Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  “Lilly.” He paused as if weighing his options. “Please.”

  She’d made him beg.

  A hot lava of rage and fury scorched his mind and burned his brain. He hated her with a passion. A passion he hadn’t felt for months.

  But his begging worked.

  Her blonde head appeared from around the bend of the stairs. Then she glanced up and he hated her even more.

  Because he wanted her.

  Dammit.

  He wanted something again. Something that would hurt. Something that would make him feel alive. Something that would make him remember he still lived when his men had died. He wanted to run. Run to his stash of guns and end his life.

  Then those pretty, pouty lips of hers smiled, and he decided to hate her some more before he put an end to his worthless existence.

  “Get up here,” he grumbled. “I didn’t give ye permission to go down the stairs.”

  “I don’t always wait for permission.” Her eyes danced with a tease, yet she obediently took another step up.

  “Truer words were never spoken.” Not wanting her to get too near, he turned and stomped back into his den. The storm roared outside, but the thick stone walls muted the fury. But it couldn’t mute the memories he no longer could push aside with drunken relief.

  The memories of being with his men, training on the cliffs of England and Scotland as the winter sleet lashed their cold faces and hands. The memories of the violent, incredibly beautiful sandstorms racing across the desert, bearing down on their bunkers. The memories of the camaraderie, the laughter, the feeling of being part of a band, a clan.

  The firelight flickered on the rug he’d sent home for his da from the Middle East.

  More memories rushed at him. The way his mum had held him close as a child when the storms had clamored against their shores. The way Malcolm McPherson had relished the rising waves and stared out at his rocky shores with pride, knowing the islands would survive the squalls of sea and time. The way he’d felt at one with the water and the land, even when their power and potential had robbed him of words.

  A clutch of terrible grief, grief he’d pushed aside for months, tightened in his throat.

  “The storm’s still going,” she piped from right behind him.

  The grief notched his anger at her up another level. Before he thought it through, he yanked around, only to find she was far too close.

  Her hair looked so soft and fluffy, a twirl of golden strands slipping and flipping and fluttering around her face and ears. Her lithe body was covered by an old woolen jumper and baggy jeans. Still, the clothes couldn’t hide the womanly curves beneath. Curves he desperately wanted to explore.

  His hands fisted.

  She stood within his reach, her gaze direct, a lingering wisp of tease in the green irises. Her skin wasn’t white or creamy. It didn’t have the clean purity of the porcelain skin so many of his female ancestors would have boasted about. Instead, her skin glowed with a warm, glossy richness making him think she might have an exotic strain in her bloodlines.

  She wrinkled her nose, drawing his attention to the dusting of amber freckles that made his fingers itch to sweep over them. “What?”

  The one word made his focus drop to her damn lips. The curl was there at the edge, provoking him. The plump, peachy ripeness made him want to bite into her, taste the juicy sweetness.

  He swallowed.

  “No bellowing?” The curl went wide into a grin. The woman had the temerity, the bold carelessness, to step closer.

  For the first time, he noticed her scent.

  Lemon mixed with the fruity fullness of jasmine and spicy amber. The distinctive smell took him straight back to the time he and his buddies had taken leave and gone to Cairo. Walking through the city, they’d found Khan Al Khalili souk. A street awash in gold and silver, in tobacco water pipes and ancient chessboards, in the scream of the present and the echoes of the past. Above it all, swirling around the chanting merchants and haggling tourists, was the scent.

  The scent of culture and history and vibrant life.

  That’s what this woman smelled like.

  He sucked her essence in, and the spice of her went through him like a stroke of heat.

  His gut trembled.

  “I’ve struck you silent.” She leaned in, an irritating sparkle leaping in her gaze. “How strange.”

  He vibrated with life. Unwanted, terrifying life. It roared and raged inside him, silent but overwhelming. His body shook with shock, as if he’d been plugged in for the first time in months. All his senses flooded with details.

  Her scent.

  Her smile.

  Her skin.

  Her.

  She had the gall to place her hand on his chest, right over his pounding heart. The delicate line of her blonde brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

  His blood pounded through his veins, sweeping away the lethargy he’d worked on for months. “Damn ye,” he whispered.

  Her gaze turned from teasing to compassionate, making him hate her even more.

  “I want ye to leave.” He attempted a glare. “I need ye to leave.”

  The truth of his last statement slammed into him, making him dazed. He needed her to leave before it was too late. Before she forced him to life and forced him to look at what he couldn’t stand to confront.

  “Iain.” For the first time, she said his name. Her flat drawl elongated the vowels in an unfamiliar way, making his blood beat with another need.

  A need for her.

  “Iain. Look at me.”

  He realized his gaze had latched onto her throat. Her lovely throat where a pulse of life beat under her glossy skin.

  He wanted to bite her. Take her.

  His cock jerked in his jeans.

  Damn her.

  “Iain.” The thread of impatience in her voice pulled his reluctant focus back to her face.

  “What?” he croaked.

  “Your eyes.” She cocked her head, her curls flopping, her own eyes keen. “They’re clear.”

  He didn’t want clear vision. He didn’t want to see what he’d become and what was before him. “I need a drink.”

  “No, you don’t.” She patted his chest like she was comforting a favorite dog.

  Her confident assertion drove through him like a spike of fiery lightning. Didn’t she understand how close he was to losing his mind? Didn’t she understand how close he was to taking her? He grabbed her offending hand in a hard grip, yanking it away from him.

  “Ouch.” She gave him an offended scowl. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Tit for tat.”

  His low, taut words must have finally broken through her obliviousness to his state of mind. Her expression turned cautious. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”

  “Help?” He gave her a raspy laugh. “Help me by breaking into my home. Help me by destroying my property.”

  “Destroying?” Her blonde brows arched. “What do you mean?”

  “My whiskey.”

  “That whiskey was destroying you.” She tugged on her hand. “I think you should let me go.”

  “Ye think?” He couldn’t drop her soft, small hand. Couldn’t find it in him to stop the contact. In fact, he wanted more, more contact and touch and feel. His body shuddered with the need. And this woman had put herself right in the center of it. She deserved what she got. “Do ye ever think before ye act?”

  Her sea-green eyes went flat, as flat as her drawl. Her pretty lips tightened and the hand he held in his own fisted. “Where have I heard that before?”

  She’d heard it from him. The long-ignored memory raced into his brain with a pounding thud. Long ago, years and years, yet the words came to him as clear and clean as if he’d just spoken them to an eager ten-year-old child.

  You’re a stupid girl, aren’t ye?

  Her eyes had been so beautiful, so green, so blue, so true. And so filled with sudden tears.

  Did I ask ye to follow me?


  Her peachy skin had gone pale.

  Do ye ever think before ye act?

  She’d turned then and fled, her blonde ponytail flying in the Scottish breeze. Down the old stone steps, across the white sandy beach, out of his sight.

  His blurred sight.

  Chapter 7

  His eyes were so utterly blue.

  A blinding blast of sky and sea. And now, with the whites of his eyes clear, the blue seemed to blaze like a liquid lash of brilliance. If she hadn’t stared into these eyes as a child, she would have sworn he cheated with contact lenses.

  But no. These eyes had burned into her memory and had never left, even after almost twenty years.

  He still held her hand in his hard grip, almost a cruel grip. The tightness of his mouth and the anger in his gaze told her he hated her and wanted her gone. There was something more in these sky-blue eyes, though. Lilly was almost sure. There was need there, want, yearning. As a ten-year-old girl, had she missed this something more? Had she been too young to see behind the sudden attack into a hurting boy’s need?

  Maybe she had. Perhaps that was why fate had drawn her back to this place and this male. Because she was sure of one thing.

  He needed her now.

  “I forgive you.” She placed the words between them, careful and gentle. “I forgive you for being mean when we were young.”

  Rage flooded his face, turning his skin ruddy. “Forgive me?”

  “Yes, I—”

  An abrupt jerk cut her off. He slammed her into his broad chest and the reality of his strength and presence made her mind go dim. He leaned into her, his red face and blazing eyes and tight lips a mere inch from her own. “I’m the one who should be doling out the forgiveness.”

  “Okay. Let’s both forgive each other. I’ve done it, now it’s your turn.” She kept her gaze on his, meeting his anger with patience. “I’m waiting.”

  He ignored her words and instead, looked at her mouth. A flash of awareness zipped through her, cutting past her compassion and desire to help. Another very different kind of desire blossomed inside, making her heart pound in a frantic beat.

  No, no. This man needed her to be a friend.

  She tugged and pushed, trying to get out of his grasp before they both did something that would hurt in the long run. Yet, he didn’t loosen his grip. He tightened it, instead.

  Now, she felt him all along her body. Not as a person who needed forgiveness and help, but as a man who needed a woman. His broad chest pressed on her tender breasts, and through his jeans and her own, she felt his growing erection.

  “Why are ye trying to get away from me all of a sudden?” he snarled, his eyes flashing to hers, the anger in them simmering. “Tired of waiting for my forgiveness, already?”

  “We shouldn’t be doing this.” This being getting hot and very, very bothered. She tried to keep her focus on her compassion, yet the heat of his body penetrated her clothes, making her skin sweat. His bigness, the bulge of his biceps underneath the wool sweater and the breadth of his muscled chest, made every female inch of her…horny. “Oh, crap.”

  “Doing what?” His straight brows furrowed in momentary confusion, and then a sly grin slid across his mouth. “What do ye want to be doing, lovely Lilly?”

  One big, heavy hand landed on her rump and pulled her into him, bumping her into what was now a rigid erection. He was big down there, too. The errant thought shot straight into her brain and then right down to her core. She forced herself to look into his face with a placid stare. “Iain. You need to let me go. Now.”

  The anger was still there in his gaze, but there was also latent heat. She supposed she should be happy to see something besides the dullness that had scared her last night. This was wrong, however. He needed her help, not her lust.

  “Now?” His mouth curved and his dark lashes went half-mast, making his gaze sultry and knowing. “Now I’m thinking ye might be good for something more than blethering on and irritating me.”

  Lilly could see this man had had his share of females when he’d been well. The curve of his lips told her he knew what to do with a woman when he had her. The knowing in his eyes told her she better stop this right away before she succumbed to his temptation. “No.”

  The curve disappeared into a sneer. The lashes rose to uncover the return of his rage. “No? I didn’t ask a question.”

  This time when she pushed, he dropped his hands from around her and stepped back, his gaze glittering with animosity.

  Something very like disappointment and hurt trickled through her, but she ignored it. Wrapping her trembling arms in front of her, she gave him another patient stare. “I’m here to help you, not take advantage of you.”

  “Take advantage? Of me?” The sneer went wider as he eyed her body. “I’m thinking ye couldn’t if ye tried.”

  She might be smaller than him by a good bit. Yet she’d make an instant bet that if she tugged on those messy, brown curls and pressed her mouth to his, they’d be in his bed in seconds. Whether he agreed or not, that would be taking advantage of him. Better not to say it though. This man might see it as a challenge. “I’m going to change the subject.”

  “Are ye?” He kept running his gaze over her body, a dark, intent perusal. “What if I rather like the subject we’re on?”

  “Why don’t we make dinner?”

  His focus went to her face and the sneer turned into a scowl.

  Apparently, the man didn’t appreciate her cheerful tone or the subject. Too bad. This was for his own good. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Why the hell do ye think I should feed ye again?”

  “Because I’m in your home and it’s dinnertime.” Walking past him, she headed for the kitchen.

  “I didn’t ask ye to be here and I don’t have much food left.” His grumbling words followed her.

  “Then you can always stock back up at Mrs. Butler’s when this storm is over.”

  “No.”

  She turned to find his own arms crossed in front of him and a determined look on his face. “No to stocking up?”

  “No to ordering anything at all from Mrs. Butler.”

  “Why not?” Dropping her hands to her sides, she hoped the gesture would loosen his stance and his position.

  He only fisted his hands and frowned.

  “Mrs. Butler is a wonderful woman and you’ve known her all your life.” She bent forward on the cedar island, trying to reach across the divide and figure him out. “She needs the business, too.”

  “That’s the point.”

  It was her turn to frown. “The point?”

  “I want her to leave the island. I want everyone to go away.”

  His mantra and, now she understood, his current purpose in life. Make everyone go away. Before she could respond to such a horrible plan, he stomped past her and into the hallway behind the kitchen where the laundry room lay.

  Good grief. The villagers and her dad had been right. The McPherson was trying to purposefully destroy the island’s economy. And now she knew why.

  He wanted everyone to go away. For good. Forever. The man didn’t understand what he needed were friends surrounding him, people to encourage him and listen. Isolation was the last thing a person suffering from depression should strive for.

  She had a lot of work to do with this guy.

  “Here.” He marched into the kitchen with two white-papered packages and slammed them on the counter. In his other large hand, he held two potatoes. “We’ll have this tonight. Not that ye deserve to be fed.”

  Lilly pulled the paper off to find two frozen steaks. “You’ve got a freezer back there?”

  “Yes.” He flung the potatoes down. “And the room is locked so ye can’t get in.”

  “Why do you lock it?” She gave him a puzzled look. “You live alone.”

  “Not at this moment, do I?” He scowled at her. “And a soldier learns to lock up his gear and everything else he can.”

  “Okay. Just asking.�
�� Giving him a nonchalant shrug, she looked at the steaks again. “I wondered where that door went.”

  “You’re a nosy pest, aren’t ye.” It wasn’t a question, and he disappeared into the den before she could answer it, anyway.

  She stared at the meat in dismay. Cooking meat wasn’t her specialty. Eggs and sausage she could handle, but these cuts were expensive, she could tell. She’d bet they were prime Angus—the pride of Scotland. No Scotsman who had any knowledge of her lack of cooking skills would want her fiddling with this. “Um. Iain?”

  “What now?” His growl got cut off by a blast of music, a loud, angry piece she identified as Beethoven.

  Walking around the cedar island, she peered into the den. The fire danced with merry glee, shedding a bright light across the stone floor and walls. The flames were the only happy thing in the room, though.

  He sat in his leather chair, his long legs thrust out, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her, his hands fisted on his lap.

  The music roared its fury at her, expressing his own feelings, she was sure.

  Before she thought it through, she was across the room. The click of the off switch brought a welcome silence.

  Except for the roar of the storm outside.

  Turning, she confronted his glare. The compassion and patience she’d held on to all throughout this nasty exchange came to an abrupt end. “You’re acting like a child.”

  “A child, eh?” The sneer appeared once more. “Ye weren’t reacting to me a wee bit ago as if I were a child.”

  He’d noticed her attraction, darn it. Yet she’d pegged Iain McPherson as intelligent, so she shouldn’t be surprised. “We’re not going that way again.”

  “That way.” He gave her a sharp laugh. “Is that what ye Americans call it?”

  She strode over to him and held out her hand. “Come on, I need your help.”

  Eyeing her hand, he gave her a sly look. “Ye need me, lovely Lilly?”

  “Stop it.” She thrust her hand farther forward. “Come and help me grill the steaks before I ruin them.”

  A flash of concern crossed his face. “You’re not to ruin those steaks. Those are the best a man can buy from Glasgow.”