Notorious in a Kilt

by Anna Durand

  Signs of distress.

  I sat forward, desperate to touch her but knowing she wouldn't want it.

  Before I could speak, she raised one hand in a staying gesture. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

  "All right." I'd let it go, for the moment. If I ever met the bastard who'd left Rae and her daughter alone, I'd skite a sledgehammer on his face. "What can we talk about?"

  She tucked her hand under her arm. "You still haven't told me how you were forced out of the country. Tell me—"

  A huge yawn interrupted her statement. She covered her mouth with one hand. As soon as she began to lower that hand, another yawn overtook her and shielded her mouth again.

  The lass was exhausted. Did she honestly work this ranch alone all day? One helper, she'd mentioned. One man, I presumed. A stab of jealousy speared my chest, but I had no right to feel jealous of any man in her life. Not her ranch hand, and certainly not the taxi driver who'd tossed her away because she had a child. If I ever met Grayson Parker again, I'd skite him for certain.

  Rae yawned a third time.

  I sprang off the sofa to bend over her chair, one hand on the arm. "You're for bed, liebchen."

  She angled her head up to squint at me. "First, I'm a gràidh. Now, I'm a liebchen. No clue what any of it means."

  Both were endearments, one in Gaelic, the other in German. I doubted she would appreciate the sentiments, though, so I told her, "Never mind that. You're jeeked, and I'm taking you to bed."

  "Excuse me?" She pulled her head back, her eyes narrowing even more. "I am not having sex with you."

  "No, I meant I'm taking you to your bed so you can sleep."

  Her eyes flared wide, a hint of panic on her face. "No. You can't. Not my room."

  Christ, she wouldn't let me near her bedroom. I had a long slog ahead of me to earn back her trust.

  She cleared her throat, seeming to regain some composure. "I'll show you to the guest bedroom."

  "Aye, that's a plan." I swept her up in my arms before she had a chance to complain with anything more eloquent than a squeak. "Where am I, then?"

  "In Texas."

  "Cheeky lass. I meant where am I to sleep?"

  "The guest bedroom, upstairs." She leaned forward in my arms to point toward the hallway. "The stairs are that way."

  She turned her head to look at me, and her lips nearly brushed mine. Those stunning eyes, the color of sapphires, gazed into mine with surprise. I heard the little hiccup as her breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted, and I burned to kiss them, burned like I never had for any other woman. The years had done nothing to lessen my passion for her, but seducing this woman required subtlety and patience—and tenderness.

  I'd hurt her, more than I'd realized until tonight. Other man had clearly compounded the damage, but I was the root of it. I had to make this right.

  Patience. Subtlety. Tenderness.

  Brushing a stray hair from her face, I marched down the hallway to the stairs.

  *****

  Rae

  I locked my arms around Iain's neck while he took the stairs two at a time. His biceps flexed against me, but his hold on me never wavered. Wow, he had impressive strength and agility. I wondered again what he did for a living these days. Something physical, I'd guess. Something that made him strong and dexterous and sizzling hot. I longed to run my fingers through his hair, to touch those few strands of gray and caress his scalp, but I'd probably fall out of his embrace if I did and tumble us both down the stairs.

  No, Iain would stay standing. He might even catch me.

  A flash of heat rushed through me. Maybe I could enjoy having him around for a week or so. Maybe I could enjoy having him, period.

  Sex with Iain. Yes, I could handle that.

  No, no, no. Responsible adult, remember? Mother and role model to a twelve-year-old girl, that was me. Business owner too. Neither of those titles meshed with the idea of giving in to my carnal desires for the man carting me up the stairs.

  But maybe…

  We reached the upstairs hallway, and Iain turned right to head down it. The hallway dead-ended at the stairs, so he hadn't needed ESP to guess which way to go. Partway down the hall, he stopped to glance at the four closed doors before us, two on each side. His brows crinkled in the cutest way.

  I resisted the urge to trace my fingers over his brows and instead told him, "You can put me down."

  "Which door?"

  Stubborn as ever, of course. So much about him seemed different, but a lot seemed the same too.

  I pointed to the second door on the left. "There."

  He carried me to the door and tried to grasp the knob, but his hold on me slipped and he gave up the knob in favor of clasping me tighter. The warmth of him around me, the firmness of his body, the scent of dried sweat and manly spice…Damn, it was intoxicating. Sure, I'd blame my total loss of maturity and common sense on the way him. All Iain's fault. He had no right to be so delicious.

  "A little help?" he said, nodding toward the door knob.

  "Why don't you put me down now?"

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. "Open the door and I might."

  I stretched my arm down to twist the knob and push the door inward. "Okay, you can put me—"

  He strode into the guest bedroom and set me down, letting his hands drift down to my hips.

  "The only bathroom is downstairs," I said. "It's the first door on the left when you come down the stairs."

  "Good to know." He removed one hand, but the other lingered on my hip. "The bed is rather large."

  "So are you."

  "Do you entertain many large guests?"

  I shook my head, trying not to smile but failing. "My stepbrother is six foot seven. I got this bed for him, for when he visits. He plays for the UCLA basketball team."

  "Are you parents divorced?"

  A cold spike drove itself deep into my chest. Even after all these years, thinking about my dad and how he'd died set me on edge. Not having that conversation with Iain.

  I tromped over to the closet and got out two pillows, then tossed them to Iain. "The ones on the bed are decorative, not comfy."

  He tossed the pillows onto the bed. "Thank you for worrying about my comfort."

  "Do the same for all my guests." Like I had many of those. My stepbrother and stepsister, my stepfather, my mom. That was it. "Your bag is still downstairs, isn't? I'll go get it."

  I moved toward the door, but Iain laid a hand on my arm. "Donnae bother. I can get it in the morning."

  "Don't you need your pajamas or whatever you sleep in?"

  He leaned a little closer and said, in a husky voice, "I sleep in the nude."

  And there was an image I did not need flashing through my mind right now. Naked Iain. Nothing but a sheet concealing all that lickable flesh. I could sneak in here in the dead of night, crawl under the covers with him, and—

  For pete's sake, I'd not only reverted to my college self, but I'd regressed all the way back to teenage lust.

  "Good night, Iain."

  I tugged my arm free of his hand, heading for the doorway. When I reached the threshold, he stopped me with a single, earnest question.

  "May I kiss you good night?" he asked.

  Kiss me? Yes, yes, please, yes, screamed my hormones. My rational brain urged me to consider the consequences, but I was getting damn sick of thinking. What the hell? He'd be gone soon, anyway.

  I leaned back against the doorjamb. "Okay."

  His brows flew up, but then a sensual smile curved his lips. He sauntered up to me, planted a hand on the jamb above my head, and slanted in until his mouth hovered a breath away from mine. Ice-blue eyes captured my focus, their glacial color a contrast to the heat of his hooded gaze. I stopped breathing, anticipation sizzling over my skin. He grazed his lips over mine, the barest hint of contact, like the touch of a feather. The steam of his breaths tickled my skin. My eyes fluttered shu
t, and my body softened. He skated his lips over mine again. His other hand closed around my hip, and I couldn't help tipping my head up, exposing my throat to him, all but begging for him to take me in a ravenous kiss.

  "Rae," he purred, his lips ghosting over mine, "yer bloody perfect. The way I remember, only better."

  I couldn't speak, move, breathe, think.

  His hand on my hip grasped me more firmly, and he pressed his mouth to mine. We hung there in a suspended moment, lips to lips, neither of us moving for what felt like forever. I hungered for him to thrust his tongue inside my mouth, to haul me into his hard body, to consume in every way imaginable.

  With a groan, Iain stepped back, the distance between us measured in inches but gaping like a giant crack had opened up in the house between us.

  "Good night, Rae."

  I stared at him. "Don't you want to kiss me deeper?"

  "Aye, but not tonight."

  My mouth opened, but I clapped it shut again. He was doing this on purpose, and I didn't care. Maybe just for a few days…

  "Good night, Iain," I said, and walked out the door.

  Only when I'd reached my room on the first floor and shut the door did I permit myself to consider that kiss. I must've lost my mind. Twice today, I'd let Iain kiss me. He showed up on my doorstep after more than a decade and acted like nothing had changed, like we could pick up right where we'd left off.

  I sagged against the door. We'd left off with catastrophe. After our one and only night together, he'd kissed me goodbye and walked out of my apartment and out of my life. I'd never seen him again. Never heard from him. I tried to find him, but I'd had no idea where in Scotland he lived. Maybe if I could've afforded a good private investigator, I could've tracked him down. Maybe I'd waited too long to try. For the first two months, I'd been in shock over the catastrophic scandal that has erupted around me, too stunned and ashamed and in grief over losing the only man I'd ever loved to think about trying to find him. Besides, I'd been certain he left willingly. Why would a thirty-five-year-old professor, a worldly man who'd dug up relics all over the world, fall for a college senior? It was a dream, and I'd finally woken up.

  Two months after Iain vanished, I'd found out I was pregnant. I'd hired a cut-rate private investigator, the only kind I could afford, to hunt for him. Nothing came of it. I searched the Internet, but found nothing. I'd even searched online white pages to get the phone numbers of MacTaggarts in Scotland and called several of them before the international phone charges got too expensive. I'd had to give up, having found no trace of Iain.

  But here he was. In my house. Sleeping upstairs.

  In the nude.

  Maybe if I slept with him, I'd realize it hadn't been as good as my memory insisted it had been. One roll in the hay, nothing more. Satisfy my curiosity and get him out of my system for good.

  "Ugh," I moaned, shuffling to the bed and flumping onto it. "I am insane."

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek for minute, my gaze nailed to the dresser. The bottom drawer. My secret hiding place.

  With a heavy sigh, I gave in to the impulse. I retrieved two items from the bottom drawer, sat down on the bed cross-legged with my back to the headboard, and allowed myself two minutes to wallow. First, I picked up the plaid scarf. The fabric was blue and green with orange lines threaded through it. I held the scarf to my chest, petting the soft fabric, indulging in a memory.

  "It's the MacTaggart clan tartan," Iain had told me that day when I invited into my apartment for pizza and pop. I'd expected him to say no, but he'd agreed with a subdued smile that represented excitement in the language of Iain. He'd explained, "My mother made the scarf for me. I want you to have it."

  "Me? Why?" I took the scarf he held out to me, fingering the smooth plaid and the fringe at either end. "Won't your mother be upset you gave it away?"

  "No." He plucked the scarf from my hands, laying it around my neck. "Please accept this as a token of…friendship."

  Right. Friendship. Back then, I'd been naive enough to believe that.

  I hugged the scarf to my chest, dipping my head to inhale the dusty scent of the garment I'd kept in a drawer for thirteen years. The day my daughter had been born, I'd asked my mom to bring me the scarf so I could wrap it around Malina's little body. I'd held her like that for a long time, tears streaming down my cheeks. Tears of joy for my daughter's birth. Tears of grief for the father she would never know.

  But she could know him.

  Setting down the scarf, I picked up the other item I'd retrieved. The four-by-six photo album had a plain white cover. I flipped it open, thumbing through the pictures I'd taken over the years. No one knew about this album. I made it for a secret purpose, spurred by a stupid and hopeless need to document the moments in Malina's life.

  For Iain.

  I closed the album, running my hand over the smooth cover. Why had I taken these pictures and preserved them for him if I didn't have the nerve to tell him he had a daughter? I couldn't tell him. Yes, I worried he'd take off again and leave Malina heartbroken like I'd been. But I had another obstacle too. I'd told Malina her father died before she was born.

  Yep, I'd done that.

  When she got old enough to start asking questions about her father, I'd panicked. How could I tell her about Iain without admitting he'd abandoned me? That would lead to more questions about things I could never confess to my child.

  So, I lied. I said her father died and refused to discuss it any further. Parental prerogative.

  A coward, that's what I was. I'd dug myself in too deep to explain my way out of it now. Iain could not be here when Malina got home. End of story.

  I lay back on the bed, my head on the pillow, and flipped through the photo album.

  A long, skinny piece of thick paper tumbled out.

  My fingers caught the paper on instinct, and I turned it over to see the glossy surface. It was a strip of pictures from a one of those photo booths in malls. The images showed me and Iain smiling and laughing, his arm around me, our cheeks pressed against each other. In the last photo, Iain kissed me.

  That moment. I remembered it like yesterday, as vivid and clear as when he'd kissed me good-night a little while ago. The photo I held preserved the moment of our very first kiss. The day everything changed. The day before the disaster.

  Holding the photo strip to my chest, I closed my eyes and indulged in the memories. That day with Iain had been perfect. We'd done all the silly romantic things we hadn't allowed ourselves to enjoy before, because I'd still been a student. That morning, I'd informed Iain I received my grades and had passed all my classes. I was no longer a student, technically.

  All it took was "technically." He'd swept away for a day of romance. A picnic. The photo booth. Our first kiss. More kissing in the back row of a movie theater. Lots more kissing in the car, at a smokily lit restaurant, in the car again. Eventually, he'd taken me back to his apartment.

  There on his sofa, we'd made out for half an hour. Still, he didn't touch me in any sexual way. I'd begun to worry he had no interest in me, that after ten months of waiting he would push me out the door.

  When he lifted his head, tearing his lips away from mine, I'd grunted my displeasure.

  Oh, the look on his face. Tender and hungry at the same time. He'd brushed his fingers through my hair, his thumb tracing circles on my cheek, and then he'd spoken the words that forever altered both our lives.

  "Stay with me, Rae."

  How else would a lovestruck girl answer? "Yes."

  Iain swept me up in his arms and carried me into the bedroom, like a knight straight out of a fairytale transporting his bride to the nuptial bed. We weren't married. I worshiped Iain, but he'd never suggested he felt anything but friendship for me—until this day, when he'd revealed his lust. I had no idea if he loved me the way I loved him.

  The way he'd undressed me had left me boneless in his arms. Slowly. Sensually. His hands always on me
, his fingers always exploring. He laid me on the bed, stripped himself, and lay down beside me to run his hands over me from head to toe. His mouth followed, kissing and licking and nibbling until I was squirming and panting, and God, so wet for him. When he drew my nipple into his mouth, I clutched his head and arched my back.

  When he kissed me, it was wild and deep and intoxicating.

  He settled his body on top of me, the weight and heat of him so delicious I could've died from the sheer pleasure of it. The sensation of his lips on mine, his hands sliding up and down my sides, his firm chest rasping against my nipples, and oh…the pressure of his cock filling me, his hips pumping, his—

  I flopped onto my back and groaned. The memory had seduced me, drawing me back to the past and the most incredible night of my life. But indulging in a reverie of Iain had made me yearn for the real thing. My nipples had puckered, the tips engorged and achy. With every little movement, the slick softness of my nightie tormented my skin and made my nipples ache even more. My clitoris had gone stiff. My sex, drenched with wetness, pulsated deep inside.

  Shit. I would never get to sleep in this state.

  Well, I could trot upstairs to the guest bedroom…

  No, no, absolutely no. Bad, bad, bad idea.

  A few hours in Iain's presence had thrown me backward in time and transformed me into my college self again. He might have afflicted me with this thirst for pleasure, but I did not need him to quench it for me.

  I flung out a hand to the bedside table, yanked the drawer open, and fumbled inside until I located the tool I needed. With the vibrator in my hand, I settled the other palm over my breast, kneading it in the slow and sensuous way Iain had done that night. I skimmed the vibrator along my inner thigh. Iain had moved his hand that way, up my skin until he found my slick flesh. Biting down on my bottom lip, I flicked my finger over my nipple and pinched it, mimicking the sensation of Iain's teeth nipping me there. His erection had scraped my belly. I slid my nightie higher until it mounded against my breasts and raked my nails over my belly, then I turned the vibrator on.

  The sound seemed loud in the silence of my bedroom, but I was beyond caring.

  Visions of Iain consumed me, his naked body hovering above me, his expression tight with need. I played out the memory, slipping the length of the vibrator between my folds the way Iain had glided his cock up and down, the pace slow and relentless, driving me mad. Just as I had that night, I bucked my hips into the movements, but instead of gripping Iain's shoulders, I gripped the headboard with one hand. The leverage let me lift my hips higher. Though Iain had made love to me at a leisurely pace, the more I succumbed to the fantasy of that night the faster I moved the vibrator and the harder I panted. Couldn't wait. Couldn't stop.