Kiltless In Carolina

by Ashantay Peters

  Damn, sharing a room looked tempting, but uh, uh. The passion and hot body beckoned but he’d be jumping into a cauldron of boiling shit getting closer to her. He caught a glimpse of frost in her eyes. Fucking her could resemble diving in a mountain lake during December. He shivered.

  She’s here for the Highland Games, boy. Remember Cait. Remember you’ve sworn off women with Scots blood.

  His phone rang with Liam’s ring tone. “Yeah, bro. Made it okay, thanks for the room.” The devil whispering in his ear made him bait the tempting bit still standing at his side. “Lucky they had a last minute cancellation.”

  He ducked his head and hid his smile. “I’ll meet you after I stow my gear.”

  “Kenzie’s cousin is looking forward to meeting you,” Liam said. His voice held more than one note of humor.

  “She’s a dog, isn’t she?” He didn’t need to see the woman’s green glower to know she seethed beside him.

  “No, I won’t put you on speaker to say hello to Kenzie.” Liam lowered his voice. “Asswipe.”

  “Shit face.”

  “Dickwad.”

  “Useless piece of trash.”

  Loving brotherly greetings duly exchanged, Liam chuckled. “I stepped away from them to say I think you’ll like the cuz. She’s blonde, bubbly, and built.”

  “Bubbly? Jesus H., man. I may have to rethink this gig.”

  “You promised. I’ve already given you enough money for a weeklong banquet. For three people.”

  “Yeah, bro. Thanks, but I don’t do bubbly, remember?”

  “Granted, she’s not champagne of the Cait sort. More of a ginger ale.”

  “I’ll take a look at her, but I won’t promise to screw her.” Stormy green eyes met his. He dropped his gaze. God all knew what she thought about his last words. Not that he cared.

  “This is one spice you’ll want a bite of,” Liam said.

  “If you say so.”

  They made arrangements to meet at the Games grounds. He ended the call and stared at the woman beside him. She snorted her obvious disgust.

  “You know what? You’re a pig.” She threw her hands in the air. Mimicking a Scot accent she said, “Pipers. Bloody, sodding, fecking, whoring pipers.”

  “What the—” She’d stomped off, manhandling an overstuffed case behind her.

  “Sir? Mr. MacKay?”

  He turned his attention from a Grade A ass to the clerk, raising his eyebrows.

  “Welcome to the hotel and please remember we stand ready to assist with all our customer’s needs. All of them.”

  He yanked his key card from her hand after a short tussle. Damn, but the girl had some muscles under her long sleeved white blouse.

  “Thanks, uh, Cassandra.” At least he thought that’s what her nametag read. He wasn’t about to pull out his reading glasses. “I’ll call you if I have needs.”

  “I hope you do.”

  When he reached his room, he removed his key from the holder and a slip of paper dropped out. Cassandra’s phone number and time she got off work.

  He maneuvered through the door, whistling a lilt. Things were looking up. Even if he was a “bloody sodding, fecking, whoring piper.”

  Why did Miss Crazy Hotel Woman’s words echo like Macbeth’s witches’ incantations? The uptight spitfire with a suitcase needed a sexual workout. Not that he’d be the one making her sweat and moan. God no.

  He shook himself of her image and his memories of a sultry voice. Thanks to Cassandra, or perhaps the bubbly cousin, he’d make sure both his sets of pipes would get used this weekend.

  Chapter Three

  Isla woke with a sore shoulder. She shook with cold and had an overwhelming need for the bathroom. When she sat, her legs didn’t swing over the side of a bed, but bounced off the deflated remains of a smelly rubber airbed.

  Memories of the night before raced back with unwelcome clarity, even though her head ached from too much Robert the Bruce and her mouth had gummed shut, leaving behind the taste of Old Cellar rather than a robust ale.

  Her eyes slipped shut. She groaned. So much for a hotel room. Sheets. Pillows. A bathroom that didn’t stink of chemical deodorizer. Unable to find a room anywhere, she was stuck at the campground and the not-so-great-outdoors for the Games weekend.

  Thinking of a bathroom pushed her to her creaky knees. Then she stood, massaged her aching back, and stumbled toward the nearest portable toilet. Even in the half-light of pre-dawn, she could see a short line in front of the port-o-let. Didn’t these people ever sleep?

  Once she’d relieved herself and brushed her teeth, she felt marginally better. Her family hadn’t stirred. She opted against coffee and grabbed her camera. Heavy mist had drifted from the mountaintop, encasing her feet in a cloud of mystic dreams, desires calling to her photographer’s eye.

  She donned her father’s oversized McAllister plaid jacket for warmth, shoving the majority of her frizzed-out hair under a blue and white Scottish flag-design knit cap, and stuck her feet into her mother’s purple duck shoes. Good thing few were awake. She could get her photos and return before she’d been seen and arrested for being a walking eyesore. Losing the hotel room sucked. If she saw Mr. Handsome again, she’d be sure to let him know.

  Isla raced past the overflowing trash containers not yet policed by the ground crew, beyond the jammed parking lot to the competition field. The misty desolation of a solitary place or a lone competitor warming up for the day ahead would make a perfect shot for the annual photography contest. Winning would give her new business the free advertising boost she needed.

  Pipes sounded in the distance, muted by either the thick stand of trees surrounding the still empty games areas or the low-lying clouds. She followed the music, far past the cultivated areas, volume growing as she hurried through the morning ground fog.

  She topped a short rise and lost her breath. Stumbling to a halt, she raised her camera with a smooth motion, taking in and snapping the scene in one fluid motion. And knew she’d caught gold.

  A kilted man stood alone in the middle of a wildflower meadow, piping in the day. His foot tapped, sending cues to non-existent musicians.

  The notes droned to a close. He bowed his head and long, wavy hair fell into folds around his face. A man lost in his own thoughts, or perhaps, memories. She knew she had been entranced. Without thinking of his privacy, or anything other than the perfect lighting and subject composition, she snapped a rapid succession of shots.

  Isla wasn’t sure if the quiet click of her camera attracted his attention, or whether he was part wild, a predator who sensed territorial intruders. All she knew before he’d turned his raptor-like profile in her direction was that she’d have to pay the piper, one way or another.

  A closer look told her that may not be a bad thing. The man was a walking fantasy with the slowly evaporating morning mist. She didn’t know where to start looking, and salivating, first. Top to the bottom on one hand, bottom to top on the other. How to choose, how to choose?

  The morning sun broke free of the mountainside. A flash of sunlight reflected from the buckles on his tall black leather boots. Okay, then. Bottoms up. The look she’d gotten had already juiced her in a delicious way resulting, probably, without orgasmic satisfaction. Still, a girl could look.

  Her glance traveled from calves tight against boot leather, telling her he had muscles molding the boots rather than the other way around. As he walked, his warrior style tartan kilt swung around his knees, reminding her there was more to this vision than painfully knobby knees.

  Too bad his furry sporran hid the best parts. She knew about sporrans and his was one big ass bit of luggage.

  Shaking her head, she continued her avid scan over well-muscled arms that appeared self-made rather than gym-created. Long fingers holding his ten pounds of pipes to his side. A broad, lightly haired chest. How had she not noticed he played without a shirt? Must be one hot-blooded dude to come out half naked in meat locker temperatures.

  She
shivered, anxious for him to walk closer and for a look at the face of this Celtic god with a tribal armband tattoo on his left bicep and a fierce dragon claiming his right shoulder. Her gaze shifted higher and…no…oh, God. Mr. Handsome. Her libido crashed and burned. No survivors.

  ****

  Graeme finished playing his father’s favorite tune, “Highland Cathedral,” and let his chin drop to his chest. Rest in peace, Dad. Wish you were here.

  His heart felt lighter with the tribute given where he and his father had shared the early morning and a song or two. Fog swept in front of him, a ghostly hand waving.

  A clicking sound, not loud but noticeable in the dead quiet, caught his attention. The hair on his neck and arms stood up. Someone watched.

  He turned and saw a camera pointed his way. Fuck.

  Without conscious decision, he stalked to the person who could be either gender given the way they were swaddled in enough clothes for a January morning. He didn’t care who the hell it was. His privacy had been invaded, and they could butt the fuck out. Preferably after he deleted the camera card.

  Moving closer, he noted the stranger was female, and felt her riveting stare journey along his body like a physical touch. Pissed him off and turned him on at the same time. The purple shoes were too big, as was the jacket. She looked like a deranged color wheel.

  His step faltered. Fucking A. He picked up his pace. He’d get no breaks this morning. Not with Ms. Crazy Hotel Woman standing before him. Damn Liam for roping him into the Games this year.

  She licked her lips. “Nice sporran.”

  His dick woke as if she’d stroked him.

  “My dad collects. Yours looks old.”

  “It is.” His hard-on fell as fast as it had risen. The refugee from a misguided tourist ad cocked her hip and spoke before he could confront her.

  “You’re here early, aren’t you? If you aren’t going to make use of the hotel room, let me have it back. I’d be lounging—with company—instead of freezing my ass off out here.”

  “No company, not looking like you do now,” he said. “You need one of those television fashion consultants telling you what not to wear.”

  Her pupils contracted. A kicked puppy look swamped her face. Guilt flooded his chest. He’d been raised with manners. He could feel his father’s stare right now.

  Thrown on the defensive by his memories and unwanted reaction to her, he held out his hand. “I want your camera. Now.”

  She shoved the camera inside her jacket. “No way. This is my work camera. Expensive. No one touches but me.”

  Snapping his fingers, he narrowed his eyes in a look described as “scary” by a former co-worker. “You took shots without my permission. I deserve to see what you’ve done. Show me.”

  She shook her head. “No can do. Sorry.”

  His eyes scanned the field then returned to her. “I don’t see anyone else out here. Do you really want to piss off a man who is bigger, stronger, and already annoyed when there are deep woods and ravines nearby?”

  She licked her lips, staring at him with darkened eyes encompassing a too-pale face. Her hands shook as she slowly opened her jacket and removed the camera, holding it against her abundant hooters with a tight grip. Her jaw stuck out, though, making him bite his cheek to keep from grinning.

  “Fine. I get you have a right to see the photos, but I’ll hold the camera.” Her mouth thinned but didn’t diminish her full lips. “Deal? Otherwise I’m walking.”

  “You won’t be walking far or fast, I guarandamntee you.”

  Her chin jerked out and she stuck her fist on her hip. “So it’s not enough for you to steal my fucking hotel room, you have to take over my damn work, too? Forget the deal.” She turned and took a step.

  He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “You want fucking in a hotel room? I’m your man.”

  Too late, Graeme noted the smell of pipe tobacco rising from the soft wool under his hand. A little bit of ale, too. So, Miss Bitch had a man? Pity the poor sucker.

  Her brave stance and challenging stare intrigued him, given the pulse point leaping at her throat. Shit, figured. He didn’t need a hat fashioned after a national flag covering soft, fine, and touchable looking hair to know he dealt with a pigheaded Scot.

  A muscle leapt in his jaw. He dropped his hand. “Look, all I want is to see what you’ve done.”

  Slim fingers brought up the display. She turned the camera toward him, giving him time to study each photograph before advancing to the next.

  He schooled his face to avoid reaction, but a chill traveled his spine. He didn’t know much about photography but recognized her talent. She’d captured the unique dawn light while he was nothing more than a shadowy silhouette standing in a cloudbank. While he recognized himself as the subject, no one else looking at the photograph would know his identity. Fact was he really didn’t have much to bitch about.

  Except sharing the camera put them in too close a proximity. She had good height with a classic ass and tits that didn’t quit. Her minty breath made their closeness a bit too personal. Tempting. His dick twitched against his sporran. She caught his gaze and her lower lip between her teeth.

  Jesus H. He groaned but before he could take the kiss she offered, she wrapped her hands around his forearms, rose to her toes and claimed his lips.

  His blood hit full boil. He pushed off her cap and speared into her soft, silky mass of hair. Holding her head still, he fought to take control of the kiss. Their tongues sparred and parried. He couldn’t resist slipping his hands to her ass. She moaned and rotated against the thigh he’d jammed between her legs.

  Distant shouts echoed eerily in the morning mist. They jumped apart, panting.

  When she swung, his nipples contracted with the sudden cold. He shifted, his erection dissipating like fog under a midday sun. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand he said, “Shit.”

  “I was right. You’re an asshole, Mr. Hand—” She blushed, adding another hue to her disastrous appearance.

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” She pivoted on her heels, taking a step before retrieving the hat lying on the ground before him. His fingers itched. Damn ripe ass.

  “My father’s hat.”

  His eyes narrowed. “His coat too, yeah?”

  She nodded, her slight frown telling him she hadn’t meant to admit the fact. She jammed the hat back on her head. “Let’s forget what happened, okay? I don’t need another bloody fecking piper. Not even for the weekend.”

  He bit back a smile at her assumed Scot lilt. “You forgot to add sodding and whoring. A few days of nonstop sex with me would change your mind. Guarandamnteed. I have just one woman on my mind at a time, and she gets all my attention.”

  She stopped her retreat, leveled a long look over her shoulder and laughed. “Right.” Then she strode off, swinging her fine ass as she left.

  His name wasn’t Mr. Hand, but she left him with few other options for release. This strange attraction was obvious. He needed to get laid.

  Chapter Four

  Isla stalked off ticked her exit had been ruined by having to go back for her dad’s cap. Worse, her room stealing nemesis had her pegged. If they hadn’t opted to avoid having an audience, she’d be recovering from an orgasm right now.

  Her libido clamored for a sex marathon with Mr. Handsome. Perhaps she shouldn’t have turned down his invitation for a drink last night. Nah. She wouldn’t have attacked him in a public bar. Maybe. Bemused, she returned to the camper.

  “Honey, can you grab the cream? Coffee will be ready in a sec.”

  “Sure, Mom.” She fulfilled the request and stowed her camera.

  “Gran will be back soon. She’s brought you a gift.”

  Isla moaned. “I love Gran to pieces, but please tell me it’s not more Scottish clothes. I couldn’t wear all the outfits she’s given me in a year, much less this weekend.” She’d loved donning a woven skirt, long-sleeved blouse, stockings, and sash as a seven-year-old but that w
as long ago and far away.

  “Hush your mouth, young lady. Some of those sashes were hers as a child.”

  Isla’s face heated. “Sorry, Mom. You’re right and I’m being a bitch.”

  “If you had a good man, bitchiness wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Mom!” The heat spread into her neck. She wondered if her mother had somehow witnessed her recent indiscretion. “Not a subject I want to discuss with you before coffee, or after coffee, or ever, thanks.”

  “Sweetie, I know you’ve been hurt. Jamie and I were so disappointed when your fiancé…at your engagement party of all places.”

  Heat inched to her chest creating an itch. “Don’t need a replay, Mom. I viewed the scene in living color.”

  Her mother reacted to Isla’s statement with hands outstretched. “I know. I’m sorry I raised the topic.”

  They sat quietly with hands entwined until Isla disengaged. “Anyway, I have a career I love now. He did me a favor.”

  “Fine. Pity you’d rather take pretty pictures than make a home, but your choice.”

  Isla inhaled and held her tongue. Familiar ground, covered in detail too many times. She’d like a companion all right, one to take care of the unwanted heat caused by Mr. Handsome earlier. Sharing a night? Fine. Sharing more? Under advisement.

  Her mom took another sip. “I wonder what happened to Gran? She’s been going on about passing along something handed down through generations.”

  “Why isn’t she giving it to you, then?”

  “The tradition is the pin goes to the female most benefited. She’s chosen you.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “Why have I not heard this story before?”

  “Surprise. Wait and see,” her mother said with a Sphinx-like smile.

  “You haenae telt her, hae ye?” Gran marched into camp, her frizzy white hair needing a brush and a can of extra hold hair spray. “Dinny tell me ye let the cat oot the bag?”

  “I kept my mouth shut. I haven’t told Isla a thing,” her mother said with a zipping the lips gesture.