The Highlander Next Door

by Janet Chapman

  So he might be easily offended, but he apparently didn’t hold grudges.

  Birch really didn’t know what to make of Niall, because he didn’t seem to fit her notion of a cop. Not only was he big and strong and handsome, he definitely knew how to impress a girl by crumbling castle walls and galloping to the rescue on plow horses. He also didn’t seem to mind dangling off high places to save someone—although that more or less was expected of anyone who wore a badge.

  Realizing she was actually smiling, Birch decided that instead of reliving her accident she should focus on her growing attraction to Niall MacKeage. Because even though her heart was still racing, it had changed to a shivery thump of anticipation.

  Yeah; she definitely preferred this train of thought.

  But once again, where to begin?

  Well, she could start by revisiting last night’s plan to have an affair with him. Because really, what better way to work off lingering terror than to have mindless sex with all that amazing muscle? She had spent over an hour in the bathroom shaving her legs and doing her hair and making sure she smelled nice, so why not sneak across the yard, knock on Niall’s door, and ask if he might have a powerful desire to do more than just kiss her?

  Seriously—it couldn’t be any crazier than talking to a tree.

  It could be embarrassing if he turned her down, though, seeing how they saw each other every day. But when Titus Oceanus had come upon her walking Mimi on the beach before she’d left for Turtleback this morning, Birch had gotten the impression the man also thought Niall was attracted to her.

  After thanking her for returning his wife’s barrette, which Rana had apparently lost while horseback riding on the other side of Bottomless, Titus had then asked Birch to describe her feathered visitor. Birch had told him that even though she’d always assumed seagulls were the only birds bold enough to approach a human holding food, she had questioned this particular bird’s sharp yellow eyes and pointy beak. But she knew some species of gulls were that large and had motley brown and white feathers.

  Titus, obviously fighting a grin, had told Birch he suspected her visitor had been an immature bald eagle; likely a juvenile that considered a shiny object might be fair exchange for the pie she was holding.

  Mon Dieu, had the man been hiding in the woods watching her talking to a bird? “Do eagles fly at night?” she’d asked to cover her embarrassment.

  “Not usually,” he’d said with a shrug. “But then, most juveniles—animal and human—often take crazy risks for the simple thrill of feeling alive. Especially,” he’d added with a wink, “if a beautiful woman is involved.”

  Birch was afraid she’d actually given a derisive snort, since Titus had arched a brow at her from his towering height, even as she’d recalled the Oceanuses were rumored to be royalty—though hopefully not the King and Queen of Nowhere. Titus had then praised Birch for her role in rescuing the Vaughn women, smoothly segueing into how fortuitous it was that they had such a strong, intelligent Scotsman for a police chief.

  Birch had smiled and nodded—adding little murmurs of agreement when appropriate—as Titus had gone on and on about Chief MacKeage’s many fine qualities, even as she’d wondered what dirt Niall had on him. Because no man she’d ever met, especially not one reputed to be richer than God, talked up another man to a woman unless someone was holding a gun to his head.

  Birch had never been so happy to hear her cell phone alarm go off, allowing her to slowly back away as she’d explained she didn’t want to be late for her luncheon with the Turtleback high school teachers.

  “If I might be so bold as to suggest,” Titus had called out, halting her sprint up the lawn. “You might find that embracing the ups and downs of your journey, Miss Callahan, is far less annoying than trying to control them.”

  Having absolutely no idea how to respond, since she had no idea what he was talking about, she’d merely waved and headed off again to the sound of the man’s soft laughter.

  Blinking in surprise to find she was sitting on the couch instead of walking up from the beach, Birch decided having an affair with Niall might be an easy journey to embrace.

  So what to do? she wondered, drumming her fingers on the couch.

  What to do . . .

  Well, she could head across the yard and see if she couldn’t do the highlander.

  Birch stood up and headed to her downstairs bedroom before she could change her mind or lose her nerve, pulling the ratty old T-shirt she’d stolen from her father off over her head and tossing it on her bed on her way by. She then ran a critical eye over her body as she stood in front of her bureau mirror and hoped to God towering mountains of testosterone liked short women with small, perky boobs, petite nipples, and . . . oh, who was she kidding, even her freckles were so small they were almost invisible.

  Still, she considered her figure proportionately perfect.

  Birch opened the bottom drawer of her bureau, pulled out the nightgown she’d bought for Mr. Four Freaking Children and slipped it on, only to frown at her reflection as the satin material slithered down her petite curves. Deciding the gown more or less said seducer of dorks, she pulled it off and dug in the drawer again, then held up a semitransparent little number she’d bought to shut up her mother about her nonexistent love life. She tossed it toward the bed with a snort. “Definitely don’t want to knock on his door wearing something that screams slut on the hunt.” The flannel granny gown she pulled out next said I’m having my period so leave me alone, and the baggy bottoms and oversized top . . . well, they basically said I don’t freaking care.

  Birch finally came to the deep purple silk pajamas she usually saved for room-sharing at conferences or girls’ nights watching a movie at home with her mom. She held them up to her nose and sighed when she caught the hint of buttered popcorn, then slipped them on with a soft hum of pleasure. She unbuttoned the top button and turned up the collar, ran her fingers through her hair to give the curls a fluff, then studied her reflection. Not dowdy or off-putting and not the slightest hint of slut; this sleepwear said Hi, I came over here wearing pajamas because I want to sleep in your amazingly muscled arms until I stop shaking inside.

  Yeah, the pajamas were feminine and sophisticated and modest while still being easily removable, their color made her eyes appear sort of lavender-ish, and they didn’t make her look like a woman who talked to trees and eagles.

  In fact, she looked exactly like her perfectly normal self.

  Heck, she would invite the woman in the mirror inside if she came knocking on her door at eleven o’clock at night, and if Niall MacKeage didn’t, then . . . well, she was writing his name in big bold letters at the top of her list of reasons she should hate men.

  Chapter Twelve

  Niall had been staring up at his bedroom ceiling for over an hour now, wondering how to deal with the fact that someone might actually be trying to kill Birch, when he heard a soft knock on his door. He sat up and snapped on the bedside lamp, grabbed the pajama bottoms off the foot of the bed and put them on, then followed Shep’s wagging tail into the kitchen. He opened the door, not really surprised but definitely intrigued, to find Birch wearing a bathrobe and getting ready to knock again. In fact, it looked as if she’d been about to pound on it with her fist.

  “Is there a problem at the shelter?”

  Her eyes widened. “You sleep in pajama bottoms.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Um, I thought you . . . I just always pictured . . .” She gathered her robe closed at the throat and aimed her gaze at his naked chest. “Everyone at the shelter is asleep.”

  “Except you,” he said gently, the taut skin of her flushed face making him suspect she kept reliving the accident every time she closed her eyes. “Would talking about what happened today help?”

  “Probably not,” she said on a sigh. “I just wanted to see if . . . I thought maybe you and I coul
d . . .” She took a deep breath. “You didn’t kiss me. Today,” she clarified when he said nothing, “after you pulled me out of the car, you didn’t kiss me like you did after you broke us out of the Vaughns’ cellar.”

  Niall made sure not to react when he finally realized why she was here. “I’m sorry; I didn’t think it would be appropriate, considering we had an audience.”

  She dropped her gaze to his chest again, her blush kicking up another notch. “Oh. Yes. That makes sense. I guess it wouldn’t look good for the police chief to kiss a woman he’d just rescued in front of his new officers.” She took a step back. “Well, that answers my question. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Not only not suicidal but sure as hell not an idiot, either, Niall caught hold of her shoulders before she could turn away. “Are you sure about why you’re here, Birch?” he quietly asked. “Because I’m needing to hear ye come out and say it.”

  He didn’t think she was going to, she was silent so long. But then she reached up and pressed a hand to the spot on his chest she was staring at. “I’m sure.” She looked up. “And just so you’ll be sure, I don’t want you to worry that I’m the clingy type. Our sleeping together doesn’t mean I’m going to text you every few hours or expect you to call me three times a day, and I’m definitely not looking to get married. Or pregnant,” she muttered, her gaze dropping back to his chest.

  “Deal,” he said, sliding a hand under her knees and sweeping her off her feet, then kicking the door closed and heading for the bedroom.

  “Wait, Shep’s outside,” she squeaked.

  He stopped in his bedroom doorway. “You want an audience?”

  “Ah . . . no.” She looked down at her chest. “You . . . you can wear a condom if you want, but you don’t have to worry about . . . I’m on birth control,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing again as she fingered the edge of her robe. “And I don’t have any contagious . . .” She sucked in a deep breath and gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”

  “I have no way to judge, since you’re the first woman I’ve had knock on my door wearing pajamas.”

  That got him a snort. “You intend to stand here holding me all night or are we—oh!” she gasped. “Your bedroom is nearly wall-to-wall bed.”

  “It’s a small room and a big bed. Are ye certain you’re sure, Birch?”

  That got him another smile, this one showing a hint of spitfire. “I guess that would depend,” she murmured, twining her arms around his neck. “Have you had all your shots?”

  Assuming that was a rhetorical question, since she kissed him before he could respond, Niall decided it might be wise to let her be in charge. Miss Callahan not only appeared to know what she was doing, she also seemed to know exactly what she wanted—which, for tonight at least, appeared to be him.

  She was attacking his mouth much the way she’d attacked the pie down on the beach. Hell, she even started making the same little noises as she deepened the kiss, and he didn’t know if he should get up to speed or try to slow her down.

  Deciding he’d figure it out as he went along, Niall took a step forward and bent to set her on the bed, only to have her arms tighten so she wouldn’t lose contact with his mouth as she pulled him down with her. He hadn’t even finished landing when she rolled away with a husky laugh, then immediately moved to sit straddling him.

  Okay then; apparently he wasn’t letting her anything—she was taking charge.

  “You don’t have a problem with leaving the light on, do you?” she asked as she undid the belt on her robe. “I like . . . looking.”

  “Nay,” he somehow managed not to growl when the movement of her shrugging out of the robe sent a couple liters of blood straight to his groin—specifically to where her womanhood was intimately rubbing against him.

  Her hands stilled on the buttons of her pajama top, her eyes suddenly uncertain. “You . . . ah, you’re not a breast man, are you?” she whispered.

  Her vulnerability caught him by surprise, but not enough to throw him off stride. “Aye,” he said quietly, sitting up and gently clasping her head. “I like breasts. And legs. Pretty little backsides shaped for a man’s hand. Lips. Necks. The translucent skin covering the pulse on a woman’s wrist. Big eyes that can be scolding one minute and filled with passion the next. But mostly,” he whispered with his mouth nearly touching hers, “I like a brain that knows what it wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.” He looked directly into her no-longer-uncertain eyes. “But I especially like when it comes packaged in a body just like the one you happen to have.”

  And that put that worry to bed, apparently, because Niall found himself flat on his back again, his brain telling his heart to ramp up that blood flow when those lips he’d told her he liked slowly started working their way down his neck to his chest—stopping to visit each of his nipples—then continued over his ribs and stomach, not stopping until they reached the waist of his pajamas.

  She sat up straddling his thighs instead of groin this time, and Niall knew he was in trouble when she smiled—not at him, at his body—and simply pulled her top off over her head. But the lass bent again before he could see anything interesting as she scooted even farther down his legs—taking his pajamas with her.

  Niall’s last coherent thought before her warm, sexy mouth closed over him was that Greylen, Jack Stone, Duncan, Matt Gregor—somebody—could have warned him that twenty-first-century women definitely weren’t shrinking violets in the bedroom.

  Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if he learned a few things tonight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Birch trudged across the yard just as the sun broke over the opposite shore of Bottomless, thinking that of all the crazy, impetuous things she could have done, having sex with Niall MacKeage might very well top the list. The wall-crumbling, cliff-dangling Scot had positively—and probably irrevocably—ruined her for ever enjoying sex with another man again. But even crazier, Birch decided as she climbed the porch steps, was that she couldn’t stop thinking about when they could have sex again.

  Well, damn, the stupid door was locked. And her key was on the ring in her car, which was . . . somewhere besides here. She moved along the porch and tried each of the kitchen windows, figuring the way her luck had been running lately, the stupid car had fallen off the helicopter winch and was sitting at the bottom of the sea. For crying out loud, who closed windows in the middle of June?

  Granted, the sea breeze could get chilly at night, but Noreen was a freaking Mainer; nighttime temperatures in the forties should feel balmy to her. You’d think the woman was paying the utility bills the way she guarded the thermostat and ran around shutting off lights and closing windows. She’d also taken over the kitchen—although considering the meals they’d been eating the last two weeks, no one was complaining. And Noreen did vacuum and dust and do the laundry. Heck, she even did bathrooms.

  Birch rounded the corner of the wraparound porch and started checking the parlor-turned-into-her-office windows, remembering that she had planned to divide up the housekeeping chores to give the residents a sense of pride in their temporary home and feel like valued, contributing members of their temporary family. But Noreen didn’t like the way Cassandra packed the dishwasher; Macie apparently didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet; and Hazel did have a bad habit of vacuuming only the traffic areas. Again, not that anyone was complaining. In fact, there was a good chance Cassandra kept placing bowls and cups faceup in the dishwasher on purpose.

  Heck, Birch had sabotaged some of her own chores to get out of them.

  But then, who was she to squelch a confused woman’s need to feel needed? And since only two of the five pies had sold at the bake sale—to tourists, apparently—Noreen had gone to bed early rather than hear the watered-down version of Birch’s accident. After, that is, the humiliated woman had let everyone know it was her husband’s fault the pies hadn’t so
ld, claiming she wouldn’t put it past Logan to have run around town warning everyone they would be spending the next five days staring out their bathroom windows.

  Wait; her bathroom window was open, wasn’t it? Hugging herself against the chill beginning to penetrate her robe, Birch headed back down the stairs with a muttered curse. She had to get inside before anyone discovered she hadn’t slept in her bed, because the last thing she needed was for anyone—especially motormouth Noreen—to suspect she was having an affair with her neighbor.

  Well, maybe they were having an affair, seeing how neither of them had talked about when they might get together again. Niall had merely kissed her on the forehead and given her ass a pat on her way out the door instead of walking her home like the gentleman he obviously wasn’t. The sex machine was probably right now back in his big warm bed, completely oblivious to the fact she was out here freezing her patted backside off.

  Birch stopped at the side of the house and looked up at her bathroom window to see it was open a few inches, only to sigh in defeat when she realized even a giant would have trouble reaching it. She scanned the yard for something to stand on, but didn’t see a ladder, a handy tree like the one growing beside Cassandra’s window, or even a freaking lawn chair. So she trudged back to the stairs, sat down on the bottom step and propped her elbows on her knees, and dropped her chin in her hands with another sigh. Man oh man, she was in trouble. Wanting to have an affair with Niall was one thing, but falling in like with him could be a problem.

  Okay, it already was a problem, because last night she’d caught herself liking his mind even more than his amazing muscles. Who knew the towering mountain could be so tender? He was a cop. A trained killer. Men who made their livings running around with guns strapped to their chests were supposed to be emotionally aloof, not playful. They certainly weren’t supposed to make a woman feel pretty and feminine and over-the-moon special by making love to her three—or had it been four?—freaking times in one night.