by Anna Durand
"Bod ceann? I called you that once, but I didn't tell you what it means."
"No, but Logan informed me you were calling me a dickhead."
She stares at me for several seconds, hands fisted, shoulders bunched, glowering at me with all the righteous fury of a Valkyrie.
"Anger suits you," I say. "It brings out that fire in your soul, the one you try to hide."
Her hands relax, her fingers hanging loose, and her entire posture slackens too. She gazes at me with a softer expression, though not the sensual one I've been hoping for. "I suppose I have no choice, do I? You win this time. I'll stay at your mansion."
I won. Hearing her say that doesn't make me feel triumphant. Instead, it triggers that bloody itch again.
This time, I scratch it. Not that my fingers can reach inside to where the itch lives, deep down in the parts of myself I buried a long time ago. Buried but not destroyed. The ghosts of my past live inside me, haunting me every day and every night.
"Where are my suitcases?" she asks. "Lydia Mitchell said I should leave them with her until after my meeting with the dean, since I just flew in this morning. But my things were gone when I went back for them. Lydia was away at lunch, so I couldn't ask her about it. Besides, I had a sneaking suspicion you're the one I should ask."
"Ah, yes." I give her my patented disarming smile and shrug. "Maybe I sweet-talked Lydia into letting me have your bags, since I knew you'd be staying at my house."
Catriona hisses something that sounds like Gaelic, but she says it under her breath, making it hard for me to decipher the words. Probably bod ceann or cacan. I'm a wee shit and a dickhead? Can't argue with that assessment.
She turns sideways to the car, one hand on the roof. "Are we away now?"
"Yes, we can go." I dig my keys out and click the button on the fob to unlock the car. As I open the passenger door for her, I ask, "Who told you my house is a mansion? It must've been Gus Hooper. He's always pestering me for a tour."
"Aye, it was him." She gets into the car and looks up at me. "Why don't you give him a tour? He'd be thrilled."
"It's my home, not a ruddy museum." Logan and Serena are the only guests ever to set foot in my home—until today. To have Catriona staying with me… I get a strange sensation of static electricity on my skin when I think about it. I am not excited to have her near me. No, I'm excited at the prospect of fucking her.
And the prospect of winning the game. My long con began that day at Dùndubhan, when she slugged me.
Cat raises her brows at me.
I shut the door and climb in on the driver's side. While I navigate the campus streets, heading for the main highway, I try not to look at Cat. Every time I do, that itch starts up again. So I stop looking.
What con am I drawing Cat into? What do I hope to gain?
For the first time in my life, I have no idea.
"Let's talk, Alex."
And shit, her words make me glance at her. The itch pricks at me.
"No talking," I say.
"Considering how you arranged this slumber party, the least you can do is answer a few questions."
"Maybe later."
Never is more like it, but that's a truth she doesn't need to know yet.
"Alex."
I turn on the stereo and crank up the volume, drowning out any potential conversation with Vivaldi's Four Seasons. It's playing "Spring," with thunder-like drums rumbling through the car, drowning out any questions Cat wants to ask.
She frowns at me, then turns her gaze to the view outside her window.
Yes, I am a bastard.
Chapter Four
Catriona
We drive down increasingly more deserted roads lined with thicker and thicker forest until Alex steers his Mercedes-Benz onto a narrow gravel track wide enough for one car. I assume it's his driveway, but he still has the music turned up loud enough to make conversation difficult, though not so loud my ears hurt. Maybe I should try Serena's method of dealing with a difficult man and smack Alex's face. I can't do that while he's driving, and neither can I punch him.
Strangely, I don't want to punch him anymore.
For more than a decade, I've convinced myself I hate him. If I'm honest with myself, though, I've always known I don't despise him. I had loved Alex so much back then, back when we were a couple and lived together. He'd been different in those days. Less closed off, less jaded, less evasive. I can't trust him, I know that much. At least, not the way I trusted him before. The old me believed everything he said without question.
Twelve years of life experience taught me to be more circumspect. But it was those last days with Alex that shattered my trust in him or any man.
Alex parks the car in front of a massive mansion.
"Here we are," he says in that breezy tone, the one that implies he has no cares in the world, the one that's total bollocks. "Welcome to my home, also known as the British Bastard's Den of Iniquity."
Does he want me to say something nasty in response? If that's what he expects, I'll give him the opposite.
"Your home is beautiful," I say. "And impressive."
He glances at me sideways, his brows crinkled, but the faint expression of surprise lasts for only a second or two. Then his cheerful facade reasserts itself. "Come, let me show you the inside."
We climb out of the Mercedes, and I get my first good look at the house.
The term mansion hardly describes it. The facade looks Victorian, but something about it gives me the idea it isn't that old. Like a fairy-tale castle, it has round turrets, but that's where the fairy tale ends. The entire structure has an aura of gloom about it, from the dark windows of the large gables to the crimson trim around the variegated gray stone bricks that form the bulk of the walls. Crimson stripes at either side of the massive entrance run from the peak of the roof down to the ground. Ornate black ironwork cages every window, and a set of red brick steps leads up to the entrance, where a pair of massive reddish-brown wood doors hunker.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the driveway curves in a semicircle.
The woods surround us, dark and foreboding, the trees taller than the three-story house.
Everything about this place makes me uneasy.
Alex leads me up the steps to the door, swinging them inward as he says, "Welcome to Moirai House."
Moirai. The goddesses of fate in Greek mythology. Why did he name his house after them?
I cross the threshold, turning to look at the doors, and run my hand over the delicately carved, shiny surface of one. "What kind of wood is this? It's beautiful."
And it is. The rich red color has deep undertones of darker shades and a soft satin finish that makes it even more beautiful.
"That's dalbergia from India," Alex tells me, shutting the doors, "also known as East Indian rosewood. It's very expensive and hard to work with, which makes it even more prized."
I turn away from the doors to take in the style of the interior.
Every wall is crimson, with trim fashioned from the same Indian rosewood as the doors. The ceiling is painted a pale silver-gray, and a long crimson-and-cream rug stretches the length of the foyer. Paintings on the walls depict ancient goddesses, including the three Fates or Moirai. Alex guides me across the foyer, but I stop when I reach the painting of the Moirai. It shows three women weaving the fates of mortals, from Clothos spinning the thread of life to Lachesis seated beside her, measuring the length of that thread, and finally to Atropos the Inevitable who decides each mortal's fate by clipping the thread. Something about the gorgeously rendered scene makes my throat tighten and sends a chill down my spine.
The painting tells me something about Alex, I'm sure of it, but I have no idea what message it delivers.
"Why is your home so dark?" I ask. "Crimson walls and red wood? I remember you used to love light and open floor plans, like the loft we used to have. Today, you live in a tomb."
He halts a few meters
ahead of me, but now he turns halfway to look at me. Gone is his affable, carefree demeanor. He stares at me with an intensity that makes every hair on my body stiffen, his gaze drilling into me for so long that a tingling chill sweeps through me.
"Maybe it is a tomb," he says, his tone flat.
"Alex, are you all right?"
"Right as rain."
His tone implies the polar opposite of that. He's fisted his hands, and a muscle pulses in his jaw, but I have no idea if he's angry with me for calling his home a tomb or if my statement has unleashed something he'd kept buried deep inside for a long, long time.
The man before me is not the same Alex Thorne I loved all those years ago. Something in him has changed, something fundamental and inexplicable.
Is the man I knew still in there? Or does he fake every smile and every cheerfully annoying thing he says?
Any residual anger left inside me snuffs out in this moment. Confronted with the new Alex, or maybe the one he sublimated when we were together, I know only one thing for certain. To get any measure of closure with him, I need to excavate from the deepest pit of his soul all the secrets he's concealed from me. Once I understand him, will I realize he's better than I thought—or worse than I could ever possibly imagine?
It's long past time I find out.
Serena, Logan's wife, told me once that I needed to confront the ghosts of my past with Alex and lay them to rest for good. She'd been right. Now, here in this crimson tomb, I will exorcise those ghosts once and for all, no matter the consequences. Twelve years of anger and resentment is enough.
I move closer to Alex, laying a hand on his arm, feeling the stiff muscles under his shirt. "Are you sure you're all right? You seem…upset. I didn't mean to offend you by calling this house a tomb. It's just that you used to love natural light and open spaces, and now you live in this dark, enclosed mansion."
"Maybe I've changed." He pulls in a long, deep breath, then exhales it in a rush. All the tension seems to melt out of him, and he smiles, a twinkle in his warm brown eyes. "Let me give you the grand tour."
"Am I getting special treatment? Gus Hooper has been dying to get inside this house, but he says you won't give him a tour."
"This is my home, not a tourist attraction." He grasps my elbow, guiding me down the hall. "You are not the general public, or the nosy dean of the humanities department."
"Is this a genuine Victorian house? Everything seems too new for that unless you gutted the place and started over."
"No, it's not a real Victorian mansion. It's a reproduction. I built it five years ago."
He takes me through a doorway to the base of a massive staircase—fashioned from dalbergia, of course—that curves up toward the second floor and an open hallway that serves as a kind of balcony. I spy another staircase to the left of the main stairs, one that leads up to the top floor. Each end of the balcony-like second-floor hall vanishes into a dark corridor.
Alex flips a switch on the wall, and lights come on down here and up on the second floor. A glow as warm and golden as the morning sun pours through the dark spaces, illuminating every corner.
Suddenly, the house doesn't seem quite so tomblike.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes." I trace the curving line of the main staircase with my gaze. "Does this house really have fifteen bedrooms?"
"Gus Hooper told you that, didn't he? Yes, there are fifteen bedrooms, so you can choose the one farthest from where I sleep if that will make you more comfortable."
"Why don't you choose one for me?"
His smile evaporates, replaced by that look of faint surprise he had earlier when I told him his home was beautiful. "You want me to pick a room for you?"
"Aye, that's what I said, isn't it?"
Though his mouth opens, he says nothing for several seconds. But of course, he reasserts his air of cheerful indifference before he finally speaks. "What if I choose the room right next to mine? Or perhaps I'll have you sleep in my room."
"You won't."
Earlier today, I told him I will never have sex with him, not even if an asteroid is heading for the Earth. Anger fueled that statement, an anger I've clung to for so long. But seeing his house, seeing his reactions to everything I say about it, all of that has triggered a sudden realization.
Alex isn't the devil. In my mind, I molded him into the embodiment of everything that went wrong in my life, from my lack of gainful employment to the time I'd been arrested because of him. Yes, I can blame him for that. But the rest was not his fault. I haven't been happy with my life, and I can no longer blame him for it.
I also can't deny the truth anymore. I want Alex, and I always will.
While he studies me, I study him right back. He's gotten more muscular over the years, and I have to admit I like that. His tan shirt has golden undertones, much like his caramel eyes, and the fabric accentuates his muscles without sticking to him like cling film. When he'd fisted his hands a moment ago, his biceps bulged, and I couldn't help imagining what his arms look like and how they might feel holding on to me while he drives his cock deep inside my body. I know exactly what that part of him looks like. And feels like. And tastes like. He'd always been—and always will be, I'm fair certain—the best lover I've ever had.
Too bad he's also a bloody liar.
Alex Thorne has always known how to get under my skin and make me do things I never dreamed I would do. He also knows how to make me angrier than I ever dreamed I could be. Punching him? That isn't like me, but ever since the day when Logan and Serena brought Alex to the Highland games, and I saw him again for the first time in ages, anger has become my default state.
Not anymore. Maybe it's time I get under his skin and seduce the seducer. Solving the mystery of the man he's become might give me closure or drag me down into the abyss where he's taken up residence. Either way, I need to unravel the tangled threads of lies, evasions, and half-truths to discover if he's still the man I once loved.
And if he is? What then?
I'll deal with those questions later.
And if all else fails, I can punch him again.
He shepherds me upstairs and watches while I peek inside each bedroom until I find the one I like the best. Standing in the doorway of that room, I announce, "This one."
Alex throws a meaningful glance in the direction of the door at the end of the hallway, right next to the room I've selected. "That door is my room. Are you sure you want to be so close to me?"
"I'm sure, aye."
"Since that's settled, I'll go and get your bags."
"You don't have to do that. I can get them."
He lifts one brow. "What sort of host would I be if I let a lady carry her own suitcases?"
"If you really are a bastard, you wouldn't care."
That brow lifts a touch higher. "Are you implying I might not be a bastard after all?"
"Maybe."
"What happened to hating me and cursing my name?"
He sounds genuinely confused.
"Get my things, Alex. Please."
While he hurries off to do that, I explore the huge room. It's as large as the biggest rooms at Dùndubhan, my brother Rory's castle. That house is so large that my sister Jamie, who had been living in the castle with her husband, decided to move to the cottage in the garden instead. She worried their bairns might fall down the many flights of stairs in Dùndubhan. These days, she and Gavin live in a cottage in the nearby village of Loch Fairbairn.
This room is even more incredible than Rory's castle. The large, four-poster canopy bed occupies the center of the space, pushed up against the wall. Unlike the foyer and the hallways, this room has no crimson walls. Instead, they're a pale, sunny yellow. The bed features a quilt with squares of various flower patterns sewn onto it. I have a lovely armoire and dressing table too, plus a nightstand and an attached bathroom.
Alex returns with my suitcases, setting them down just inside the doorway. "Her
e you are."
"Thank you."
Standing several meters apart, we stare at each other. His molten caramel eyes seem to glow in the more subdued lighting inside this room, and I can't tear my gaze away from him. That face, like an angel's but with something naughty underneath. Those lips I've kissed so many times. A pang starts behind my ribs, bringing with it a longing so intense it triggers the first burn of tears.
I won't cry. Not in front of Alex.
Sucking in a breath, I struggle to banish the tears before they flow. Once I'd loved him with everything I had. But after the things he's done, can I still love him? Or fall for him again? Yesterday, I would've said no and shouted at anyone who suggested it might happen. Today…
Words tumble out of me of their own volition, climbing up my throat and falling past my lips before I can stop them. "Did you ever love me?"
He doesn't blink, though his gaze stays trained on mine.
For a moment, I think he won't answer or that he'll offer an evasive quip. He doesn't do either of those things.
Alex strides up to me, cradles my face in his hands, and kisses me. He presses his mouth to mine, the pressure both firm and gentle, holding his lips there but not attempting to deepen the kiss.
The breath I've been holding rushes out of me, and I'm helpless to stop myself from moaning softly. So many years have gone by since the last time he kissed me. Countless days and nights without him. Countless hours wasted on convincing myself I hated him. Now, with his warm lips on mine again, I understand one fact.
I could fall for him all over again.
But I can never, never trust him.
He pulls away, taking two steps backward. "You may not believe it, but yes. I loved you, Catriona."
Before I can speak, he hurries out the door and shuts it.
Chapter Five
Alex
Catriona MacTaggart is a witch who's cast a spell over me. I decide that in the middle of the night while I lie tangled in my silk sheets, thanks to tossing and turning for hours while reliving the moment when I kissed the Scots enchantress. Why the bloody hell did I tell her I'd loved her? Yes, I said it past tense. Not that I'm in love with her now. But I didn't mean to say anything of the sort, and I certainly didn't mean to kiss her. But when she looked at me with pain in her eyes and her voice so soft and full of longing, I…lost my mind.
