The wooden floor remained silent beneath her, but as she neared a doorway, the croaking came again, louder and more distinct this time—a moan, long and low. What the hell?
The door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of light peeking through the crack and kissing her toes. Cassie dropped to her heels and glanced around the hall. She was completely alone. Since there wasn’t any of the dreaded velvet rope blocking her way, she pushed the door all the way open and cautiously entered the room.
Golden August sunlight sparkled on floating dust motes, filtering across the wooden planks of the floor in shadowy patterns made by the beveled lead dividing the glass of the tall windows. An ancient four-poster bed stood in the center of the room, shrouded with thick, hunter-green curtains. All right, Cassie promised herself, if the noises are coming from that bed, you have permission to haul ass out of here. As if on cue, another groan filled the room, hollow and haunting.
The good news? The sound was definitely not coming from the bed. She shivered with a freaky combination of relief and apprehension. The groan had come from the other side of the room, where a massive bookcase filled most of one wall.
On a hunch, she crossed the room and ran her fingers slowly over the bookshelves. Nothing happened. “What did you expect, Nancy Drew?” she chided herself. “A hidden spring revealing a secret passage?”
“Who goes there?” A hoarse Scottish burr rolled from behind the wall.
Still gripping one of the shelves, Cassie stumbled sideways and the entire bookcase moved with her, sliding open like a closet door. “Holy shit!”
“For shame, lass. What a tongue ye have,” a husky voice growled.
She peered around the edge of the bookcase. A man sat in the recessed space, one shoulder propped against the inner wall of what appeared to be a passageway. His legs were sprawled in front of him—his bare legs.
Would you look at that? The man is wearing a kilt.
Note to self: Cassie Crow—be careful what you wish for.
The man groaned again and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight now cutting across the hidden alcove.
“Are you all right?”
“I will be fine once ye douse that blasted light.” He squinted up at her. “Be ye a new chambermaid?”
Chambermaid? She eyed the wide sleeves and open neck of the old-fashioned piratey shirt he wore. “Not sure what kind of weird-ass stuff you’re into buddy, but I don’t do RPG.”
“Weird … ass?” His dark red brows drew together as he shaped his mouth around the letters. “Are pee gee?”
“Role playing games. You know, like cosplay or whatever.” She pointed at him. “Look, you’re the one wearing that get-up and talking like a reject from Macbeth.”
He narrowed his eyes at her finger. “Be ye a witch?”
“What did you call me?”
With another groan, he lurched forward. Oh God, what if he was hurt? For all she knew he was a member of some historic castle tour who got lost in a back passageway and hit his head. She leaned down to inspect him for bruises.
He threw a hand out, palm up, warding her off. “Back away, sorceress,” he hissed.
“Seriously?” She slapped his hand out of the way. “Here, let me help you out of there.” Cassie tugged gently on his shoulder. The voluminous shirt was loose, but she could feel—and appreciate—the thick spread of muscle beneath the soft fabric.
Just my luck, I finally run into a hot Highlander, and he’s delusional.
The man waved off her assistance and struggled to his feet, shaking a wild tousle of thick, red hair out of his eyes. Cassie never fancied herself to be a ginger girl, but it worked on him … or maybe that was the kilt talking. She eyed the swath of plaid fabric wrapped around his hips and wondered, like any female in her position would, what might or might not be under there. Reluctantly, she raised her gaze and caught him scrutinizing her in return.
“What be these strange breeks ye wear?” he asked, moving in a circle around her.
Cassie swore she could feel the weight of each of his eyeballs resting on her denim-clad backside. Fair enough. After a prolonged moment, she glanced over her shoulder. “Get a good look?”
“Aye.” He swallowed. “’Tis most unseemly, lass.” He shook his head, gaze still glued to her ass.
“They’re called jeans.” She pivoted to face him. “Are you for real?”
He met her gaze, his answer falling from his lips in a deep, rich brogue with trilling r’s that curled her toes, “Aye, lass, I’m real.”
Cassie’s heart hiccupped. Of course he’s real. Unless those shots were stronger than I thought. “Were you at the whisky tasting?”
“Whisky?” His green-gold eyes lit with interest. “Do ye have whisky for me, then? I could use a wee dram. Be a good lass and fetch it for me.”
“Ha! I think you’ve had enough, mister. Is that how you ended up stuck in there?” Even as she said this, Cassie doubted it. She didn’t smell a hint of alcohol on him, though she did pick up other pleasant smells. Mint and clove and man and … Stop being ridiculous.
His broad shoulders lifted and dropped. “I dinna ken.”
“How long were you in there?”
Another shrug.
Cassie dragged her attention away from the wide curve of his shoulders and leaned past him, inspecting the dark, narrow space behind the bookshelf.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, panic edging his voice. “Nay, lass. Doona be going in there.”
“Why not?” She inched forward and tried to get a better look.
“It canna be safe.” He tugged on her wrist again, his fingers warm and firm.
Tiny butterflies danced along the path where his skin touched hers. She brushed away the tingling sensation and slipped out of his grip, careful not to snag her bracelet. “Well, you were in there, and you appear to have managed.”
“Are ye daft, wench? I was trapped!”
She sniffed, not sure she liked being referred to as a wench, and frowned up at him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
He closed his eyes and slumped against the shelf. “I canna recall anything afore the moment I woke to find myself crammed within yonder wall.” He blinked and focused intently on her. “The moment I found you, lass.”
Cassie decided she liked being called lass much better than wench, especially when he was looking at her like that. Gazes locked, her other senses sharpened, heightening her awareness of his body and its proximity to hers. She cleared her throat. “Hm. I think it’d be more accurate to say I’m the one who found you.” Telling herself she was only searching for injuries, she reached up and tentatively skimmed her palms along his temples, her fingers trailing his scalp.
“Looking for devil’s horns?” The man cocked one wicked brow at her as he raised his arms to mirror her movements, running his hands over her head and shoulders before brushing his palms down her back. “Ye’ve naught got any fairy wings, so I’d say we’re even. In fact,” he whispered against her hair, standing so close the low burr of his voice became a purr in her own chest, “ye feel perfect to me.”
Like the migrating monarchs her dad studied, the butterflies made a return trip, enveloping her in a fluttery haze. She shivered. Whether it was the Scot or the scotch or both, Cassie didn’t care. He was here and she was here, and damn it all, it was about time she skipped to the good stuff. With a forceful mental click, Cassie turned off her brain, tilted her chin up, and caught his mouth with hers.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat, of protest or surprise, she wasn’t sure. But then his hands settled at her waist, and he returned the kiss. His mouth was somehow soft and hard at the same time, and when he slipped his tongue between her lips, she felt more lightheaded than if she’d downed every shot of whisky that had been on that tasting list.
Cassie rolled her tongue against his, savoring the delicious contact. He met her thrust for thrust, deepening the kiss until she was swept away on a tidal wave of desire.
This. This is what I’ve been waiting for. She clung to him, hands gripping his shoulders, swimming in sensation, drowning in it.
In response, he gripped her tighter, clenching the waistband of her jeans in his fingers. Shifting his hips, invading her space. The possessive move sent a jolt of heat between her legs, which in turn jostled her brain enough to send a random scrap of common sense bobbing to the surface.
“Time out,” she breathed. She stepped back and shook her head. But when she looked up, Mr. Sexy Kilt was still standing there, still staring at her with those green-gold eyes. For a moment, Cassie indulged in the fantasy that had been building in the back of her mind ever since she’d first discovered him. Looking at his big, kilted body, it was all too easy to cast him as a warrior from long ago. A Highland hero sent forward in time to find his true love.
But that was the plot of her favorite romance novels. Unfortunately, this was real life, and brawny, beautiful men in kilts did not magically appear from behind hidden walls. And Cassie did not plant her lips on said brawny, beautiful men—not in real life, anyway.
In fantasy land … hell yeah, she did.
Cassie laughed at the utter absurdity of the situation. He grinned in response, white teeth flashing. Something about his smile snagged her thoughts. “Who are you?”
“I dinna ken that either.” He closed the gap she’d created between them. “But perhaps,” his gaze dropped to her mouth, “if you kiss me again, I might remember.”
“Ah, not happening.” She took another step back.
“Willna you help me?”
“Help you do what?”
“Figure out who I am.” He placed both his hands over his heart. “The Fates sent you to me, lass. Mayhap you know the answer.” His words were spoken with sincerity, but she caught a hint of mischief hiding in the corner of his mouth, making him look like a naughty frat boy.
Why does he seem so familiar? She narrowed her eyes, tossing up the niggling sense of recognition to the fact he looked like he stepped right off the cover of one of the many Celtic time-travel romances on her keeper shelf. “Well, I know what you’re not.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I know you are not some time-traveling Highlander.”
“Time travel? So ye are a witch, then? A sorceress?” He closed the gap again. “Aye, that must be it, for surely I’ve been bespelled.”
He licked his lips. Yes, she stared. Yes, she noticed he had a very nice mouth, the upper lip chiseled and quick to quirk into a naughty grin, the lower lip full and begging to be caught between her teeth. Focus. She ordered her lady parts to stand down. She needed to think.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out something weird was going on. Even three sheets to the wind, or at least three shots, the man’s archaic outfit still had Cassie wondering if he was part of a castle tour or dramatic reenactment or something—but why the hell would he be hiding in a wall?
And that accent. She’d be the first to admit her weakness for Celtic brogue, but his speech pattern bordered on the absurd. The whole thing seemed like some kind of joke, a stunt the staff might pull on random tourists, or a prank …
Shit.
She glared at him, 100 percent annoyed for not recognizing him sooner. It was that smile of his that first tipped her off, the look of mischief she knew she’d seen before. The encounter with the woman in a headset from the hall swam through Cassie’s rapidly sobering brain. She wanted to kick herself. Better yet, she wanted to kick him. “I don’t believe it.”
He leaned closer and brushed a finger across her cheek. “Doona believe what, lass? Ye can tell me.”
Oh, he was good. But he seemed oblivious to her shift in mood. Fine with her. She peeked up at him and fluttered her eyelashes, hoping she looked demure as she lifted her hand and placed it over his. “You’re right. I do know who you are.”
“Aye?”
“Aye” she mimicked and squeezed his hand tightly, quelling the urge to knock his wicked frat-boy grin sideways. “You’re Logan fucking Reid.”
His face fell as her words registered, but he recovered in seconds. Barely missing a beat, he pulled his hand out of her grip and pounded a fist against the wall, shouting, “Cut!”
CHAPTER 2
THE ROOM ERUPTED in controlled chaos. The moment Logan pulled the plug on the scene, a crowd of people poured through the door. Janet, his sister and coproducer, led the hustle, shouting orders over her headset. Two lads pulled mics from strategic hiding places while another worked on dismantling the stationary cameras.
One of the crew ripped a cord too hard, and it clipped some fancy wee table. Logan frowned, but before he could ream the man out, Janet was on him. Logan almost felt sorry for the bloke. His sister was a tyrant. However, the last thing Logan needed was someone from the historical society coming after him for a ding in one of their antiques.
Not to mention the hefty damage deposit on the line. Filming in a real castle had its risks, but for this prank to work, he and Janet had agreed it needed to be shot on location. He’d called in a few favors to book this site for his latest escapade. It had been a close call when the mark had poked her head into the passageway and nearly saw the crew, but he’d managed to distract her.
And Christ, what a distraction.
Not that he was complaining. The lass could kiss. She had to be from the States. Everything about her shouted American, from the rounded accent in her direct way of speaking, to the rounded curve of her ass, and the cut and color of her “breeks.”
Logan turned to catch another look at the girl’s fine backside, grinning as he replayed how she’d glanced over her shoulder, a challenge in her dark eyes when she called him out for eyeballing her bum. Now she stood across the room, trying to exit, her path blocked by Janet, who hovered in the doorway, clipboard in hand. All business, Janet was. His sister made an excellent coproducer, her militant attention to detail the perfect counterpoint to what she liked to call Logan’s creative lunacy.
“Abso-freaking-lutley not.” Over the din of his crew he could hear the lass clearly as she shoved Janet’s clipboard away. “There is no way in hell I am signing any waivers.”
She’s going to be prickly about it. He grimaced. Many of his marks were reluctant at first, but they always came around. If Janet couldn’t bully the lass into signing the release, he’d have to charm her into it. Because there was no way Logan was giving up. Though the prank had tanked at the last minute when she’d recognized him, the rest of the sketch had played out perfectly. Better than any of the other takes that day. They’d caught a lucky break when Janet had run across the lass in the hall.
Logan crossed the room, watching the girl’s body tense as Janet continued to natter on about releases and permissions and would “Miss” please look at the contract?
“No, Miss will not look at the contract,” the lass snarled.
Before his sister ended up taking a clipboard to the head, he stepped between the women. The lass turned her dagger glare on him. Her dark eyes, smoky sexy only a little while ago, now burned with fury. Logan swore he felt his eyebrows singe. Time to defuse this wee firecracker. He smiled. “My apologies. Janet can be relentless.”
“Well, she can stop wasting her time. I’m not signing anything.”
“I heard you before.” He glanced around the room. “I think we all did, aye?” The activity was starting to die down. Most of the equipment had been bundled and the crew was now loading the bulky crates onto a dolly.
Logan tried another smile, the lopsided one that always seemed to charm even the testiest mark. “I’d introduce myself, but seems you already know who I am.”
She made a face like she’d caught a whiff of something foul. Logan had the unpleasant sensation it was him.
“Yeah, I know who you are.” She crossed her arms and pinned him with a few more daggers. “Logan Reid, devil-may-care internet host and notorious hooligan.”
“Hooligan? That’s a wee harsh.” He chuckled. “I take it you’ve seen some of
my work?” Pride and pleasure washed over him. He was thrilled this lovely woman had heard of him. Maybe Janet was right—maybe Shenanigans could generate the kind of interest they needed from the female demographic to land that telly deal.
“I’ve seen enough.” She shrugged. “Snarky interviews with B-list celebrities, karaoke with bands desperate for promo spots, and a lot of juvenile pranks in silly costumes.” Her dark eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him again, though sadly her gaze held none of the flirty interest it had the first time she’d taken him in. “Is that a wig?”
“What?”
She made a grab for his head, and he backed up.
“Hey!” He ran his fingers through his hair, distracted by the punch of lust to his gut when she’d touched him the same way earlier. “This red mess is all me, I assure you. But you’re right, I usually have a more, ah, elaborate costume for my sketches.” He leaned toward her and widened his smile. She couldn’t resist his charm forever. “How’d you know it was me?”
She tapped him on the chin. “Your snarky, shit-eating grin gave you away.”
Logan felt his mouth go slack. She slipped her finger under his chin and flicked, closing his mouth for him. “Sorry if I blew your cover.”
The saccharine tone of her voice told him she was anything but. He decided to change tactics. “It’s no problem. You did a lovely job.” He glanced at his sister for confirmation. “Aye, Janet?”
“Can’t say the same for you, loon.” His sister stuck a finger in her mouth and made a gagging sound. “That was some of the most god-awful brogue I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.” She shifted her attention to the girl. “But you? You were fabulous. We got some great footage.” Janet turned back to Logan. “This is the one. I know it.” His sister buzzed with excitement. “The kilt. That kiss! Gold. The 18–49 demo is ours.”
Logan could almost see the streams of data flowing through Janet’s brain as she crunched web analytics. He fist-bumped his sister and whooped in triumph.
“Keep your kilt on.” The girl shook her head and tossed her hair, a lovely dark brown almost the same shade as the chestnuts his family roasted at Hogmanay. “I wouldn’t celebrate yet.” She put her hands on her hips.
Getting Hot with the Scot--A Sometimes in Love Novel Page 2
