He hadn’t yet let go of her leg, unable to pull the pad of his thumb and fingers away from the soft skin. Like before, her leg was almost cool to the touch.
“I’m sorry,” she said so softly it was almost a whisper. But her gaze was direct, and she didn’t pull her leg away.
“For what?”
“I’m so used to people making fun of the Regency group that I get weirdly defensive. If I’m not stammering about it, I’m usually up on a soapbox preaching the superiority of my ways.”
He nodded. “I get it. I used to get a lot of flak for the Scottish Games when I was younger, but I don’t anymore.”
“Of course you don’t. Who would dare?” She cocked her head and raked her gaze over him, appreciation and awe glinting warmly in her eyes. His internal body temperature jumped several degrees.
She softened her tone and added, “That’s not a fair comparison. You have extreme powers of intimidation. I don’t.”
Julian finally released his hold on her leg, allowing himself to take in the curve of her thigh where it met the hem of her dress, which fluttered higher as she shifted. All of it—the dress, the skin, the promise of what lay farther up—writhed with silken sensuality.
“Oh, you have powers too. Believe me.”
“And how about you?” Jada called from across the table, her voice overloud and wholly unwelcome. Just when things were starting to get interesting.
“What about me?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and draping one arm casually over the back of Kate’s. It wasn’t an embrace, precisely, but it could easily become one.
“I was asking Mr. O’Leary here what it is he wears under that kilt of his. Boxers? Briefs? Nothing but what the good Lord gave you? He’s curiously mum on the subject, and I’m dying to know.”
Julian laughed. No matter who they talked to about the Highland Games, it always came around to the subject of kilts and the requisite gear underneath. Girls. Boys. Old ladies. They all had to know. He blamed Mel Gibson.
“A warrior never tells,” was all he would say. The truth would only disappoint them.
“Why don’t I get us all the next round?” He pushed back his chair and nodded at the two almost empty glasses on the table. “What are you drinking?”
“Vodka tonics,” Kate replied. “But you don’t have to. We can get them.”
“It’s no problem.” It wasn’t. Stepping away from the table seemed like a good idea. If he’d come here to confirm or deny his attraction to this woman, the cues were pointing overwhelmingly to confirmation. Which was a problem.
The bar was crowded with many of the glittery dresses he’d passed on the way in, but the bartender was a woman, which placed Julian right at the top of the queue. He shook his head when she plopped her white towel on the counter right in front of him and asked what he wanted.
“I’ll wait my turn. I’m not in a rush.”
The bartender shrugged and moved to the woman next to him, who thanked him warmly. He turned and leaned against the bar, his shoe hooked on the foot rail. It was a good vantage point to watch the table. Jada was practically sitting in Michael’s lap, laughing at something he’d said. Kate seemed to appreciate the joke too, though she was more intent on the music than the conversation, one of her hands tapping in time to the beat. As if feeling his gaze, she looked up and smiled before returning her attention to the music.
He could have watched her for hours.
So, of course, he turned away.
“Cool down, Jules,” he muttered, inspecting the marble bar, black and sleek like the rest of the place. It helped, the detached urbanity of it all. This wasn’t his world, and it wasn’t the right time to get swept up in it. Not until he had that Rockland Bluff sponsorship firmly under his sporran could he devote more time to all the things he’d been neglecting for the past decade. His mom. His sisters. His love life. They were all important, he wouldn’t deny it, and he wanted nothing more than to go sit across from that woman and find out more about her sense of vigilante justice and Regency undergarments. But it would be foolish to throw it all away now.
His turn came, and he ordered drinks for the table—vodka tonics for the women and plain beer for he and Michael. He easily held two glasses in each of his hands as he headed back toward the table.
Where things were apparently heating up.
Jada had jumped up from the table and had a hand on either hip, glaring down at Michael as though he’d wronged her a thousand times over. Kate held her lower lip captive with her teeth, looking at Julian anxiously.
“What’s going on?” He set the drinks on the table and studied their faces. “What happened?”
“Your big, dumb jock of a friend here called Kate a psycho.” Jada pointed an accusatory finger at Michael, who held up his hands in mock surrender. As if on cue, the piano music picked up, a suspenseful and low thrumming sound holding them all in a state of suspension.
The music shifted.
“No, he didn’t.” Kate sighed. “Calm down, Jada. All he said is I’m crazy if I think Julian’s going to back down.”
“Back down from what?” He wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed, but he felt his heartbeat pick up, an automatic response to the sudden change in the air. He couldn’t help it. He was able to sense battle like other men sensed desperation.
“Your Highland Games. Did you really have it set for the weekend of August the sixteenth? In four weeks?”
“Ye-es,” he said carefully. “Why?”
“That’s when my event is planned,” she said, her shoulders sagging a little. “I knew this was too good to be true.”
A strong surge in his stomach made Julian long to comfort her, but his sense of caution was stronger. “Can’t you just reschedule?”
“It’s an important date,” Kate said softly. “You probably wouldn’t understand. It’s…sentimental.”
Michael snorted. “Sentimental? The word isn’t even allowed on the playing field. It’s about the might, baby. The brawn. The balls.”
“Oh, I’ve got your balls right here.” Jada leaped forward and grabbed at the crotch of Michael’s jeans.
Michael howled in a combination of outrage and pain as Jada latched on, her aim true. Julian winced in sympathy. Never one to condone unnecessary violence against men or women, especially in public nightclubs, he tried to pull Jada away as gently as he could. It would have been easy to forcibly eject her from the scene, but things hadn’t progressed that far. At least Michael was still breathing.
Kate’s soft voice behind him stilled his movements.
“She’s just trying to prove a point. She’ll let go in a second.”
“I don’t have a second!” Michael howled. “She’s ripping the bloody things off!”
Julian was never more grateful than when Peterson came up behind Jada and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. He had a feeling everyone was exaggerating the severity of the issue.
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to release this man’s testicles.”
The note of authority in his voice registered better than Michael’s howls, and Jada immediately released her hold and stepped back.
Michael bent over double, rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clutching his balls with more tenderness than they’d probably seen in years. When he looked up, his eyes streamed with moisture. Not tears—not from a man like him. They were drops of pure pain, spilled right from their most primal source.
“That bitch is crazy,” he panted.
“You’re going to have to leave,” Peterson said stonily. “You and your friend. We don’t allow attacks of a sexual nature here.” He continued holding Jada back with one hand, as if she might attack again. Julian, for one, was glad. He angled his body behind a chair just in case.
Kate moved stealthily behind him, picking up their purses and things, murmuring repeated apologies to the still-bent Michael.
“I’m so sorry, Julian,” she said under her breath. “I’m not quite sure
what got into her. Too much vodka, probably. She’s very protective of me.”
“So it seems.”
He scrawled his phone number and full name onto one of the cocktail napkins littering the table and pressed it into her hand. “You don’t have to call, but I’d like it if you did. And I’m sorry about Cornwall Park. Maybe I can help you find somewhere else.”
She looked at the piece of paper and then back up at him, her eyes glinting with sparks of green around the center. “You can what?”
“I’d like to help. I know some good places around here.”
“But Cornwall Park is a good place.”
“Well, it’s obviously already taken,” he said slowly. “You’ll have to find another venue.”
“Um…I’m sorry. I don’t remember discussing the subject. You don’t own it—it’s a public park. You said so yourself.”
The pianos stopped, and a round of applause broke out around them. Julian felt himself swirling in the sounds, unable to look away as Kate flushed with emotion. “You’re joking, right? I mean, the SHS has been there for years.”
“Look—can we talk about this later?” She laid a hand on his arm. It was a simple gesture, light and innocent, but the sensations it evoked were anything but easy. His body stirred, and all the fight in him melted into a pool of acquiescence. He wanted nothing more than to feel that hand moving up his arm, twining around his neck. He wanted to take the hand in his own, press it and promise it whatever it asked. For a brief and frightening moment, he thought he might give up Cornwall Park for it. For her.
It scared the shit out of him.
Sorry, Harold. He sent up a silent prayer. Battering ram or not, this was the moment of retreat. He was going to have to quash the warm feeling in his gut before it took hold. He was going to have to play the Highland warrior card.
He pulled away and allowed his face to change into its natural, stony front. “We can talk all you want, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s not a whole lot else to discuss.”
Kate’s face fell, and his stomach fell with it. Remembering their discussion from before, he hammered in the final nail.
“I guess you’re just going to have to move your silly little book club somewhere else.”
His words had the opposite effect than he’d imagined. Her eyes didn’t fill with tears, and she didn’t storm off in a huff. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and Julian realized with a chill that she was moving her Cadillac to the center of the road.
“Excuse me? What did you say?”
Michael, Jada and Peterson all looked up. The room stopped, and everyone in it might have looked up too. Julian couldn’t tell.
“That there is nothing to discuss.” He was resolute. He had to be.
“After that.” She clenched her teeth as she spoke, and her entire body stilled. “About my little club,” she added.
Julian chose his words carefully, calculating them to hit like perfectly landed blows. Michael and Peterson stood there, watching him, counting on him. Those two men practically were the SHS. He was the SHS. Years of dedication to history and tradition had taught him if there was one thing the Scottish never did, it was give in to the British.
And no woman’s touch would ever be able to change that.
“Let’s not pretend we’re talking about the same thing here,” Julian said coolly. He aligned himself next to his friends, all three of them straightening as one. “You’re talking about dressing up and reading some old books with a few of your friends. I’m talking about a major athletic event that’s been going on for centuries. You and I both know all that Jane Austen stuff is fluff. Romantic fluff.”
“You got that right,” Peterson muttered. Julian had no idea if Peterson knew what was going on, but the man had his back anyway. Warriors. Friends. That’s what they did.
“It’s not fluff, but it is romantic.” Kate busied herself with shoving her arms into a white sweater, but Julian didn’t miss the expression on her face. Pain. Anger. He knew them well. “Jane Austen is worth serious study if only because men knew how to behave back then.”
Jada nodded. “In a more gentlemanlike manner,” she added.
Julian gave a bitter laugh. Gentlemanlike. He knew all about women’s fanciful notions of a gentleman. He knocked on their front door with ten dozen roses and a white horse. He gave up his land for a chaste peck on the cheek and declarations of undying love.
But Julian knew a real man stood up for himself and protected his own. He fought for what was his.
“I’m sorry,” Julian said, “but you’re wrong. The only thing that makes the nineteenth century the least bit romantic is that it was the first time men and women starting having sex from behind. All that romance had nothing to do with tea and ball gowns. It was about hard, dominant, mind-blowing sex.”
Kate’s eyes widened and her face paled. She couldn’t have reacted any stronger if he’d smacked her across the cheek.
“That’s offensive.”
“No, Kate, it’s true,” Jada interjected. “I was reading on the subject the other day. It had to do with issues of hygiene.”
“Exactly.” Julian nodded, barely even recognizing himself as he shot out the words. “Give a woman a bath, and every man suddenly wants to be hitting it doggy-style. That’s your romance.”
Kate stared at him as Peterson and Michael shook with muffled laughter behind him.
Julian almost got caught up in the hilarity of the moment himself. It was absurd—he’d just betrayed every minute of the polite upbringing his mother had worked so hard to instill. In a dueling piano bar. Over a tract of land. With a woman he wouldn’t mind having hard, dominant, mind-blowing sex with right that minute.
But he didn’t budge.
Kate came closer, the top of her head just reaching his shoulder, not the least bit dismayed to find herself at a physical disadvantage.
“You may be big and you may be strong, but that doesn’t mean you get to make all the rules.”
“I just did.”
“No. All you did was confirm my original suspicions—I thought you were different. I thought you were nice. But you’re just like every other man I’ve ever met. It’s all fun and games until you don’t get what you want—but no worries. If there’s one thing that’s easy to do, it’s push Kate Simmons out of the way. She doesn’t matter. She’s easy to walk all over.”
His resolution wavered. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, her voice and gaze trained on him with intense concentration. It was more effective than if she’d been shouting at the top of her lungs. “It was.”
He splayed his hands helplessly. What else was there to say? She was right, and he felt like the biggest jerk in the world for saying it, but he’d already made his decision. The Games came first.
“We’ll go.” She grabbed Jada’s arm and pointed her friend toward the door. “But don’t think that means we’re done here.”
He wished rather than believed that to be true.
Before they were out of earshot, his friends finally let loose a loud whoop, half war-cry, half hilarity, and wholly inappropriate for the time and the place. Kate heard it and turned to stare at them. For a second, he thought the flash of emotion that crossed her face was bringing her close to tears.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was as though she were memorizing every last detail of their triumph, savoring it to chew up and spit out later.
Julian stopped, suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding. He recognized that look, because he’d worn it himself a few times. On the battlefield. Facing down an enemy.
It was how wars began.
Chapter Four
Removing the Kidskin Gloves
“Call him.”
Kate blinked sleepily. She hadn’t even realized Jada was still there.
Jada had come over painfully early considering what time they’d returned home from Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint the night before. That was the downfall of having
a friend who got up at four o’clock every morning for work. To Jada, sleeping in until eight was a disgusting display of slovenliness.
Kate had answered her door that morning to let Jada in when she came knocking, but she’d stumbled back on the couch and fell into a catnap without offering her friend so much as a “hello”.
“How long have you been here? What time is it?”
“I’ve been watching you sleep for about an hour. You know, for all the crap you have in here, your house is really clean. I had no idea you folded your underwear.”
Kate bolted upright, pulling her hand-knit afghan around her. “You spent the morning snooping in my underwear drawer? Jeez, Jada. I had no idea your life was that boring.”
“My life isn’t boring—yours is. That’s my point. Call him.”
“And say what? ‘Gee, thanks for the drinks last night. Sorry you acted like an insensitive jerk and we had to cut it short’?”
Jada flopped onto the couch next to her. It was a stuffed, purple velvet Victorian piece—all intricate carvings and very little comfort. It matched the rest of Kate’s furniture, a hodgepodge of vintage pieces she’d found at antique stores throughout the years—more sentimental than functional. Her dining room table was missing most of one leg, a stack of old hardback copies of Nancy Drew books keeping it from toppling down altogether.
“Oh, I don’t know. How about, ‘Your dark and brooding ways pierce straight to my quivering womb’? Or, ‘You know, I’d love nothing more than to cast these Regency women to the wolves and watch you and your friends run around that park in short skirts’?” Jada crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “This shouldn’t be a tough call to make.”
Kate sighed. She knew what Jada was thinking—gorgeous men. Big logs.
Kate had been dreaming of almost the same thing for most of the night—gorgeous man. Big log.
She got up and stretched, padding her way into the kitchen to start the water boiling for her French press. “I’m not going to call him. I barely know the guy, and most of the time he sat there with a frown on his face.”
Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 Page 5
