by Anna Durand
"Aye." He squinted at me, then kinked his lips into a slight smile. "Well, not a lot. I indulge in the occasional fling, but it's not a long-time habit."
Had I been screwed by a lothario? Well, what had I expected? I'd wanted a one-nighter as much as he had, so I couldn't complain. Excitement, check. Shaking up my life, check. Mission accomplished, I should relax and enjoy my time in this bed with this man.
Whose name I didn't even know.
"No more talk," he said.
I didn't object when he lay back on the bed and pulled me half onto his body, one of my arms over his chest and one of his arms around my shoulders. He reached over to shut off the light on his side of the bed, leaving only the lamp behind me for illumination. As he tugged the sheet and blanket over us, he made sure to cover me up to my shoulders.
"Sleep," he whispered. "I've worn you out, haven't I?"
"Mm" was all I could manage, because a deep weariness had overtaken me. The unease that had frosted through me when I realized the extent of what I'd done, sleeping with a stranger, evaporated when he began to caress my arm with his fingertips.
I drifted down into sleep, ensconced in the arms of a mysterious Scot.
Chapter Four
Muted sunlight glowed behind my eyelids as my mind surfaced from sleep. I cracked my lids first, adjusting to the brightness before daring to open my eyes all the way. A clock on the bedside table told me it was a quarter to seven. I stretched and yawned, the sheets soft and slippery on my bare skin. Above my head, the bed's canopy coiled into a rosette as if someone had clenched a giant fist in the fabric.
My hands. Fisting in the sheets. A stranger thrusting into me, again and again, until we both climaxed with exultant cries.
I bolted upright, my heart racing at the memory of what I'd done last night. A one-nighter with a guy whose name I didn't know. I'd slept with a complete stranger, after a few minutes of naughty flirtation in a bar. Sure, I prided myself on being adventurous, but this…I hadn't even checked for hidden cameras.
My one-night lover hadn't seemed like the type to humiliate me, but then, I didn't even know what to call him. I hadn't let the past affect my present, not until I leaped into a crazy fling with a foreigner.
Relax, Emery.
Miraculously, the mental command helped. Sitting there on the enormous bed, I assessed the luxurious bedroom. The gold curtains hung open, revealing a view of the city from high above the streets.
A realization shuddered through me on a chill. I was exposed from the waist up, right in front of a window. I pulled the sheet up to cover my breasts. The air cooled my backside, but at least nobody in a neighboring high-rise would be posting photos of a bare-breasted blonde on Instagram.
Scoping out the room again, I comprehended a couple more facts. I was alone, and my clothes lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed.
On my knees, I scuttled across the bed with the sheet clutched to my chest and managed to get dressed while keeping the sheet over me. Once I was decent, I hurried to the bathroom to check for my bedmate and to make use of the toilet. Nobody there. A giant bathtub occupied a good portion of the room, and though I would've loved a nice hot soak, after satisfying nature's call I returned to the bed.
That's when I noticed something else.
On the table on my side of the bed—uh, the side I'd woken up on, that was—I spotted my phone and a piece of ivory-colored notepaper, folded in half. My phone I'd forgotten about, but luckily, it had survived impact with the floor when my one-night lover chucked my jeans. After checking for messages and finding only one text from Luke, asking how I'd liked the bar last night, I shoved the phone in my back pocket.
The ivory paper beckoned me.
I picked it up, revealing several twenty-dollar bills beneath it. I bit my lip, suddenly queasy. Money on the bedside table? Unwilling to jump to conclusions yet, I unfolded the fancy piece of paper. It seemed like linen, maybe.
The note, scrawled in a masculine hand, read, "Thank you for last night."
I stared at the sentence for a moment, not blinking or comprehending. Finally, I noticed the second sentence written at the bottom of the page—"Don't forget your money."
The twenty-dollar bills. They were rumpled, though someone had tried to iron them out so he could stack them in a tidy pile. The man I'd slept with last night had a fetish for order, I guessed. He wouldn't have let his cash get wrinkled, which meant these must be my bills, the ones I'd stashed in my bra. I picked up the money and counted it. One hundred dollars, exactly.
Relief flooded through me, sagging my shoulders. Well, at least he hadn't paid me for services rendered. He'd returned my cash.
I read the note again but couldn't figure out how to feel about it. No man had ever written me a thank-you note after sex.
Resigned to never understanding my onetime lover, I dropped the note on the table and tucked my cash in my bra. Then I hustled through the bedroom and out into the hallway. It dead-ended at the suite's primary door to my left and opened onto the living room to my right. Across the hall, I spied the unoccupied dining room.
I swerved right, stopping at the edge of the living area.
No one here either.
My shoulders slumped again. Had I really hoped he might still be here? He wouldn't write a note and then stick around to say good morning. He'd told me it would be one night only but skulking out in the pre-dawn hours without saying goodbye…Not cool.
I rubbed my eyes, rubbed my neck, rubbed my chest. So, I'd done it. I'd had a one-night stand. Time to move on.
Last night, I'd had little chance to absorb the full splendor of this huge suite, which I'd guessed measured four times the size of my little apartment back in Colorado Springs. With nothing else to do except slink out of the hotel, I decided to explore my surroundings before I left. I might never again find myself in a suite at a five-star hotel.
I'd already seen the sofa and the three upholstered chairs arrayed before it, but now I took note of a fireplace to the right of the furniture. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows admitted the sun's illumination. The crimson-upholstered pool table took up the left side of the room. Lamps and flowers adorned dark-wood tables in strategic locations.
Shuffling across the living room, I peered out the French doors at the terrace.
Nobody there.
Why did I keep looking for the jerk who'd taken off while I was sleeping? Figured the guy I picked for my first-ever fling would turn out to be a worm.
He hadn't seemed like a worm last night. He'd been so attentive, so concerned with my pleasure, so tender—and so damn hot. He'd woken me in the middle of the night for another round of powerfully sensual sex. Why would he do that if he intended to abandon me?
Oh yeah, I should've known. Hot guys who wanted anonymous sex had to be jackasses.
Lesson learned, check.
Maybe I could order up a whole bunch of room service, a four-course breakfast or whatever, and have it charged to his room. Or I could steal the towels. Or—
Ugh. Who was I kidding? I was no thief, and revenge wasn't my style.
I smoothed out my ComicCon T-shirt and combed my fingers through my hair. It stayed a tangled mess. The comb in my purse could undo the tangles—if I'd brought my purse, which I hadn't. Rats. With a last glance at the suite, I turned toward the hallway and the door at its end.
Acid churned in my stomach.
I supposed this was what they called a walk of shame. My first one. Yay, what a milestone.
The door to the suite pivoted inward.
My one-night lover marched inside, shut the door, and made it halfway down the hall before he noticed me. The Scotsman froze. He stared at me blankly for several seconds before he regained his manly composure and waltzed down the hall to stop an arm's length from me. His expression betrayed nothing.
The sun streaming in through the windows and glass doors glimmered in his eyes.
"You're still here," he said.
"Duh." I folded my
arms over my breasts. "Did you forget your wallet and had to slither back here to get it?"
"No," he said slowly, eying me like he worried I had a hatchet hidden in my bra. "I thought you'd be asleep."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"I'm not disappointed. I—" He shifted his weight from one foot the other and back again. Scratching his neck, he adopted a pinched expression. "I am sorry for, ah…"
"Skulking out in the dead of night like a slimy worm?"
A big, sexy worm. But a worm nonetheless.
Sighing, he gave me a tight smile. "It wasn't the dead of night. I left at dawn."
"Are you expecting applause for waiting until sunrise?" I tapped the toe of my sneakers on the floor. "You could've, gee, maybe woken me up to say goodbye. And by the way, who leaves a thank-you note after sex? It's bizarre."
Kind of endearing, but yeah, bizarre.
Don't you go all gooey and forgive the hot Scottish worm. Not allowed, Emery.
Shoulders bunched, he averted his attention to the wood floor. "I'm afraid that's what I do. Find a partner for the evening and satisfy our mutual needs with an hour or so of uncomplicated sex."
"Uncomplicated?" I narrowed my gaze on him as the rest of what he'd said sunk into my brain. "Wait a minute. An hour? You stayed until dawn."
"Ah, yes." He winced, shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "I hadn't intended to stay, but…Donnae know."
"Hmmm." I stalked to the nearest chair, the one he'd backed me up to last night when he stripped me naked. I flopped onto the cushioned crimson seat, my hands on the arms, and drummed my fingers. "With those other women, the ones you bang for an hour, do you say goodbye before you scurry off?"
"Yes." He meandered to the chair opposite mine, a striped armchair with wood trim, and settled his bulk onto it. Perched on the chair's edge, he wedged his elbows on his thighs and scrutinized the spiffy rug at his feet. "I indulge in the occasional fling with a stranger. I'm not interested in relationships anymore, but I have…needs."
"Uh-huh." I swung one leg up to cross it over the other. "You're a big old horndog, I get it. You prey on women you think are desperate and lonely."
"No." He spoke the word in a harsh tone, but his anger seemed more self-directed than aimed at me. He turned his head to the side. "I choose professional women."
A spike of cold lanced through me, and the leg raised on the other dropped to the floor. "You thought I was a hooker?"
His face blanked briefly but then amusement dimpled his cheeks—and he chuckled.
I huffed. "You think that's funny? Listen up, buddy, I am not for sale."
"You misunderstand." He leaned back in his chair, smiling at me like I'd told a good joke. "I meant women who have successful careers, the kind who have no time for relationships and want what I want. A casual encounter with no strings and no future."
Oh. That kind of professional. I remembered now he'd talked about "professional" women last night, when I'd told him what I did for a living. Maybe I was still a bit touchy about the anonymous sex and abandonment thing. Not that I wanted a relationship with this guy. I did not like players. They were trouble with a capital T and a flashing exclamation point.
I glanced down at my shirt. "If you like professional women, why'd you pick me last night? A geek in a ComicCon T-shirt."
"You aren't a geek."
"I am a proud geek, a computer programmer who loves fantasy and science fiction movies. I don't have a high-powered career. I love to dress up in sexy costumes for Halloween or just to go to the Renaissance fair." I clasped my hands on my lap, suddenly wondering why the hell I'd told him all that. "The point is, I'm no professional in search of a quick fling."
He gave me an appraising look. "Do you often follow strangers to their hotel rooms?"
"No, of course not." I slouched in my chair. "I've never had a one-night stand before. Certainly never had sex with an anonymous stranger. I like to have fun, be wild and crazy, but even I've got my limits."
Oversharing again, but I couldn't seem to shut my mouth. Anxiety did this to me, always had. I'd blab away until I'd expelled all the nervous energy.
He observed me for so long, without blinking, that my skin itched from the magnitude of his concentration. At last, he gusted out a breath, slapped his hands on his thighs, and heaved his body off the armchair. He strode to my chair, offering me a hand.
"Up," he said.
Seriously? Up? I frowned. "I'm not a dog, you know. I don't heel on command."
"I'm aware of that." He took hold of my right hand. "Please stand."
"Why?"
"Are you always this suspicious?"
I raised my eyebrows. "Only of men who won't tell me their names."
He knelt before me, his eyes at my level and his gaze steady, then held out his hand again—this time as if to shake mine. "Rory MacTaggart."
"Emery Granger." I slipped my cold palm into his warm one, and he gave mine a gentle shake, his long and sinewy fingers curling around my hand. A little shiver of awareness rippled through me, but I refused to allow another flashback to last night. So I cleared my throat. "Nice to meet you."
His luscious mouth formed a faint smile. "Nice to meet you too, Emery. You have a lovely name."
"Thanks." My hand enveloped by his, I swallowed against a disconcerting tightness in my throat and blurted out the next thing that popped into my brain. "Why were you wearing a kilt last night?"
Today, he wore gray slacks and a gray dress shirt that conformed to his sensual body. No matter what he wore, he looked classy and entirely lickable.
Rory gave a little half shrug, tipping his head to the side. "I like wearing kilts. They're quite comfortable, and they represent my heritage. Of which I am very proud."
I bit the inside of my lip, unable to prevent my gaze from wandering over his broad chest. "You look good in a kilt. But I like this businessman kind of stuff too."
He lifted my hand and touched his lips to my knuckles. "I know I said it would be one night but…May I see you again?"
I straightened in my chair, wishing to hell I'd brought my purse so I could comb out my hair. Did I want to see more of Rory? He wasn't my usual type, not being a geek—and I prayed he wasn't obsessed with Internet porn—but he must have some kind of problems. No man this hot and this charming could be playing with a full deck.
But dear God, I did want to see more of him. Badly. Something about him intrigued me, in ways I'd never experienced before. More than sex. More than his gorgeous bod. I wanted to know the man underneath the delectable surface. If we stuck to public places with lots of other people around…Then again, if he'd wanted to hurt me he could've done it while I slept.
And besides, I could always bolt at the first sign of nutso behavior.
His breaths whispered over my knuckles, sultry and inviting.
"Do you have plans for today?" I asked.
"Not yet."
What kind of wild child would I be if I shunned an opportunity to spend the day with an alluring and intriguing man?
"Okay then," I said. "Come sightseeing with me."
"Sightseeing?"
"Don't you have that in Scotland?" With one finger, I tickled his lips. "Sightseeing is when you go to various locations to stare at a bunch of old junk or to admire the scenery, or maybe to make fun of goofy little niche museums. It's corny and cheesy and all that jazz. Geeks like me live for it."
He released my hand, placing his on my knees. "All right. Let's go sightseeing."
"Awesome." I moved to get up and he rose too, stepping backward to give me room. I gave him a playful smile. "Hope you're ready to party hearty."
His restrained smile tightened his closed lips and sparkled in his mesmerizing eyes. "One question first."
"Shoot."
Rory waved a finger at my shirt. "What is ComicCon?"
Chapter Five
I kicked back on the sofa cross-legged and barefoot, tucked into the corner but angled toward my new…fr
iend…companion…whatever. Rory sat straight and tall at the opposite end, facing forward with the soles of his shiny loafers planted on the rug. He held a plate of praline pancakes in one hand, while with his other hand he brandished a fork, intent on eating with dignity.
Me? I gobbled up my pancakes without worrying about mess or decorum. Rory monitored my progress with odd fascination while I hacked up the short stack, slathered the whole pile of bite-size chunks with an abundance of real maple syrup, and shoveled them into my mouth. The whipped cream on top smeared on my lips, but I licked it off with long glides of my tongue.
When syrup dribbled down my chin, he asked, sounding rather bemused, "Why do you eat this way?"
"Because I'm starving," I replied mid-chew. Swallowing, I swiped away the syrup on my chin with a cloth napkin. "Never got around to eating dinner last night. My flight was delayed, and after checking in at my motel and taking a cab to Pat O'Brien's, I barely had time to taste my first Hurricane before a certain foreigner seduced me."
Rory winced, as if it were his fault I'd skipped dinner. Before I could assure him it wasn't, he asked, "What is a Hurricane?"
"The signature drink at Pat O'Brien's. It was invented there. Didn't anybody tell you?"
"I wasn't interested in the bar's history." He fidgeted at his end of the sofa, and his as-yet-untouched plate of pancakes wobbled. Steadying it with one hand, he said, "I walked into the main bar at Pat O'Brien's ten minutes before I approached you. I was looking for company, not a strange red cocktail."
"The Hurricane is yummy. You missed out." I scarfed down another mouthful of breakfast and swigged my glass of whole milk. What a bad girl I was, flouting the rules of healthy eating. I daubed my mouth with the napkin. "By company, you mean you were on the hunt for a professional woman to screw."
"Uh, yes." He fidgeted again, and his plate almost tumbled off his lap. He caught it deftly before the pancakes could spill over the fancy-shmancy sofa on which we sat. "I saw no one who interested me. Then, as I was stepping out into the carriageway, I caught sight of a bonnie lass in the piano bar."
