McClellan scowled. “She was skulking.”
Kate opened her mouth. And then shut it. She had been skulking, and she didn’t particularly wish to dwell on it.
“Oh, I think I need to sit down.” She moaned instead, turning her head so a few dramatic drops of blood splattered into the dirt.
Julian promptly whisked her up into his arms and began carrying her to his truck. He was doing it again—taking over. But the way he lifted her and carried her like she was nothing more than a deliciously feminine slip of a human being reminded her very much of their first meeting. Before she’d realized he was her enemy, when he seemed like a sweet, caring man who might genuinely be interested in her.
She let herself enjoy the brief journey, her head pressed against the smooth plane of his bare chest, warm even in the cooling night air. She was so close she could easily kiss him, a quick press of the lips along the upper curve of his pectoral muscle. And she was perilously close to doing it, like a woman on a diet placed in the arms of a piece of decadent chocolate cake.
But she didn’t. Blood, dirt and the crunch of McClellan’s nose as he snapped it back into place set an entirely different tone to the proceedings.
Julian set her gently on the tailgate of the truck, amidst the beef jerky and tarps, her legs dangling over the edge. But he wasn’t the least bit interested in her legs. His face level with hers, he started poking at the wound on her head, exploring the cut as a chimp might search for nits.
She bore it patiently, closing her eyes and trying not to imagine those hands moving in a less clinical manner across her brow.
“I don’t think you need stitches,” he said in a voice of authority. Something rough wiped across her face, wafting a slight gasoline smell into the air. It was a rag—like the kind her mechanic used to check the amount of oil in her car.
Kate wrinkled her nose and backed away. “What are you doing? Is that sanitary?”
His easy chuckle shook the truck. “It’s clean. Relax. I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re also not a doctor.”
“I work with builders five months out of the year. I’ve seen my share of gaping head wounds. This cut isn’t going to kill you.” He waved the rag in front of her face. She had to admit it looked relatively clean, other than the blood now covering it. “And neither is this.”
He dabbed at her head with it again, a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth. “What are you doing here, anyway? Spying on me?”
“Very funny. As far as I’m aware, this is a public park, not a private residence—especially not a private residence where two people are having a date.” She cast a pointed look over at the group of men, all of whom were none too discreetly watching their conversation unfold.
Kate snatched the rag out of Julian’s hand and jumped off the edge of the truck, using the side-view mirror to inspect her wound. He was right—it wasn’t going to kill her. But it was unsightly just the same, a giant blue goose egg crowned with a jagged line of drying blood.
“You could have outed me at any moment,” Julian pointed out. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the truck as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “But you chose not to. I think that says a lot more about you than it does me.”
“At least I don’t skulk behind potted plants!”
“Right. You were skulking behind a rock. That’s better. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“To Duke?” Kate forced herself to laugh and mirror Julian’s stance, even though her highly unattractive head wound put her at a slight disadvantage.
That was a question she’d been asking herself for days. If there was one weapon that would help her put Julian in his place, it was Duke. Golden, gilded Duke, with his rolling lawn and fat wallet. But it had seemed wrong, somehow, to drag him into the fight. Duke wasn’t a man who resorted to spying and juvenile pranks. He was above it, floating like an effervescent god.
“I didn’t want my evening to descend into a fistfight, that’s all,” she lied. “It’s too bad you didn’t stick around. We had such a lovely time after you left.” That was a lie too. After dinner, Kate cut the evening short. It had been growing too difficult to keep a serene, interested expression on her face after the altercation with Julian. Duke had been incredibly gracious about it, of course. And he’d sent flowers the next day, a huge, gorgeous display of roses that still made her blush to look at.
“How do you know I wasn’t there? Maybe I found a better hiding place.”
It was possible. Unlikely, but possible. She’d thought of it at the time and had even granted Duke a kiss after he walked her to her car in case Julian might be on hand, watching. It had been performed as an act of pure rebellion, but she’d had to admit there was an undeniable allure to Duke’s kiss. He was a man who knew what to do with a soft pair of lips.
She decided play the same cards now. “Shame on you, then. I had no idea you were such a Peeping Tom. Did you at least enjoy the show?”
A scowl, dark and shadowy, crossed Julian’s face, but he didn’t speak.
“I came here to take measurements of the park,” she said, pointing to the papers she’d dropped over by the rocks. “What are you doing here?”
As if suddenly realizing the impropriety of standing there with the breadth of his chest flashing right in her face, he rummaged through his gym bag until he found a T-shirt to pull on.
“Funny thing, that.” His words were muffled until the gray material came down over his abs. Kate was finally able to bring her full attention up to his face.
“I was thinking over our past conversations, and something you said inspired me to action.”
“This doesn’t look like action. It looks like…barbarism,” Kate said. It did too. She didn’t condone sleeping outside, in a bunk bed or in any hotel that boasted a number in its name.
“We’re camping,” McClellan said helpfully, coming forward to grab a case of beer from the back of Julian’s truck. “She’s all right, eh?”
“She’ll live,” Julian muttered. “Sorry about the nose, McClellan. I got carried away.”
“No harm done. I’d do the same if you attacked my woman.”
“She’s not my woman.” Julian looked as though he might want to punch McClellan again.
McClellan’s gaze roamed over Kate’s entire body before he shrugged, dismissing her like he might an inferior cut of steak. She snorted. As if that man ever turned down anything to eat.
“If you say so, Wallace. I’m gonna go pitch my tent.”
Kate snorted again, louder this time. Drinking beer, playing with their balls and pitching tents. Man-camping was just plain classy.
“Laugh it up Kate, while you still can. There are a few things you’re forgetting about going up in battle against a man like me. I don’t give up, but I fight fair. Not like you. You fight like—”
“A girl?” Kate quirked a brow.
“The English.” He laughed and gestured over the campsite. “One thing I’ve learned about history is that the English always underestimate how much it’ll take to get a Scot off his own land.”
“So what? You’re going to stay here for two weeks, sleeping on the ground and not taking showers?”
“Yep.”
Kate was about two seconds away from stamping her foot at him. “But you can’t… It’s not…”
Julian’s grin—the toothpaste-ad one—flashed white and menacing. “This is me, marking my territory. I told you I had friends. Big ones.”
Size and strength. Always, he thought size and strength and pure, unadulterated masculinity trumped everything else. She suddenly wanted to grab the hammer from McClellan’s hand and try that crazy swing of theirs. Right into Julian’s foot.
“You’re not the only one who can sleep in a tent for a few days. I have friends too.”
Julian’s laugh was deep and prolonged, equal parts hilarity and mockery. He didn’t stop for a full minute. All Kate could do was stand there and watch, tapping her foot in t
he dust until he had to finally breathe again.
“It’s hardly the wilds of Scotland,” she pointed out. “For crying out loud—there’s a McDonald’s down the street. I can sit here as long as you can.”
“Go ahead. I can’t stop you from staying, but we were here first, and I guarantee you we’ll be here last.”
“What—are you going to lift us up and carry us off like the Sabine women?”
He spread his arms, welcoming her to the park like a footman at the Ritz. “We won’t need to. Two hours. I give you two hours before you pack in and go home.”
She narrowed her eyes. Julian obviously thought very little of her ability to see a task through to the end. On a dare, she’d once read the entire unabridged Moby Dick in a straight forty-eight hour stretch. A whole summer back in her teenage years had been spent trying to learn how to toss a card neatly into an upturned top hat. And who could forget the time she took up looming and almost forgot to eat in her quest to create a big enough textile to upholster a couch?
Please. She could spend a few nights in this gorgeous park overlooking the river. It was a cakewalk by comparison.
She turned to Julian, her face masked with as much firm resolve as she could muster. “You’re in for a big disappointment. I’m not leaving.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“You know, Julian, your biggest mistake has always been that you underestimate me.”
He flashed her another wide smile.
“Well, Kate, it looks like we’re even. Your biggest mistake is that you assume I think about you at all.”
Chapter Nine
A Lively Rout
She was tenacious. Julian would give her that much.
True to her word, Kate had refused to leave the park. She’d phoned her reinforcements from across the field, refusing to even look over at the men’s camp while she waited for them to show.
In fact, she’d been sitting there for two hours, waiting. It was growing cold—the evenings out here, with the wind carrying from river below, had a tendency to dip down in the fifties—and she was once again wearing something flimsy and decorative, white pants that skimmed the backs of her calves and a tiny green tank top that strained against a pair of breasts he knew damn well weren’t held in check by a bra. He’d felt much more of that body, supple and soft, than he’d been prepared to as he’d carried her across the parking lot.
It was almost too bad McClellan hadn’t knocked her unconscious. At least then he could have called an ambulance to haul her away.
“Shouldn’t we offer her a jacket or something?” Peterson sat next to Julian, his feet propped on a practice caber, both of them pretending to watch the stars.
“No. We want her to leave.”
“But she—”
“No, Peterson.” Julian was firm. She was probably trying to win his men’s sympathy, all that skin shining under the moon like something out of a comic book. “She’s probably got a whole busload of girlfriends on their way over as we speak. It’s going to turn into a damn slumber party any minute. We’ll probably have to braid their hair and talk about Hannah Montana.”
Peterson sat up a little straighter. “How many friends are we talking?”
“I don’t know. Two—maybe three?”
“Will there be pillow fights?”
Oh God. Julian hoped not. There were limits to how far a man might be reasonably expected to restrain himself.
“That woman who almost ripped Mikey’s balls off the other night will probably be here. You want to get in a pillow fight with her?”
Peterson sighed and put a hand over his heart. “Hell yes.”
Julian tossed an empty beer can at him.
“What? You forget I’m a single dad. The only action I see these days is what Barbie’s giving up to Ken. And let me tell you, that chick is one big prude.”
They all looked up at the sound of crunching gravel. A miniscule Miata pulled in right next to Julian’s truck, followed by a hatchback pulling a small trailer full of supplies. Light, feminine laughter filled the field more ominously than the sound of a tearing ligament.
Julian had to put a hand out to stop Peterson from rising to his feet. “Don’t you dare help them.”
Michael stepped up from behind. He was accompanied by Nick, Peterson’s younger brother and a budding young athlete with almost as many tattoos as his sibling.
“Aw, c’mon Jules,” Nick said with a laugh. “They’re going to stay either way. We might as well have a little fun with it.”
“Maybe it’ll throw them off the scent,” Peterson suggested. “You know, making nice and all that.”
Julian kicked at the caber. He wasn’t convinced going within a twenty-foot radius of those women was a good idea. He’d lied when he said he didn’t think about Kate any more than he had to—the damn woman had the uncanny ability to get under the skin like some alien in a sci-fi movie, shifting and worming her way closer and closer to his core, to where the muscles were no longer any sort of barrier worth a damn. Two weeks out here with that lot of feminine incompetency was almost too much to even contemplate. They probably didn’t even know how to light a match.
She wouldn’t last. He’d stake the Games on it.
Hell, he was staking the Games on it.
“Fine. If you want to help them, go ahead. But I’m not moving.”
McClellan joined the other three in trotting across the field. From where Julian sat, he had a pretty good vantage point. Jada stepped out of the Miata, looking like she was about to go clubbing with huge spiky heels already digging into the field and tearing up the grass. He didn’t recognize the other woman, but he liked her better almost instantly. She was dressed for actual outdoor activities and was pulling a large tent box out of her car with relative efficiency. Thank God one of them would know what she was doing.
Kate was doing her best to ignore him, and Julian was doing his best not to notice. He busied himself setting up the portable cookstove they’d brought along with a cooler full of supplies. They’d already determined the men would work in shifts over the next few weeks so that they could continue to go to work and live regular lives, but the lure of outdoor adventure proved too strong for the first night. Julian imagined that as more men flew in for the event, their camp out would get even bigger. Male companionship—pure and easy—was what the Games were all about. All a man needed was a warm plaid to curl up in, a good piece of meat for his table and another man looking out for his back. Not—good God, were those women unloading a portable hot tub?
Julian looked away. He couldn’t take this.
Michael came jogging up, the smile on his face pretty much confirming Julian’s worst fears. “Jules, you’ve got to come see this thing. This is turning out to be the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“Tell me it’s not a hot tub.”
“It’s awesome—you put firewood in that little side heater with the coils, and it gets the water up to temperature. Peterson and I are going to start getting water to fill it. I figure I can haul it from the spigots at the entrance to the parking lot. You want to help?”
“No. I do not want to help.”
Michael shook his head with a rueful grin. “Suit yourself, buddy. But there are three gorgeous women over there with a hot tub, enough booze to start their own pub and a stack of pepperoni pizzas. Nothing you’ve got will compete.”
Julian turned off the cookstove switch angrily. “Can’t you see what she’s doing? She’s bribing you over to the dark side with cheap beer and hot meat.”
Michael winked and sauntered off to do the women’s bidding. He was right. Julian couldn’t compete.
When he looked up, he could see Kate staring right at him, her embargo on acknowledging his existence obviously lifted. And she was laughing.
He hated that she was laughing.
It didn’t take long for the enemy camp to finish setting up, though Julian didn’t see one of the women lift more than an eyelash or a breast the wh
ole time. They were apparently going to share a tent—a move, he was sure, designed to reinforce the fantasy of late-night pillow fights and make-out sessions. The hot tub was filled and warming up thanks to wood acquired by the sacrifice of one of their best practice cabers, and they’d all set up lawn chairs around a metal fire pit that crackled with heat and activity. It was practically an outdoor hotel.
Their own camp, which had seemed rugged and outdoorsy before the women had arrived, now seemed a little sad.
“You could join us, you know,” Kate said. She’d come up from behind him, sneaking along in the twilight, a wood nymph hellbent on his ruin. She held out a mug, but he made no move to grab it.
“It’s cocoa.” She pushed it closer.
“What’s in it?” He grabbed the cup and gave it a tentative sniff.
She laughed and sat, uninvited, across from him. Right on the ground, even though she’d changed into a skirt. Her legs settled demurely to the side, and she batted her eyes as if she didn’t sport a large, angry bruise along the edge of her forehead. Always ladylike, even battered and in the dirt.
“Milk. Chocolate. Marshmallows. The usual.”
When he didn’t drink it right away, she shrugged. “I figure at least two of us should remain sober. There are open flames, after all.”
Julian had been thinking the same thing. If all his years attending Scottish Highland Games had taught him one thing, it was that when women, whisky, and water activities combined in any proportion, it almost always ended up as a story preceded by, “So, we’d had too much to drink…”
“I’ll tell you what.” Julian sighed, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ll keep my side in line if you do the same.”
Kate chewed on her bottom lip. “I’ll try. But Jada isn’t exactly easy to control.”
They both looked across the field. The women emerged from the tent in their swimsuits—the dark-haired one Julian didn’t know in a simple one piece, Jada in a sparkling silver thing that was like a bikini with a thin strip of fabric connecting the two parts. Subtle it was not. But Peterson, Nick and McClellan seemed to appreciate the suit in the manner to which it was accustomed. Poor Michael just looked scared.
Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 Page 14
