me, his eyes narrowing and then widening as he took in my dress and everything it exposed. My strappy heels boosted my height by a few inches, but I still had to tilt my head back to meet the Scotsman's eyes.
He brushed a lock of hair away from my face. "Your dress brings out the green of your eyes. But this lighting can't do justice to your beautiful red hair."
My voice had abandoned me at the sight of him and those muscle-bound legs revealed below the kilt. Too bad the kilt concealed his thighs, because I would've bet the entirety of my meager savings they were thick and strong too.
But who wore a kilt in a nightclub? He had to be the stripper. But why was the entertainment hitting on me? Maybe this was part of the show. I'd never met a stripper before, so I had no idea.
I couldn't tear my gaze away from the view of his powerful legs, all sinew and sun-kissed, golden skin dusted with fine brown hairs a shade darker than the chestnut hair that curled around his ears. The wavy locks, longish but not too long, glistened in the strobing lights. My fingers twitched, anxious to dive into those locks and discover their silky softness. And God created man for woman to lick.
Oh. Dear. Lord. I was turning into a sex-crazed bridesmaid, just like the rest of them.
He angled his head to study my face. "You're the one I've been looking for, I think."
I smoothed my dress, cleared my throat, and lifted my chin. Had to, in order to meet his gaze. The man was enormous.
"Are you looking for the party?" I asked.
His lips slid into a wicked grin. "Aye."
No idea what that meant, but it sounded like assent. I bit my lip, eying his kilt. Tara had mentioned wanting a "hot fireman," but she'd let her ditzy friend Sienna arrange the entertainment. Sienna must've gotten the order wrong.
"You're not a firefighter," I said.
His forehead crinkled in the most disarming way. "I didn't realize American women are so specific about what they want."
"As long as you look good without your clothes, you'll do."
Chestnut eyebrows shot up over his blue eyes. "You're direct, aren't you? Yes, I've been told I look quite good naked."
"Naked?" I glanced down at his kilt. "Please tell me you're wearing a G-string under that thing. That's the protocol, isn't it?"
"A G-string protocol?" He laughed, shaking his head. "You're adorable, but I'm beginning to think you're off your head."
"Are you calling me crazy?" When he opened his mouth to answer, I raised a hand palm out to silence him. "Never mind. Come with me."
I turned away, crooking a finger to beckon him to follow.
"Ah, las
s," the Scot all but purred, "I'll follow ye anywhere, even if ye are a bampot."
"Whatever, just hurry up." I headed for the doorway to the club's inner sanctum, Scot in tow. I swore I could feel his gaze on my back, appraising me with sultry interest. My stomach fluttered again as if it had grown wings and desperately wanted to fly to my new friend. Latch on. Take a nibble. I glanced back at him, pushed by an irresistible urge. Those lustrous eyes zeroed in on mine, and my mouth went dry. What is wrong with me?
He smiled, slow and sensual. "After the party, may I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink. Not morally opposed or anything, but I've never tasted an alcoholic beverage I liked."
"Water is a drink, you know." He peered down the hallway past me. "Where are we headed?"
"The party, of course." I scrunched my eyebrows, wondering why he asked. Didn't the agency tell him what he was in for tonight? Well, they might've omitted the part about a gaggle of lustful, liquored-up women. Realizing he'd slowed down, falling a few paces behind, I waved for him to pick up speed. "Come on, they're waiting."
"They?"
"It's a party." I tried not to sound sarcastic, but really. Was he gorgeous but utterly dense or what? "Just come along, will you?"
"Aye." He strode up alongside me as we pushed through the swinging door. His hand drifted up to my arm and skated over my skin, forging a tempting trail up to my bare shoulder. "I'm yours to command."
"Um…" I stumbled to a halt, helpless to look away from him. My breaths had grown labored again. I couldn't think, my senses overpowered by the scent of his dark, spicy cologne. Sex in a bottle, that stuff was. I lifted my face to stare into his shimmering, curious eyes. His fingers caressed my shoulder with a feather-light touch as he leaned in ever so slightly, his lips curved up at the corners, his eyes searing into mine. All the pertinent parts of my body tightened, ached, or tingled. No, it wasn't the cologne. He was sex incarnate.
I cleared my throat, shaking off his hand. "Where were you, anyway? I've been looking everywhere."
His brows rose as his lips parted. "Have ye, then?"
"Yes." I seized his arm — my breath caught at the feel of his warm, pliant flesh and the hard muscles beneath it — and tugged. "Get a move on."
