Under The Kilt: Kilted For Pleasure Part 4

Callan's warm laughter filled the flat as he straightened from the hearth. He gave his uncle a pat on the back when he pa.s.sed him. "And that's why I brought her."

The Baird replied too low for her to decipher its meaning. Sounded vulgar though. But the man started to dust the rest of the pictures and tell her about his boys. Amazing what she could glean from the stories. Tavin was Callan's father who, unbelievably, was more of a cad than Dougla.s.s. The Baird men loved women. Tavin was also an absent father.

And the more the Baird talked, the more Callan relaxed and added a few details of his own. This wasn't a man who stood on the moors brooding about whatever lot in life he'd been handed-a s.h.i.+tty one. Although his mother had fought it for years, she eventually lost the fight against kidney failure. He'd seen it all. Victoria couldn't imagine being in her teens and watching her mother die. Good or bad, mothers were supposed to be invincible.

They talked and Victoria maneuvered both men to do most of the cleaning. Oh, she dusted whatever the Baird missed and vacuumed, but after seeing the bathroom and the bedroom there was no way she'd touch either-even with gloves on.

She kept them company, asking a million questions that they took turns answering. Turns out the Baird owned a pub, the one he lived over. The man needed a caregiver as much as Victoria needed a hole in her head.

It was well past lunch by the time they finished. Since a little more than half the food in the refrigerator looked like a science project, she'd thawed a roast. The Baird sat back with a pint he'd brought up from his pub.

Callan hovered behind her as she tried to chop carrots and not her fingers. The air had a chemical tinge to it but she could still pick out his scent. The kitchen simply wasn't big enough. She had to find a way to get him to sit down. Though it was the lesser evil, because then he'd watch her with that hungry gaze of his.

"Baird, do you know how to cook?" she directed the question at Dougla.s.s in hopes that'd help her not focus on Callan.

He had leaned against the sink and the hairs on her neck stood. She was so aware of the distance between them and was struggling to forget what his mouth felt like slanted over hers or the way his c.o.c.k prodded her stomach.

The Baird took a generous sip from his large gla.s.s. "I can poach an egg, fry a sausage and burn some toast."

Unbelievable. She shook her head. "Which I'm sure you eat every morning. Let me show you how to chop an onion."

Dougla.s.s' gaze swept to his nephew, his brows pulling down into a frown. "I know what you've been doing all day, and I let you. It's hard to argue with you when you pull out that dimple. It feels cruel to say no." Exhaustion deepened the lines around his mouth. "But I'm not as young as I use to be. Teach Callan."

Should have seen that one coming, but she had pushed the man as far as he would go today. Victoria sighed and turned to Callan. He'd raised his brow, the challenge thick in the air.

"Don't look so smug," she said. "I've seen you in yellow gloves." She handed him the knife. "Show me what you can do."

A smirk just wasn't c.o.c.ky enough to describe his smile. "Auch. I can chop an onion just fine. Who do you think has fed him all these months?"

He approached the chopping board and stood with his feet spread in a fighter stance and chopped big, ugly portions. Dougla.s.s laughed, hard. "That's my laddie."

Callan met the older man's gaze and chuckled. She knew she was missing some inside joke but what? Victoria pushed his arm away. "Let me show you."

"Please do."

And that's when the trap became clear. He stood back so she could slip in front of him. Her pulse went thready with the solid wall of him at her back. He wouldn't do anything X-rated with his uncle sitting by. Would he?

Victoria closed her hand over his. He pressed closer, bending down until his mouth brush the top of her earlobe. She bit down on her lip to keep from moaning.

"Like this?" He held the knife like he was about to gut someone.

She fixed his fingers and it was clear hers held a tremble. "You're an a.s.s. I know you know how to do this."

"I do not." He reached around her with his other arm so he could hold the onion in place.

She was wrapped in him in that moment, and if there was someone else in the room, she completely forgot. Victoria guided his hand. He took his time, making mistakes when she tried to pull away, keeping her captive in his embrace. It was hard to feel like a fool when his c.o.c.k so perfectly aligned against her a.s.s. It was a small miracle she could breathe without moaning. When he finished, she escaped without an ounce of grace in her movements.

Every inch of her vibrated from his touch, the scent of him-him. She cleared her throat. "You can do the rest of the carrots and I'll finish seasoning the roast."

He motioned to the cabinet with the knife. "You forgot to grab the can of stewed tomatoes."

Her head was still scrambled from the embrace. "What?"

He lined up the carrots and chopped through them like a pro. Not just like a pro but a chef. She glanced at Dougla.s.s who sported a mile-wide grin. Callan said, "Or you could make a gravy to replace the tomatoes."

Dougla.s.s tutted. "Don't tease her so much." He directed the last at her. "He went to Glasgow University. He started as a bus boy and worked his way up to a sous chef to pay for that expensive school all on his own."

Victoria suddenly wished she had an ap.r.o.n to throw at the back of Callan's head. "I see." She tried to be p.i.s.sed but could only laugh. "It was because I made you clean the bathroom, wasn't it?"

The skin around Callan's eyes crinkled when he grinned at her. "Aye."

"Well, good. You can help me cook then." She chuckled at his groan and considered them even. "And now that I think about it, maybe we can make some ca.s.seroles that the Baird can heat up when I'm not here."

Dougla.s.s whistled, sounding pained. "Callan, you only have yourself to blame."

Callan met her gaze. "Don't worry, Uncle. I have the perfect revenge in mind."

She ignored the thrill that filled her stomach. His scent filled her lungs again and reminded her how long it had been since she'd felt the touch of a man. Much too long if the sight of Callan effortlessly chopping all the vegetables made her body buzz. Had to be the flex of his forearms making her breathless.

I can't sleep with him. I can't let him touch me again. I will not lick or kiss anything attached to his person.

The mantras started to sound more like the very last desperate vows of a person who knew they were screwed.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The next day Victoria stood at her open cottage door and accepted that the universe had conspired against her. How could she fight the truth when she'd barely escaped another run-in with Callan at the castle that morning, and now, here he was.

He'd changed into a suit for some reason since she'd last seen him a little over eight hours ago. The crisp white s.h.i.+rt, the starched jacket and pants in charcoal gray deepened the blue of his eyes and the sharp cut of his shadowed jawline.

"Evening," Callan greeted her. His voice sounded gruffer than usual.

A pang of worry pinched her stomach, but she ignored it. "Hey, Callan."

His taut expression let her know trouble lurked beyond the horizon. "Aren't you going to invite me in? It's rude, considering." There was a touch of anger in his tone.

Dammit. It wasn't the universe c.r.a.pping on her. Callan being here was a h.e.l.l of her own making. Ian must have already contacted him about the additional work.

Earlier that morning, she'd emailed her boss a list of potential antiques they could add to the original s.h.i.+pment. He'd called her back almost immediately, letting her know he wanted them and for Callan to get them ready. It was amazing how difficult it was to maintain a professional att.i.tude with her boss when she knew he'd jumped bare-a.s.sed into the Loch Ness with Callan and Tristan.

And when she managed to push that nugget aside, she'd remember the story about the night Callan had graduated from high school. They'd all drunk themselves into a stupor and sat outside Dougla.s.s' pub singing Robert Burns' diddies about love and loss.

Something all three had known intimately even at a young age. Ian and Tristan's mother had left them to start a new life and family. Callan's had died. The same heartache if you only measured it by the ache of loss. Some things you shouldn't know about your boss. Intimacy, in any form, bred familiarity. Boundaries disappeared and you ran the risk of being screwed over.

It all messed with her head and made her heart soften. She stared into Callan's flushed face as he stood on her cottage's doorstep, a manila folder fisted in his left hand. His nostrils flared as they held each other's gaze. Maybe this was how he'd felt when he'd first seen her-a mixture of exasperation, anger and a visceral need to cuss. And defeat. It soured in her mouth like a lemon, because she was trapped.

Still, she had to swallow the foolish need to kiss him again and would choke the urge down if she had to. "I'm guessing you're here to talk about the additional work. Ian contacted you about it, I'm sure."

Callan brushed past her into the living room. "The s.h.i.+te sent me the revised contract and more money. He deposited the money first."

After listening to their family's shared history, it sounded like something her boss would do. The man didn't ask, often. Seems to be a family trait.

"That sounds like something you should bring up with Ian."

She quickly shut the door to keep from freezing to death and then pulled the loose straps of her dress up. Her I'm-feeling-homesick dress had maybe five more was.h.i.+ngs before it turned into a faded mess. This time she was the one under-dressed for a meeting.

He'd planted himself in front of the stone hearth and looked out of place. Her rented cottage was one doily away from being a grandma's haven. The soft lace curtains and floral wallpaper only cinched that image, and sadly it only made him more masculine in comparison.

Realizing she'd just been standing at the door, staring at him, she moved to the couch. "If you're clear on the new terms, then why are you here? In a suit of all things."

Callan pressed the folder to his leg and leaned against the mantle with his free hand. The muscles of his shoulders were high and tight. "My time is disregarded once again and again I can't really say no. More money. More security. You-" his voice deepened, grew darker, "-are to blame."

A s.h.i.+ver of warning danced down her spine. From the sharp edge in his voice, he wouldn't need much to tip him over. Cautious, she said, "More money? Sounds like you should thank me."

He laughed and finally turned. "Thank you, Burke." He tossed the folder on the coffee table. "Now you've committed to taking care of Baird for three months."

She hadn't thought of that. Her mind had been focused on her job, where it should be. "A deal is a deal."

She pulled the straps up again. His gaze roved over her skin, following the thoughtless movements. Her nipples pressed against the thin material. If she crossed her arms to hide her reaction to him, it would only make things worse.

"Why are you here?" The words fell out of her mouth in a breathless ramble.

He tugged at his tie until it unraveled from its knot, his focus fixed on her. "Because I told myself to leave you alone on my drive home, but then there's the cottage. There you are." He bit out the words. "As soon as I walked in the door, I get a call from Ian." He put up his hands and mimed wringing a neck, likely hers. "I wanted to throttle you, but I'm not entirely surprised. The McCullough frames needed work. You've got a good eye for catching it."

She sifted through his grouching. He'd stopped by because he wanted to see her. He'd noticed the needed repairs, like she had. "Oh."

Warmth spread in her chest. Dammit. She didn't date men in her field for this very reason. s.e.x and their work crossed over too often. A late night in bed and he shows her some antique he's working on. She gives an absent opinion, her mind really on s.e.x or sleep. He runs with it because he knows her background. It was too much like playing with fire. Years had pa.s.sed since she'd been burned, but she was still trying to claw her way out of the ashes.

Victoria crossed her arms. "You just wanted to b.i.t.c.h." She kept up a tone of disinterest. "Go home. Drink yourself into an angry stupor and then wake up and spend the money my boss sent."

He gave her a long, slow look before he turned to pace. "I should buy this cottage and kick you out. Then maybe I could have some peace."

Nonplussed by his bark now, she replied, "You should have taken a nap. You're cranky."

"You're a cool one, Burke, but I know you for a liar. You pushed for another month. Six months in the future wouldn't make a difference. Ian could have just ran a new exhibition or an extended one with new materials." He quelled his pacing, pulled the tie off and dropped it next to the folder on the table. "But you chose now." He seared her with a stare. "Tell me why."

She was so focused on not falling out of the top of her dress, figuring out how to get him to leave and staunching her own wayward urges, Victoria hadn't noticed he wasn't just getting comfortable. He'd dropped by to b.i.t.c.h, and maybe in the back of his mind he'd intended to seduce her. The only way the latter would become a niggle in his mind was if he saw her actions as an invitation.

Was it? Six months was a drop in the bucket in their business. Sometimes it took that long just to plan an exhibition or to get the necessary contracts. She was the first cog in the machine that detailed the antiques, their condition and set a market value for insurance purposes.

Because of her background, Ian trusted her to scout for all possible antiques while on location and find the right restorers before s.h.i.+pping the items out. In six months, everything she appraised would still be traveling the world. There was no urgency, no need for an extension. Not even to impress her boss. If she did this single job right, she'd be fine. She could take a much needed sigh of relief.

The crux? Victoria wasn't confused about wanting Callan. She was conflicted on what she should do about it. Scrubbing her hands over her face, she chose the right road, again, and didn't stray from her path. "I came out here because my boss sent me. He trusted you. Then I met you. So I did some research."

Any other man in their field would have expressed surprise or anger. They had their pride and ego. He tilted his head to the right at her announcement. She wanted to hate him for being so d.a.m.n secure but couldn't.

She sighed. "You do incredible work. If I were to shake Scotland to look for someone else with your skill and eye for detail, I might get two or three other names. One of them is retired with arthritis. It's you or no one else."

He shrugged out of his jacket as her little speech ended. She swallowed again. "What are you doing, Callan?" Her voice wobbled on a tremor.

"Scared?"

Since he didn't remove anymore clothes, she shrugged with a modic.u.m of relief. "My point is, it's easier to lock you down for three months now than try to get you to drop everything in six months or however long it takes to get MacDougal to loan us more."

He prowled over to her, taking in a cool a.s.sessment of all of her before he settled down onto the sofa. "So smooth but still a liar."

The couch must have shrunk because he suddenly felt too close, his scent too potent. Her stomach tightened with need. "You've made my job extremely difficult," she said and absently noted how husky her voice sounded now. "I try to be professional-"

"Our first and second meeting you accused Highlanders of being goat-f.u.c.kers. Now I don't offend easily..."

Her and her d.a.m.n smart mouth. "Why are you here?" she asked again.

"Offer me a drink and maybe I'll tell you." His gaze trailed down to her chest and lingered. Something equally potent and primal replaced the anger in his eyes. "Unless you really want me to leave," he added, looking up.

"I had plans to call my mom or sister. Or read in front of the fireplace. You're interrupting."

Read. She reached up and pulled off her gla.s.ses. She'd completely forgotten about them. Her image as a hard a.s.s who never strayed from the straight and narrow had taken a beaten during their whole exchange. Adding gla.s.ses to her short stature, dimple and wide-brown eyes tended to make her look like a sweet elementary school librarian.

His smile was slow but the impact left shock waves. "And she takes off her gla.s.ses for me. Now what am I to make of that?"

"Nothing." Her quick denial sounded like a d.a.m.n lie to her own ears. "Reading gla.s.ses," she added weakly.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d laughed at her. "So am I to leave or are you going to offer me a drink?"

She released her pent up breath. He probably already knew the choice she'd make. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She rose from the couch, went into the kitchen and poured them both a gla.s.s of wine. By the time she walked back into the living room he'd stretched out on the couch and left her a corner unless she decided to sprawl on top of him.

His mouth pinched tight in disgust when he saw the wine. "You don't have real liquor?"

She glared at him and shoved the gla.s.s into his outstretched hand. The man was insufferable. "Don't grouch again. I was starting to like you."

"You like me well enough. I think I'm safe there." He took a sip and closed his eyes. "Nice s.h.i.+raz. I had you pegged for a Cab girl."

"What do you know about wine?"

"Sous-chef."

Right. He was crabby, sometimes rude and sometimes kind and a connoisseur of food and whine-wine. She curled her feet beneath the folds of the dress and did her best not to touch any part of him. His long legs and arms dwarfed the couch. It would be so easy to turn around, settle between his legs and let his chest be the best human pillow known to woman-kind. So easy to make rationalizations.

Even before the f.u.c.k-up she'd never taken the easy road. She curled a bit more into her corner and considered her next option. He was more interesting than a phone call to her mother, who would fret about Victoria being halfway around the world. Her sister would pry and ask about Scottish men.

And despite the flirtation and grouching, he looked troubled.