Chapter One
I make my way into the club, down a darkened entryway, following a slender woman dressed in a tartan miniskirt. The plaid crisscrosses her breasts, leaving most of her skin exposed, but the sexy outfit can’t rouse my interest. What the bloody hell had I been thinking? I’ve never liked clubs, and this one calls itself Dance Ardor, of all things. My dancing is of the foot-shuffling sort, not—
Bugger me.
As I step out of the hallway into the main part of the club, I catch sight of the couples on the dance floor. They writhe and thrust their hips, pasted to each other’s bodies like cling film on a sausage, and make no attempt to disguise their lustful intentions, evidenced in their hungry gazes and pawing hands. One woman mashes her breasts to her partner’s chest and throws her head back, arching her spine so her lover can latch his mouth onto her throat.
I halt at the perimeter, near one of many tables arranged in a semicircle around the dance floor. I’m too old for this shit. A forty-two-year-old Scotsman on the cusp of divorce has no business entering a place like this. It’s for the young and unencumbered, not for me.
But the club’s advert in a newspaper had caught my attention. “This Friday is Midsummer Kilt Night,” the text declared, “step into a fantasy world for one night only.”
Maybe I needed a fantasy, because I’d found myself drawn to this place.
The woman who preceded me into the club turns to glance back at me, her wide mouth curling into a sensual smile. She’s painted her lips an odd purple shade that glistens like lacquer. The coruscating strobe lights streak shades of violet, crimson, and sapphire across her blonde hair, the tresses cut into one of those short and haphazard styles. A fashion-conscious lass? I hold back a groan, feeling not the slightest inclination to seduce this woman. A casual affair, for one night only, appealed to me until the moment I walked into this place.
The woman sashays up to me. “Hey, babe, wanna hook up?”
Bod a’ chac. Are all American women so direct? I’m not sure I like that. Maybe it’s my age showing, though forty-two had never seemed old to me until recently. Confronted with this young and attractive woman, I feel like a dirty old man for considering her offer for one bloody second. Half of one second, actually.
“Thank you,” I say, “but I’m, ah…meeting someone.”
It’s bollocks, but I can’t think of a better way to dismiss her without causing offense.
She sighs with all the disappointment of a woman whose erotic fantasies have been shattered. “Oh well, it figures a hot British guy is taken.”
British? Technically, I suppose I am British—as in a resident of Great Britain—but every American I’ve met calls me Scottish. This lass seems unaware of the difference, or unable to differentiate a Scots brogue from an English accent.
Another reason this brash woman is not for me, even for a single night.
Her hips sway provocatively as she moves away from me.
I stand frozen in the spot where she left me, watching with tightening brows while the girl I rejected approaches another man. He wears a hip-hugging kilt with a sleeveless shirt that has ragged edges. The woman leans in close—to make another direct offer, no doubt. The man slips his arm around her waist and leads her past the bar toward the dance floor.
For a moment, I consider leaving the club. Spending the night alone in a house that belongs to my American friend, Gil Friedman, sounds better with each passing second. I force myself to scan the club with my gaze, though I hold out little hope I’ll spy a woman worthy of my interest. Had I expected to find an intelligent, down-to-earth woman in an underground club? Bloody eejit ye are, Lachlan.
Yesterday, I’d spotted a lovely woman tending to her rose bushes in front of the house next door to Gil’s, but I hadn’t approached her. I want a casual fling, not a relationship. A woman like her, she’d want more. I shake my head at my own arrogance. How can I know a woman’s nature based on the way she tends roses? Yet something about her—the way she snipped and trimmed the bushes with exquisite care, her focus entirely on them, her expression soft and almost wistful—made me want to know her.
I do know something about her, aside from her gardening skills. My neighbor for the next month is Erica Teague. Gil told me as much. I can’t introduce myself to her, no matter how much the bonnie brunette intrigues me.
A scunner of a man bumps into me, his bleary gaze flashing to me, and mutters a slurred apology before shuffling off.
I frown, but then my gaze travels to the bar—and my pulse accelerates.
There she is. Erica Teague.
She perches on a high stool, her feet dangling above the floor. The thin, dangerously high heels she wears give her slender ankles an enticing curve. Her dress is the color of fresh cherries, ripe for the plucking. The hem must’ve ridden up when she climbed onto the stool because it reveals most of her thigh, all that creamy skin so appealing that I can’t resist admiring the rest of her body. I let my attention wander over those womanly hips and her narrow waist, then higher still to the plunging neckline of her dress. It exposes the inner slopes of her breasts, which are as lush and creamy as the rest of her.
Lust grips me so hard I lose my breath. Erica is a decadent feast for the eyes. I burn to savor her body, from her dainty toes to her flat stomach, even her graceful eyebrows, and everywhere in between.
She lifts a brandy snifter and gulps down a mouthful. Her eyes drift half-closed for a heartbeat, then flutter open as her lips form a delicate smile of satisfaction. Her breasts heave as if she’s pulled in a deep breath, completely sated.
Heat rushes through me, shortening my breaths.
Donnae stand here gawping, ye eejit. Get over there and speak to the lass.
I shouldn’t. From Gil’s description of Erica, she isn’t the sort to sign on for a one-night fling, and besides, we’ll be neighbors for the month.
My feet have a mind of their own and a different opinion of what I should do. They propel me across the club toward her. My pulse beats faster, harder, every thud of it pulsing through my veins.
Erica hops off her stool.
The dress flounces around her thighs, kissing the tops of her knees. I’ve never paid much mind to a woman’s knees, but hers are…enchanting.
I reach her just as she totters on her impossibly tall heels. With both hands, I grasp her upper arms. The feel of her soft, warm skin has me swallowing hard. The scent of her envelops me, evocative of roses and sweet soap and woman.
“Easy there,” I say, steadying her.
She angles her head back, stretching her neck to aim her shimmering hazel eyes at me. The green flecks in them sparkle in the muted white lights at the bar, and even when the strobes splash over her, they can’t diminish the striking beauty of her eyes. Her chestnut hair flows down to her shoulders, tumbling over them just far enough to trigger an urge to run my tongue over every millimeter of skin her hair touches.
Erica rakes her gaze over me from head to toe. The pink tip of her tongue pokes out between her lips, moistening them with a quick sweep.
“It’s you, Erica,” I say like a bloody moron.
Her lips pucker briefly. “And it’s you.”
She sounds uncertain. Had she seen me watching her yesterday through the living-room window in Gil’s house?
Erica brings out a mobile phone and tilts it toward me, tapping one of her wee fingers on the screen. “It’s eight thirty-nine.”
“Quite the timekeeper, eh?” Maybe she has a fetish about always knowing the time, though Gil hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort.
Erica shimmies her shoulders to push my hands off her arms. “I’ve been here for thirty-nine minutes. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Has my luck not changed at all? I find a woman who stirs my desires, but she turns out to be a nutter. A beautiful, disarmingly quirky nutter.
She’s staring at me, mouth tight, waiting for my response.
What had she said? Something about the time and didn’t I care about it.
“Not really,” I say, allowing myself to revel in the vision of her one more time. “Except your bum’s oot the windae.”
Her mouth falls open. Her hands rise, then fall to her sides again.
“Buckled, are you?” I ask. Drunkenness might explain her odd behavior. But I want her to be sane, so I can quench this lust without feeling I’ve taken advantage of a slightly deranged woman.
Aidan would love this. He enjoys calling me uptight, though I know it’s teasing, not a criticism. Among the MacTaggarts, brothers and sisters and cousins alike, Rory is the most uptight by far. Still, the idea of me, the oldest and most serious, drowning in my lust for a woman I’ve just met would give Aidan a smug satisfaction.
Younger brothers are a trial, for certain.
Erica, the disarming bampot, spreads her arms wide. “Do you see any buckles or belts on this dress?”
I chuckle in spite of myself. “I meant are you drunk, lass?”
“Me?” She snorts, and even that sound makes me hunger to kiss her. She waves a hand, dismissing my question. “No. Never.”
My hope for inebriation as the stimulus for her behavior evaporates. Maybe I should double-check.
I slant toward her, and the feminine scent of her envelops me again. My God, this woman is the embodiment of everything I’d wanted in a lover for the night. Stay with me tonight, I want to say. Share my bed, Erica, let me crawl over your body to lick and suckle and nibble your sweet flesh.
“Your eyes look all right,” I tell her.
Despite my every impulse compelling me to do the opposite, I pull away from her.
“What?” she says, her forehead crinkling.
“Pupils get dilated when a person’s drunk. Yours look normal, and your breath is fine, so I’m assuming you aren’t buckled after all.”
“Gee, thanks. Why—”
“Let me buy you a drink.” I gesture to the bartender, wondering why the bloody hell I’m suggesting she consume more alcohol. I should walk away and leave the lass alone. Instead, I tell her, “In the name of neighborliness and all.”
She stares blankly at me.
I pick up her snifter and swirl the amber liquid inside it.
Erica cants her head, observing me with the confused curiosity of someone who’s encountered a strange new species of animal for the first time.
All of her, even her confusion, bewitches me.
I feign disgust at her choice of liquor, wrinkling my nose. “Brandy? That’s a bairn’s drink.” I set the glass on the bar. “You’re in a club. Have a real drink with me.”
Erica leans that body against the bar, rolling her shoulders back. Her breasts bounce a little, enough to make my breath hitch and my cock jerk.
“Sure,” she says. “What did you have in mind?”
If only she knew the real answer, the one I don’t dare speak, she would run out the door as fast as her shapely legs can carry her.
Dirty old man, Lachlan, for certain.
Chapter Two
I smile at Erica, fair certain all my inhibitions and good sense have flown oot the windae along with my bum. I may not be speaking nonsense, not just yet, but I seem to have lost my ability to make sound judgment calls. If I were still rational, I’d take us both home in a cab and say good night at her doorstep. Instead, I’m suggesting she drink another cocktail.
The bartender approaches, and I order two glasses of whisky just as the music crescendoes. The man nods and walks away to get our drinks. As the music winds down, it segues into a quieter song with a lulling melody.
Erica rocks her hips to the tempo of the music, her shoulders swaying too, the fabric of her dress shimmying along with her body.
I can’t resist sliding my gaze over her from head to toe, admiring her figure from those creamy shoulders down to her slender ankles. Every inch of her is bonnie and sexy and enough to make me want to do things to her I shouldn’t be thinking about, much less doing.
She notices my attention and lifts a hand to her throat, as if she’s as aroused as I am. Her pupils have enlarged, turning her irises a darker shade of hazel, the green flecks in them seeming more intense. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this woman, and I’ve never felt such intense lust in my life.
The bartender brings us two glasses of whisky. I toss mine back in one gulp. The burn of the whisky doesn’t erase my hunger for her or even dull it, and the fire in my veins has nothing to do with alcohol.
Erica lifts her glass to her lips. She hesitates, sniffing like she’s unsure of what she’s about to drink. Then the lass takes a deep breath and tosses back the whisky. For a second or two, she freezes as if she’s shocked—in a good way or a bad way, I have no idea. She sputters, coughs, and wheezes. Her legs wobble a wee bit, but she locks her knees to stay upright. Her gaze has gone glossy, though I don’t think it’s from desire.
The whisky has hit her hard.
Erica’s lips part, forming a dreamy smile.
“Another,” she shouts to the bartender. Within seconds, she’s tossing back another finger of whisky, then she slaps her glass down on the bar. “Another.”
I should intervene, shouldn’t I? Though I don’t know Erica, I can’t let her get jaked.
When the bartender returns, I wave him away. “The lady’s done for the night.”
The bartender leaves.
Erica frowns at me. “What’d you do that for?”
She doesn’t sound drunk, but she’s acting that way.
I pluck the glass from her hand. “Don’t drink much, do you?”
“So?”
I grasp her upper arms, her skin soft and cool against my palms, which have grown warm. “Best take it easy, then. Whisky’s potent, and one glass has clearly done a number on you.”
“I drank whisky?”
“Aye, and that’s whisky spelled the Scottish way, without the E.” I can’t help smiling a wee bit because she is the most adorable, sexiest woman I’ve ever met. “You Americans don’t know how to spell.”
“Well, you Scots don’t know how to pronounce anything.” She slants toward me and tips her head back to look me in the eye. “Are you a Highlander?”
“Matter of fact, I am.”
“Got a big sword?”
I capture her chin between my thumb and forefinger, bending my head toward hers. Her lips are close enough to kiss, and I can’t keep the lust from coloring my voice. “Matter of fact, I do.”
Her attention flicks down to my kilt. “Don’t see it.”
“Maybe I’ll show you later. At home.” Why am I saying these things to her? I should see her home and go to bed early, not stand here trying it on with Erica.
She swings her gaze up to mine. “What do Highlanders wear under their kilts?”
Bod an Donais. I’d love to show her what I’ve got on under my kilt. Love to show her my “sword” too.
I dip my head even closer until my breaths mingle with hers. “I think the whisky’s getting to ye.”
“Feel fine.” She twirls on her high heels without stumbling, as if that proves she isn’t intoxicated.
As much as I want this woman, I can’t take advantage of her, even if she’s only a little tipsy.
She scuffles backward a step and bumps into the bar.
I brace one elbow on the bar, cross my ankles, and let myself devour her body with my eyes one last time before I put her in a taxi.
Erica sidles closer to me.
Tell her to go home, my brain urges. But my cock has other ideas that keep me rooted to this spot.
She hoists herself onto her tiptoes and tilts her chin up. Her mouth hovers so close I could kiss her with only the slightest movement.
“Sure ye didn’t have a pint or two before I got here?” I ask.
Why does my voice sound uncertain, almost quivering? I bend toward her an inch, no more, so close I swear I can taste her breaths. Erica leans in too, her heels lifting off the floor and her luscious breasts grazing my chest.
I settle my hands on her elbows, splaying my fingers over her silky bare skin. “Erica, you are exquisite, like a rare orchid plucked from a field of heather.”
What a bloody stupid thing to say.
But I can’t think anymore or notice anything except her eyes locked on to mine and her mouth so close her chin brushes against mine.
Then she kisses me.
Erica presses her mouth to mine and exhales a whisper of a moan.
My entire body goes rigid, and my cock throbs with a need that’s hardening my slat more every second. I stop breathing and for certain stop thinking, especially when she flattens her hand on my chest and explores me with her delicate fingers. I don’t hear the music anymore, only the pounding of my pulse in my ears as she molds her mouth to mine with more pressure and her tits rub against my chest. I know I shouldn’t kiss her back, but the scent of her and the softness of her mouth encourage my muscles to relax—and my lips too.
She tastes like sin and heaven and whisky.
Erica slips her tongue between my lips.
My breath hitches, but despite my body craving her like mad, I know I shouldn’t let her kiss me deeply. I’ll never be able to say no to her, to what we both want, if I do that. All I can do is keep my teeth locked so she can’t steal a deeper taste. And so I can’t either.
My resolve lasts a few seconds.
Then I groan and take charge of the kiss, raking my lips over hers, opening to let her steal that deeper taste we’ve both wanted. She throws her arms around my neck, her body suspended off the floor. I can’t stop myself from nibbling on her lower lip, loving the soft noises she makes and the fearless way she plunges deeper. I suck her lip into my mouth, only to release it and reclaim her mouth.
She plows her hand into my hair, the sensation of her fingers teasing my scalp almost too much to bear, then she drags me in for a tongue-thrusting kiss. We consume each other like nothing else in the world can satisfy our hunger, like if we separate our mouths, the world might stop turning.
I want her in my bed. Tonight.
What on earth is wrong with me? I pull away, staring at the lass.
She’s staring at me too, her lips parted.
That look does me in, shattering the last thread of my willpower.
I hook an arm around her waist and draw her snug against me. She must feel my stiff cock, but I don’t care. My voice comes out raspy and deeper, like I’ve become a satyr. “Are ye sure ye know what yer doing, lass?”
Her eyes go wide. She shakes her head, all that chestnut hair flinging around her face, and she staggers backward. Her hand flies to her mouth, but her gaze veers down to her free hand. She scrubs her fingers on her dress, though I have no idea why. She seems uncomfortable.
I reach for her hand. “Erica, are ye all right?”
She bolts away from me.
Though I try to run after her, a group of drunken laddies gets in my way, blocking my path to the club’s entrance. I glimpse Erica sprinting down that corridor, but by the time I get around the scunners, she’s gone.
I race outside. She’s not there either. I’ve lost her.
But I know where she lives. I can check on her tomorrow to make sure she’s all right. Her reaction to our kiss seemed…oddly panicked. I should apologize to her, though I can’t figure out what I’ve done wrong.
You’re a dunderhead, Lachlan. That’s what you’ve done wrong.
Aye, and I should know better by now.
