by Anna Durand
"Gimme a break," I said. "First, you try to force me to let you inside. Then, we catch you spying through my bedroom window. And to cap things off, you've broken into my house."
"Did not."
"Stop lying. I don't swallow your crap anymore." I stalked up to him. "I know you broke in."
He jutted his chin up, nose high in the air. "Prove it."
What pissed me off the most was that he was right. I couldn't prove it. If I called the cops, his family would call in a team of lawyers as twisted and scummy as Presley. They'd make me out to be the villain. After all, I was an embezzler who stole from the elderly.
Lachlan aimed a questioning look at me. "Did ye call the police?"
I rubbed my arm, shoulders hunched. "No."
Presley sniggered. "She knows."
Lachlan wrenched Presley's hands so hard the worm whimpered, his face contorted in pain. "What do ye mean she knows?"
I sidled closer to Lachlan and laid a hand on his bicep. "Let him go."
"What?" Lachlan shook his head and huffed out sharp little breaths. "Ye cannae mean it. This bastard is tormenting ye."
"Yeah, I know, but you have to let him go." The words left a sour taste in my mouth. I squeezed his arm. "Please, Lachlan. I'll explain everything later."
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression hardening. I kept my hand on his arm and my gaze locked on his, willing him to trust me. He shoved Presley away. The golden boy of the Cichon dynasty sprinted out of the house.
Lachlan pulled me into his arms. Tears welled in my eyes, but I summoned all my self-control to banish them. The back of my throat hurt. I expected to see blood pouring out of a hole in my chest, where my heart should've been. His hands warmed my face, his thumbs tracing circles on my cheekbones. "Why, lass? What hold does he have on you?"
"There's a lot to explain." Spots on my cream-colored sofa snagged my attention. Blood stains. I scratched my arm, besieged by a sudden itch deep under my skin. "Would you mind if we continued this conversation in the bedroom?"
Lachlan ushered me down the hallway, shutting the front door along the way. The time had come to divulge everything to him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lachlan slouched on the bed, his back to the headboard, his long legs stretched out before him. I huddled beside him, inches away, though it felt like a vast and fathomless canyon separated us. My feet tucked under me, I sat angled toward him. My fingers moved of their own volition, tapping and rubbing against each other. I shoved them under my legs. I leaned one shoulder against the headboard.
Lachlan settled a hand on my knee. "You owe me no explanations."
"Yes I do." The impulse to push his hand away surged inside me, but I fought it back. His touch both comforted and unsettled me and I couldn't reconcile the warring emotions that boiled inside me. If he'd opened his arms to me, I would've climbed onto his lap and drowned myself in his kiss one more time. Stay strong. He deserves to know the truth.
"Lachlan — " My throat seized up and cut off my words. Why was this so hard?
He squeezed my knee. In the depths of his luminous eyes, I glimpsed an understanding I'd never witnessed before, from anyone. The words flowed out of me.
"I'm in trouble. It's bad, and I don't see any way out of it." I shifted my weight and then realized I'd unconsciously edged closer to him. He ran his hand up to my thigh, and the sight of it snared my focus, robbing me of words for long moment before the trance evaporated. "I trusted the wrong man. He was one of those hot guys who turn into hot messes. He charmed me and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker — except this hook ripped me apart from the inside out."
Lachlan clasped my hands. His gaze never wavered from me.
"I was involved with Presley Cichon. He seduced me and I believed every honeyed word he fed me." I shook my head. "I should've known he was using me. Chicago's most eligible bachelor wouldn't date an accounting nerd."
"Nerd?" he spat, then pressed his lips to the back of my hand. "I told you never to call yourself that again. You are a stunning, sensual woman. The kind any man would be fortunate to take as a wife."
My heart stuttered. He'd said — Forget it. "Anyway, Presley comes from a rich family. Old money, the kind that buys anything and anyone, and I guess I let myself be seduce by the luxury of wealth too. I slept with him, gave him all my trust, let myself be happy with this amazing guy. Only he wasn't amazing." My shoulders crumpled. I listed forward and caught my forehead in my palm. My throat had thickened, agitating my words. "He was a goddamn fucking liar."
Stock-still, radiating tension, Lachlan cinched his mouth into a line. He said carefully, "What did he do to you?"
"I worked for his family's accounting firm, one of many businesses they own. His mother put him in charge of the firm after he got his MBA, because she thought the job would force him to grow up. That's where I met him." I brought other hand up to bolster my head with both hands, overcome by the sudden sensation heaviness, as if my head had morphed into a bowling ball. "I should've known better than to date my boss."
"You did nothing wrong."
"That's not what everyone else thinks." I wrested my hands free of his and gripped my upper arms. He settled a hand on my thigh, a comforting gesture I needed badly. "Presley embezzled a quarter of a million dollars from a dozen of the firm's clients, all of them senior citizens. He framed me for the crime. The day after I was arrested, when I got out on bond, Presley tracked me down and bragged about how he set me up. It was my word against his and the Cichon family is connected everywhere. I'm screwed." I hugged myself hard to ward off a soul-deep chill, but to no avail. "And it's my own fault."
Lachlan ground his teeth. His hand on my thigh curled into a fist.
"Presley kept asking to use my computer, said his was glitching, and I… I am such an idiot. I gave him the password for my work computer." Tears scorched my eyes, the hot liquid seeping through my lids. I sniffled and swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. "About a month ago, someone gave the police an anonymous tip that I was embezzling funds from the firm. Since Presley used my computer, it looked like I was guilty. I told the DA my suspicions about Presley, but there was no evidence. All of it pointed to me. When the shit hit the fan, Presley came out smelling like fresh linen and I stank of guilt." I sniffled, gulping down the bile that kept surging up into my throat. "I was fired. They're pursuing criminal charges. I found a lawyer to take me on pro bono, but she doesn't have the resources to investigate Presley. Odds are, I'll go to prison — unless I take a plea deal, which I will not do because it means admitting I'm guilty. So it's off to the big house for me."
Lachlan dragged me onto his lap, enfolding me in his brawny arms. He cradled me against his chest, my legs tucked under me. The tears spilled out. I buried my face in his neck and clung to him as if he were the last thread holding me together. He stroked my hair, murmuring words I couldn't understand, because my brain had shut down. I knew nothing except the strength of this man's body and the scent of his aftershave, the salty taste of my tears, and the beating of his pulse in his neck, throbbing under my lips.
"You're staying with me tonight, not here," he said, his tone decisive. "Then I'm hiring you the best bloody solicitor in the world."
I popped my head up, gazing at him through a blur of tears. "Solicitor?"
"A lawyer. To defend you."
Sniffling, I shook my head. "I like Doretta. I'm not firing her. And besides, I can't let you do that, I didn't tell you about this so you'd give me money. Considering you attacked Presley to protect me — three times — I needed to tell you the truth. But this is my mess, not yours."
"Wrong." He swaddled me in his arms, slanting his head to mine, our noses touching. "This is Presley Cichon's mess. And he will pay for what he's done. I'll make damn sure of it."
I rubbed out the tears and pushed off his lap. "You're leaving in four days."
"No." He swung his legs off the bed, his back to me, and snatched his phone off the tabl
e. "I won't leave until you're settled."
But he would still leave. What had I thought would happen? He'd profess his love and vow never to leave me? He said things like that only when he was half asleep and wouldn't remember it later.
While Lachlan made his call, I retreated into the bathroom. His voice rumbled through the door, his words inaudible but his determination clear. He was taking care of me. Fixing my mess. Why? I sagged against the door and slid to the floor, my butt striking the vinyl flooring, my palms flat on the cold surface. He needed to fix me so he could go home with a clear conscience, knowing he hadn't left me in the lurch. But he would abandon me. In four days or four months, it made no difference. A chunk of me would go with him, tearing out a bloody wound nothing could heal.
Head in my hands, I succumbed to sobs.
Presley destroyed my life. Why shouldn't Lachlan have the honor of shredding my heart and soul?
* * * * *
Ten minutes later, I slunk out of the bathroom, after splashing cold water on my face until my eyes were no longer red and puffy. The splashing had smeared my makeup, so I took another few minutes to repair the damage. Lachlan had witnessed enough of my weakness. From here on out, I would be stronger.
Lachlan wasn't in the bedroom. I wandered down the hallway into the living room. Not there either. I scanned the vicinity and spotted him in the kitchen, perched on a stool at the island with my laptop in front of him. His attention was riveted to the screen, his eyes darting side to side, his expression stern and focused. The bruise on his jaw had grown a lump. I crossed into the kitchen and nabbed a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Lachlan glanced at me only when I pressed the peas to his jaw.
He placed his hand over the bag as his focus swerved back to the computer. "Thank you."
I climbed onto the stool across from him. "What are you doing with my computer?"
"Not framing you for a crime, that's for certain."
The disgust in his voice summoned a memory of his muscles rippling when he clamped his arms around Presley's neck. Then there was the time he hoisted Presley off his feet. I sat up straighter, folding my arms on the island.
Lachlan arched an eyebrow. "What are you smiling for?"
Was I smiling? Well yes, I was. Thoughts of Lachlan pummeling Presley made me smile. Go figure. I broadened my smile into a grin. "I was remembering all the times you beat on Presley."
"And that makes you happy?"
"Mm-hm." I rotated my hips to swivel my stool back and forth. "Nobody's ever tackled anyone for me before. A chivalrous, attack-ready man like you must be very popular with the lasses in Scotland. No matter what we might say, women all fantasize about men who'll skelp scunners for us."
Lachlan rubbed his neck, averting his eyes. "I don't make a habit of it."
"Still, you must have to beat the ladies off with a caber."
He grimaced, then spun my laptop so the screen faced me. "I know what the bawbag was doing here."
I squinted at the screen. The web browser was open, displaying a travel booking website. "I don't get it."
"Look." He pointed at the middle of the screen. "Either you were planning a trip to Switzerland and paused in the midst of making the reservations to go on a road trip with me, or that filthy snake was making your travel arrangements for you."
By "filthy snake" I assumed he meant Presley. I couldn't recall Lachlan ever using my ex-lover's name, since he clearly preferred other epithets. I leaned forward to study the computer screen. It showed that not only had I opened an account on the travel website, but I'd started the process of booking a flight to Switzerland for tomorrow afternoon. "What's the point of this? I doubt he was surprising me with a free trip to Geneva."
"I found something else too." He held up a flash drive no bigger than his thumbnail. "I interrupted him before he could get this back. It was still plugged into your computer. The files on here would've made it look like you had a Swiss bank account with a quarter million dollars in it. I checked, but he didn't get a chance to transfer the files to your computer."
"That sneaky, conniving little scumbag." I stomped my foot on the stool rung. "Gah! No wonder he was so intent on getting into my house. He's not done framing me." I gripped the edge of the island. "I bet he was planning another anonymous tip to the police. Hey guys, she's about to bolt for a neutral country." I kicked the island. Pain shot through my foot. "My bail would be revoked. I'd have no chance of finding any evidence to implicate him."
"That will not happen." Lachlan stretched his arms across the island to cover my hands with his. "You have my word."
"Lachlan, I can't let you — "
"Aye, you can and you will." He pushed his shoulders back, his gaze pinned on me. "This is not charity. I help my friends when they're in need."
"Thought I was your fling."
He sandwiched my hands between his, overpowering my chill with his heat. "You are my gràidh, Erica. And I will help you whether you like it or not."
His authoritative tone brooked no argument and sent a charge through me. Whether I liked it or not? In that case… "Okay. I accept your money and your investigators and whatever you give me. I do want to keep Doretta as my lawyer, though."
"Fine."
"Thank you, Lachlan."
He strode around the island to pull me into his arms. Nestled against his chest, I felt my lips curving into a new smile as he combed his fingers through my hair. "Anything for you, mo leannan."
I shut my eyes, my arms padlocked around him, entranced by his firm body against mine and the way he'd murmured his Gaelic endearment. "Don't leave me, Lachlan. I love you."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
His fingers in my hair stilled. His breaths ceased, though his heartbeat pounded beneath my ear. How could I have been so stupid? I shook my head, hair flapping around my face. "I-I didn't mean to say that. Forget it. I'm still in shock from all the Presley stuff and I — "
"Hush, Erica." His soft words belied his physical tension. Faint lines creased his forehead. "I won't hold you to anything you say tonight."
A frenzy of fear and passion and need whirled inside me. The embarrassment of blurting out my feelings disintegrated as a realization stunned me like a spotlight in the pitch black. I wanted him to hold me to what I'd said. I wanted him to repeat what he'd said while falling asleep the other night. I wanted him with me always. I loved him, and I no longer gave a flying fig about his stupid rules.
Grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, I shook him. "You know what? Forget what I said about forgetting what I said."
"Your bum's oot the windae again."
"No." I raised onto tiptoes to level our gazes. "I love you, Lachlan. I don't want you to go home unless I can go with you. Stay with me, or take me with you."
He stared at me, face blank, for so long I thought he'd died standing upright. His eyes slid closed. His shoulders sagged, seeming to drag his chin down with them. He stumbled backward, arms raised partway, as if he needed to steady himself. He'd retreated so abruptly I lost my balance and careened into the island.
Lachlan hoisted his head up, his blue eyes bleak and glassy. He took a tentative step toward me, reaching out, but let his hand fall before he touched me. Both arms hung limp at his sides. "I'm sorry, Erica. I can't stay with you."
I shoved away from the island and rolled my shoulders back, chin lifted. "Yes, you can. If you want to." I rubbed my clammy palms on my jeans. The entire world seemed to stop, awaiting his answer to my next question. "Do you want to stay with me?"
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, almost rocking on his feet, and rubbed the back of his neck. His features crimped, but his eyes still had that bleakness in them. The sight of him so distraught made me want to hug him, which ticked me off. After the way he'd pestered me to tell him the truth, now he refused to grant me the same courtesy. I'd bared my heart and soul to him and he seemed on the verge of bolting.
"Well?" I demanded. "Do you want to be with me? D
o you love me?"
Though he ceased moving his body, his gaze swiveled toward me. His voice was rough, unsteady. "I cannae stay."
"Yes. You. Can."
"Aye." He dropped his chin to his chest, locking his hands behind his head. "I owe you no explanations, just as you owed me none."
The room tilted around me. Of course. That had been his preparation for avoiding any questions I asked. I will not cry. "Very clever. By telling me I owed you no explanations, you freed yourself from any similar obligations to me. Presley Cichon would approve."
A muscle leaped in his jaw. "I am nothing like him."
"Really." I rested a hand on the island's rim, tapping one finger on the surface. Nausea swelled in my gut and rose into my throat. "Why did you call me your woman? Why tell me I'm more than a fling, I'm your gràidh? What the hell was all that about?"
"You are more."
"I'm beginning to understand why your ex-wife thinks you're a bastard."
He flinched. "Donnae talk about things ye cannae understand."
"Then explain it. I just poured my heart out to you and got skelped with a caber for it."
"Forget the bleeding caber and skelping." His eyes wild, he rushed toward me and pinned me between his body and the island. He rooted his hands on the countertop at either side of me. "Listen, because I'll tell you this only once. Aisley, my wife, was a posh lass from the day I met her. Not wealthy, but elegant. Her hair had to be perfect and if the wind touched it, she had to fix it. She pursued me, a flattering event for any man. But after we were married, she stopped flattering me."
I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze — and then wished I hadn't. Never in my life had I witnessed such despair and anguish.
He bent his head near my ear. "On our one year anniversary, she told me I was a bore and I wasn't delivering the excitement she needed. I'd suspected she was unhappy for some time, but whenever I tried to talk to her about it, she laughed it off as nothing." He braced his forehead on my shoulder for the space of two slow breaths, then raised his head, leveling his gaze on mine. "That's when it started. The little jibes, the constant complaints, the endless demands for more, no matter how much I gave her. A man can only take so much. I… " He turned his head away. "Before Aisley, I was what Americans might call a macho man. I won the caber toss often. I'm not saying this to impress you, but to help you understand. Aisley turned me into a weakling. I began to believe her complaints about me and I tried to be what she wanted, but I never could please her. The last strong act I managed was moving us to Inverness. She hated the Highlands, so things only got worse after that."
