Catch Me If You Can

by Donna Kauffman

  He had granted her request for more detail about the Hollow itself, and on occasion she was fortunate enough to get a story or two about the neighboring Ramsays or Sinclairs. He was quite proud of Mack Ramsay, who she’d gathered was the same age as his sons, and was now the town sheriff. Of course she’d noted the absence of Morgan stories. His sons were the last in the Rogues Hollow line and she supposed it was simply too painful a topic for him.

  She’d only asked him once, and though his reply had been brief bordering on curt, she’d sensed a deep well of sadness there. Perhaps that was her own fanciful imagination. She supposed she’d never know. Tag’s side of the story was bound to be different from his father’s.

  She climbed the stairs back up to the main hall. So she was curious. Insatiably curious, as it turned out. She wanted to know the whole story, or whatever parts of the story there were to know. The man she’d romped in the backseat with last night did not strike her as the kind of man to be so cutting and cold. She also couldn’t reconcile his obvious devotion to his work, with his absolute disinterest in his own heritage. But neither could she reconcile his version of his father’s motives with what she knew to be the truth.

  “Of course, he did just come all the way to Scotland,” she murmured. But why? To see his supposed inheritance before ditching it? Or… She stopped dead in her tracks. What if he’d come to do what he’d claimed his father had wanted all along? To try and sell it. She shook that thought off and hurried the rest of the way down the stairs. It didn’t matter what he’d planned. After all, he didn’t, in fact, truly own so much as a stone of Ballantrae. At least none that he could sell off. Which he’d soon learn.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders before entering the parlor once more. She’d be gracious, patient, understanding even, as she gently explained he had no lasting claim here. He could either agree to continue the lease agreement she had with his father, or walk away. Those were his options. She’d even be magnanimous and let him stay the night, if he still desired to do so.

  And try like hell not to lay in her own bed all night long, knowing he was under her roof, and dwell on how things might have been. Of course, this also meant she could cross off writing that letter to the States. And, very likely, her last source of outside income with it. No matter how smoothly this little meeting went, she didn’t dare fool herself into believing he’d want anything to do with Ballantrae… or her, when it was over.

  “So,” she said brightly, maybe too brightly, as she entered the room. “I think I have everything in order here.” She broke off and came to a stop when she realized she was talking to an empty room. “T.J.?” she called out. She stepped back into the hallway. “Tag?” Nothing.

  But then, for all the cavernous appearance of it from the outside, the web of cobbled hallways, rooms and stairs that made up the interior didn’t lend itself to sound doing much more than echoing in the spot it originated in. Had he forgotten something in his car? She wondered if he’d remember the way back out, especially as it was mostly in shadows this late in the day. Working electricity didn’t extend to all parts of the castle, as she’d long since shut down the areas that were kept closed off. That included the original kitchens and rear scullery they’d passed through from the rear courtyard.

  The sun had set to the point that she was forced to take the lantern off the wall hook before heading toward the rear of the main castle floor. “T.J.?” she called out, holding it out in front of her as she hurried down the hallway. She paused at each turn, calling for him again, in case he’d taken the wrong route.

  She finally reached the back door, which was still bolted. She peered through the panes anyway. Robey’s truck was still out there, but no sign of Tag. “Bollocks!” Where the bloody hell had he gone? She retraced her steps, hoping he’d found his way back to the front parlor from wherever it was he’d gone. She was climbing the last short set of stairs, the length of one hallway away from putting the lantern back on the hook, when someone stepped out of the corner niche on the last landing.

  “Hey, there you are.”

  She jumped at least a foot, letting out a small squeal of surprise and hobbling the lantern badly.

  He grabbed her arms, steadying her so she wouldn’t stumble backward off the riser. “Sorry,” he said, still holding her arms as she steadied herself. “I was looking for a bathroom. A working bathroom,” he amended.

  “We have twenty of them, but none of the ones in this part of the castle are functioning.”

  “I believe I’ve managed to stumble onto most of those.”

  There was strained humor in his tone, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the awkward direction their relationship had taken… or because he was still looking for a working loo. “A bit of advice. Where the electricity isn’t working? Nothing is working.”

  “Ah.”

  “Speaking of which,” she nodded at the other passageway that branched off from the top of the stairs. “How have you been managing navigating the south wing without a lantern?”

  “I have good night vision.”

  She swore his lips curved slightly.

  “I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

  She swallowed hard as the tension arcing between them took a decided turn back in time. She realized then how much better it would be if they could somehow find their way back to being the people they’d been with each other last night. She wasn’t sure that was possible, but at the moment, it didn’t feel quite so improbable. “Yes, well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” she said, trying for light and unaffected. She realized then that he was still holding her arms, and that they were standing exceedingly close on the small landing.

  “It’s quite a conglomeration of construction, this place,” he said, very conversationally. And apparently not in any hurry to let her go.

  Of course, she knew he’d release her if she wanted him to. Or the Tag from last night would have. Which brought up the question of why she hadn’t pulled away from him already. Why she wasn’t pulling away from him now. “Most of the lowest floor, the part that’s underground, is original, dating back almost seven hundred years. A large part of the entry floor of the main house and the base of the north tower have stood since the sixteenth century. They were built by the first Sinclair of Ballantrae. Every Sinclair chief since has rebuilt or added something to it.” She could hear the hint of breathlessness in her voice, wondering if he could. Hopefully he’d attribute it to her being startled.

  And not the real reason. He affected her. Irritating, enigmatic, cocky and occasionally arrogant… all things that weren’t exactly libidinal enhancements in her book. And yet her body had its own set of standards, and was clearly in charge of deciding exactly what was a turn-on and what wasn’t at the moment. “The, uh, result is a complete hodgepodge of architectural styles. A lot of uneven staircases that lead to nowhere, nooks and crannies at every turn, and—”

  “Would this be considered a nook… or a cranny?”

  He was flirting with her. She’d wondered for a moment if it had been wishful thinking on her part, or on the part of her libido anyway. But now she was certain. Ten hours ago her heart would have gone pitty-pat. And other body parts would have danced right along with the beat. Now? She could only be suspicious. “Why are you doing this?”

  “This?”

  “Flirting with me. Back in the parlor you were all but calling me an opportunistic slut who’d do anything she had to in order to take advantage of an old guy with money to burn.”

  “Is that what I said?” He slid his hands up her arms. “I guess my mind works differently when I’m touching you.”

  Despite the fact that his touch had her involuntarily shivering in pleasure—or maybe specifically because it did—she laughed in his face. “For a guy who’s been lost in the jungle for years, you certainly are a smooth one.” She slipped her arms from his grasp. She would have stepped down one riser as well, despite the height advantage it would give hi
m, but he had her rather cornered against the wall. “So, if insults and an overbearing manner don’t work, you turn on the charm instead? Is that your plan?”

  “Would it work?”

  She couldn’t help it, she laughed, only this time it wasn’t so harsh. “You really are a piece of work, you know that?”

  His lips quirked, but the smile didn’t light up his eyes. “I could say the same of you.”

  “It certainly would have been much nicer than the things you did say.”

  His smile faded, and the intensity in his gaze elevated a few hundred ticks. The scarcity of space between his body and hers became a point of excruciating awareness for her in the silent moments that followed. Leaving right now would be the smartest course of action. Take control of the situation, make him follow you, be leader in both manner and deed. Great advice, all of which fell on deaf ears. Or a deaf something, anyway.

  “I honestly don’t know what’s going on here,” he told her quietly. “I admit maybe I didn’t read the contracts clearly. I was dealing with… quite a few other things. This—” he gestured beyond her with his hand, “—came as a shock to me, to all of us.”

  She wished she was better at reading his expression. Wished she knew more about the dynamics of the relationship between Taggart and his sons. Because, despite the things he’d said to her in that service vestibule, she wanted to believe he wasn’t the cold, heartless bastard she’d believed all Taggart’s sons must be. Apparently her good nature could be bought for the price of a few orgasms. “So, are you saying you’ve realized you have no permanent claim here?” she asked, forging ahead. Too much longer tucked away in the shadows like this, with him looking at her the way he was, and whatever good judgment she might have left to call on would likely be woefully inadequate.

  “I’m not saying anything of the sort. Mick was quite clear in his explanations. My father places his trust in very few people. Those he does have generally well earned the spot.”

  He might not know it, but that comment suffused her with warmth. Taggart had trusted her, and she felt closer to him for knowing she was one of few that he had. She supposed she owed it to him to make sure she handled this the best way possible. “I’m sure we can sort this all out.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly, “I’m sure we can.”

  Neither of them made a move to leave their little nook. “You were right before,” she said, her tone also hushed. “I don’t know what went on between you and your father. I only know that he helped me at a time in my life when I thought everything that mattered to me most was lost. So perhaps we’re both biased in our opinions about him, for our own reasons.” She paused, waiting for his rebuttal. When he said nothing, she took it as a positive sign. Ever the optimist. “Maybe we should leave him out of this, as much as we can, and focus on the legal issues at hand that are now between us.”

  “Maybe.” His hand drifted up along her arm again, making her whole body tingle in awareness.

  She couldn’t figure him out. One minute prickly and reserved, the next minute looking at her like he could lap her up, one inch at a time. She immediately abandoned that imagery. She was having a hard enough time holding on to logic and rational thought as it was. “You confuse me,” she said, before she could think better of it.

  His hand drifted to her shoulder, then to her neck, where he toyed with several strands there. His expression intense as always, and just as unreadable. He said nothing. The mere brush of his fingers along her skin said enough.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, a bit huskily. “Seduction won’t change the terms of the contract.”

  “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “You deserved a lot worse.”

  “Probably.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “And to answer your question, I have no idea what in the hell I’m doing. I just don’t seem to be able to keep my hands off of you while I figure it out.”

  “Standing—” She broke off on a swift intake of breath as his fingers skimmed across her lips. She moved back, but only the fraction required to end his stroking touch. “Standing here is probably not wise then,” she finished in one rushed breath.

  “No,” he said, moving closer, hanging the lantern on a hook in the window niche beside her head. “I don’t suppose it is.” Her back hit the wall just as his hands wove into the hair on either side of her neck. He tilted her head back so he could gain access to her mouth, but didn’t push his body into hers, as she’d expected— hoped?—he would.

  It was exquisite torture, the slow descent of his mouth to hers. The way he kept his gaze locked on her own, until the last moment when his eyes closed and his long lashes brushed his tanned, taut cheeks. “Stop me,” he whispered against her lips. Whether it was plea or command, she couldn’t be sure.

  Nor, apparently, did she care. An instant later his mouth was on hers. No mere brush of lips upon lips, his fingers immediately tightened along the back of her head and neck and he pulled her into him, kissed her mouth open, and took her. Not with forceful thrusts, but with sure, confident strokes that had her moaning and reaching for him before she could comprehend what had just happened.

  He was consuming her, taking her, breeching—easily—any and every defense. As if she’d ever had any against him. What was it about him that made her lose all sense? It was the last structured thought she was able to manufacture. Because he’d finally pushed his body up against hers. His hips found the cradle of hers and he dipped down before thrusting forward, so she could feel the full extent of his arousal.

  Her knees went soft and she gripped his shoulders, digging in her nails as she opened for him. Mouth, hips, and legs. She’d be angry later, at him as well as herself. Where was her self-respect? Where was any sense of self-preservation?

  But those were distant concerns at the moment, vague threads of doubt too ephemeral to cling to. When all she wanted to cling to was the vibrant, hard, very alive man who was taking her as if she were the last woman he’d ever kiss before being dragged away to his death. The urgency in the way he held her, the way his mouth plundered hers, the way his hips ground into hers now, should have set off claxon bells of warning.

  Oh, it set off bells all right.

  “Jesus,” he swore against her mouth as he tore his lips from hers. “I just—” He broke off, breathing heavily. He slid his hands to her shoulders, made sure she was steady, then turned his back to her, his chin down, hands braced against the opposite wall of the stairwell landing. “I’m sorry,” he said at length.

  “For, specifically?”

  A brief snort of laughter got out before he got it under control. “I have no fucking idea.” He turned so his back rolled against the wall, his legs braced wide, hands by his side. “For swearing just then,” he said, a helpless smile ghosting about his mouth. “Beyond that, I honestly can’t say.” He shook his head, then tilted it back and let his eyes close. “I should never have come here.”

  “Why do you say that?” She sounded quite calm and in control. Bravo, her. Because she felt anything but at the moment.

  “Because you were right. I have no business here. I’m disrupting your life, and God knows I’m disrupting mine. I need to get back to work, not traipse halfway around the world on a wild goose chase that my father—” He broke off, his eyes still shut. She hadn’t been sure if he was talking to her, or to himself. Not that it mattered, she supposed.

  She folded her arms, still leaning against the wall, regarding him. “I don’t know about that. Some of the disruption was quite… nice.”

  He opened one eye to a slit. “Nice?”

  Her lips curved. “Men and their egos. I suppose it’s the same the world round.”

  “I suppose it is.” He closed his eyes again. “And don’t answer that.” His lips spread in a true smile this time. “But I know it was better than nice.”

  “Ballsy son of a bitch, aren’t you?” she said with a laugh.

  “A great deal of the time, yes. Only generally it ha
s nothing to do with beautiful women and deep, soul kisses.”

  And just like that he took her breath, and whatever smart-ass remark she had, away. Deep, soul kisses indeed. “I, well… thank you.” He merely opened his eyes and stared at her, and the tension spiked once again. How was it that it was like this between them? If it were mere animal attraction, she could deal with that. But he pulled at something in her that went well beyond sexual need.

  “We’re making this quite the habit,” she said, at length. When he merely arched a tawny brow, she motioned to the narrow niche they’d tucked themselves into. “Tight places,” she explained.

  His lips curved slowly, into a smile broad enough to flex the cords in his neck, tightening the choker that circled it. Her palms seemed to itch constantly with the need to touch him. The least little thing triggered it.

  “I rather like some of the tight places I’ve been into of late.”

  She blushed even as she smiled. “I don’t suppose I can fault you for speaking so directly, since I make a habit of it myself. In fact, it’s one of the things I admire about you.”

  “One of the things?” He folded his arms. “You mean I’ve more than one admirable trait?”

  She let her gaze drift slowly down his body, pausing a bit about midway down, then slowly shifted her gaze back up to his. “One or two.”

  “Touche,” he said with a nod.

  He is such a primal specimen, she thought, taking in his rangy body, his native good looks, that wild tangle of hair. And yet for all the earthiness of him, he had this almost overeducated, bookish air about him, the way he spoke, the way that, most of the time anyway, he kept silent and merely observed the goings-on around him.

  The vestibule display notwithstanding, he didn’t seem the sort who needed to command a room, or be the center of attention. And yet he so easily managed to command all of hers.

  She realized, looking at him now, that even if she peeled away the overt physicality of him, and that professorial air, there was still an aura of mystery about him. Perhaps it was because he was so hard to read that she felt certain the thoughts ran deep behind those enigmatic eyes of his. Or maybe it was that hint of desolation when he’d spoken of his father just now that pointed to something more beneath his admittedly fine exterior.