Some Like it Scottish, page 9
He headed down the street to the crowd forming outside the mercantile. Men were signing up at a table, registering for the Highland games.
He needed to burn off some steam. A lot of steam. The matchmaker made his blood hot. He got in line.
She didn’t know it yet, but he’d stayed behind and booked the room for two nights with the old woman, instead of one. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince Kit to stay an extra day with the lure of all the strapping Scots in their kilts. But he would make sure none of the lads here would sign on with her, either.
He smiled to himself. Today had been a bust for her and he hadn’t even had to lift a finger. The potato farmer had bungled it nicely just by being himself.
When it was Ramsay’s turn, he filled out the form and laid out his money—money well spent. Anything to bring himself back to normal. To neutral. Since he’d met Kit, she’d been on his mind too often. He never let just one woman dominate his thoughts. Keeping it loose had always been his style. But Kit had a way of invading his every pore. The caber toss and the hammer throw should eradicate her from his mind.
As he walked back to the boardinghouse, he had a brilliant idea. So far, nothing had deterred the American lass from her plans. Maybe he needed to use his size and his manliness to scare the wits out of her—so much so, that she would take the first flight out of Scotland to get away from him.
He hurried back to the boardinghouse, eager to put his plan into action. Now, his impulsiveness didn’t seem like a bad thing. They were going to be sequestered in the same room. He’d corner her, pour on the charm, and maybe even lean in for a kiss. That should be just enough to scare her back to the States.
Back inside the house, he took the steps two at a time and found their room. He didn’t knock, but sauntered in, feeling cool and confident, in complete control.
Kit jumped when she saw him. Good. She’s already on the defensive.
He walked toward her, soaking in her body, pouring on the heat, until her blush took over her face. She pushed that brown hair of hers back, even though it was barely long enough to do so. He frowned, thinking how he liked long hair. Long enough he could wrap his hands in.
“What’s the matter?” Her voice was hoarse with emotion.
He shifted his gaze from her hair to her eyes. And along the way, he noticed her blush had kicked up another notch. Aye. He would throw her off guard by giving her a false sense of security. Keep the conversation light.
“Ye gotta tell me how old you are. I’m dying to know,” he said nonchalantly. She was so young to have started a business on two different continents. A huge feat. The lass had moxie—he’d give her that.
Kit’s eyes got wide. “What?”
He took a step toward her. “You look really young.”
“Thanks. I guess.” She took a step back.
He frowned. She’d probably been born with a trust fund, an offshore account, and a big flat in Manhattan. “I mean, ye’re young for having your own business. You can’t be what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
The room was small, with only a twin bed. She took another step back. “Maybe we should go to another town, find a place with two rooms. Where are we both going to sleep?” Her hand motioned to the bed behind her, but her gaze stayed locked on his.
He gave her a smoldering grin and nodded toward the bed. He took a step closer. They were standing close together. Verra close.
She stepped back once more and when she did, her legs hit the bed and she lost her balance. She reached out to grab him. He could’ve stopped her fall, but he was just enough of a son-of-a-wanker to pretend to lose his balance, too. He fell forward on top of her, catching himself before he crushed her.
Perfect. It couldn’t have worked out better if he’d planned it.
Her eyes were huge, shocked.
And green! He’d thought they were more brown than any other color before, but staring into them up close, they were honest-to-gawd green with brown flecks ringing the pupil. He could’ve stared into them forever. Which was possibly the most girly thought he’d ever had. Except . . .
She smells like lilacs, too. Aw, hell.
“I’m twenty-six.” She was breathless. “You didn’t have to fall on top of me to make me answer.”
He grinned at her, then he moved his hand up and stroked her cheek. “I take it back; you don’t look so young when you’re up this close.”
He meant to provoke her, keep her off-balance a bit longer, and pour on the charm. But her hair was fanned out around her head, and she looked like a cranking angel. His index finger strayed over and touched a silky strand. It was softer than monofilament fishing line. And thicker, richer. Blood rushed downward to his groin and he felt himself leaning in to kiss her. And if he pressed into her harder, she’d know the extent of his attraction. Her lips parted in invitation.
Aw, gawd! What am I doing? He shoved himself up and off of her.
“Sorry.” Like a whupped laddie, he jammed his hands in his pockets.
She lay there, her cheeks bright red, looking up at him with innocent doe eyes. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. It’s the least I can do.
She let go of him quickly. “Um, thanks.”
He barely heard the words as he rushed to the door.
He got out of there, using the closed door as a shield. Standing on the other side, he was still able to feel her underneath him. Various parts of his body warred against each other. His pecker wanted him to go back in there and give it another go. His hand wanted to wrap itself in her hair and hold her in place while he kissed the hell out of her. But it was his chest that he was most worried about. It pounded so hard, he was pretty sure he was going to have a damn heart attack.
“Dumbass,” he said to the hall. He was so screwed. Kit the matchmaker had turned out to be a kind of kryptonite for him, a pain in the arse, and more trouble than he’d bargained for.
Chapter Six
Kit dropped back to the bed, staring at the door, not quite sure what had happened. One minute she’d been on her feet and in the next, her insides were a warm mess of hormones with Ramsay lying on top of her. It’d been thrilling and frightening and hot—oh, so very hot. His boyish charms had turned into rock-solid man in two seconds flat. She wondered if he was coming back. No, she worried he would. Although . . . she wouldn’t lock the door.
She pushed herself up and off the bed. Duty called. At least ten text messages from the office in Alaska needed attention. Double that number in e-mails, too. Kit grabbed her phone, but instead of calling the office, she hit speed dial for Harper.
“It’s night here,” Kit said. The sisters had a long-standing, unspoken pact to always be there for each other. Harper could decipher the code.
“Do you want me to ask?” her sister said dutifully.
Kit sighed with relief. “Yes.”
“Sleep, rest, talk, or play?” Harper said.
Kit smiled at her phone—the four words more comforting than her sister could know. Kit, Harper, and Bridget had played this game their whole lives. When they were young, each sister had had her own separate bedroom in their sprawling Connecticut mansion. But every night Kit and her sisters had pulled pink sleeping bags to their doorways, their heads in the hallway so they could be together. They had the opposite issue now. In their two-bedroom apartment in the Bronx, the three sisters shared one room. But in Connecticut, life had felt safe and secure. Now things were much more complicated than playing Barbies when the lights went out or talking about the first kisses of their youth.
“Are you there?” Harper asked.
“Yes.”
“Sleep, rest, talk, or play?” she repeated.
For a second Kit thought about confiding in her sister, to tell her about the well-built, strangely dressed sheep farmer, Davey and his damned new priority, and Morven’s missing teeth. She wanted to tell her how lonely she felt, how hard it was here. She thought about Ramsay’s chest lying on top of hers and how hard it’d been. And distracting. But Kit was the strong one in the family. Everyone relied on her to keep it all together.
“Is everything all right?” Harper asked.
“It’s going great.” Trying to put a positive spin on it, Kit filled her in on the required quilting retreat. “It’s a brilliant idea. It’ll give my clients something to do while they get acclimated to the area, before they meet the bachelors.” She tried to sound upbeat, but wasn’t quite pulling it off.
Harper was silent for a second. “Make room for me at this retreat of yours. I’m coming. My passport is up-to-date.”
“What? You are not coming. I thought you were taking graduate classes this summer.”
“I took the summer off to do some fieldwork,” Harper said. “But the site survey has been postponed.”
“But what about the flight? It costs too much,” Kit argued.
“Couldn’t I use your miles? I think you need me. You sound stressed, and I’ll help with your clients. I’ll meet them at the airport. Be their traveling companion. Calm their nerves. Help their transition. Whatever you need me to do.”
Kit chewed her lip. “That’s actually a great idea.”
“It would give me time to do some exploring in the North Sea, too.” Harper sounded excited. “Several Viking ships and Spanish ships have been found along the east coast. While I’m in your little village, I could go diving and take a look for myself.”
It wasn’t Kit’s little village; it was Ramsay’s. “My sister the nautical archaeologist. I’m so proud.”
“So can I come?”
Kit laughed, feeling calmer than she had since arriving in Scotland. “Yes, you can come. And yes, you can use my miles. How are things at home?”
Harper filled her in on their mother, Jacqueline, and how the art gallery where she worked had increased her hours. “And Sprout has taken a job as an aide at summer school.”
“Bridget doesn’t like it when you call her that. What if we went back to calling you Pout?”
“Fine. Bridget is all set for community college in the fall.”
Their younger sister had always wanted to be an elementary school teacher. Kit would make sure her dream came true. No matter what. She just had to make Scotland work. She had to.
Hearing Harper’s voice made Kit feel better. But at the same time, it reminded her of all her responsibilities. Bridget’s tuition would be due mid-July. Harper hadn’t told her when her grad school tuition was due, but it had to be coming up. And, of course, she would have to help her mother now that Bridget had aged out of survivor benefits. Part-time at the art gallery wouldn’t pay the rent on the apartment, even with increased hours.
Harper finally got back to the original question. “Sleep, rest, talk, or play?”
“Play. Can you get Bridget online, too, so we can play Words with Friends?”
Harper laughed. “They should call it Words with Sisters.”
They hung up and Kit had a few minutes to think before all three of them were online together. For the millionth time, she wondered what her father would think about how different their life was now. It wasn’t a bad life by any stretch of the imagination . . . only different. But would he still have taken that bottle of champagne with him on his last spin in the yacht if he had known?
Kit and her sisters played for an hour and then she had to sign off to get some rest. She stretched out on the bed, but couldn’t fall asleep. Instead she wondered about Ramsay. Where was he? And when was he coming back?
When he was around, he kept her from worrying. His constant teasing saved her from thinking nonstop about her all-encompassing responsibilities. But he’d given her something new to think about. Now she knew what it felt like to have him lying on top of her. She snuggled under the quilt and played out her fantasies in her mind.
Hours later, she woke up. It was dark out and the moon was high. Across the room, she saw Ramsay’s shadow as he unrolled the sleeping bag on the floor. She held her breath and watched his silhouette as he pulled his shirt over his head. Would he drop his pants next? But instead, he lay down on the sleeping bag and stacked his hands behind his head.
“Good night, kitten.” He said it so softly that a second after it had happened, she wondered if she hadn’t dreamed it.
For a long time, she gazed upon his large figure on the floor, her playful guard dog.
But Kit reminded herself of the truth. She didn’t need playful in her life. She shouldn’t be distracted by him, either. She had too many responsibilities to lose focus now. She’d seen too many people get caught up in romance and forget to take care of themselves and their families. If Kit didn’t take care of her family, no one else would. It was all on her. She turned away from Ramsay and toward the wall. After a long while, she finally fell asleep again.
Morning came and Kit didn’t want to open her eyes. Her ears were getting a workout. Doors were slamming. Voices sounded in the hallway outside her room. People were knocking. On her door?
She opened one eye.
Ramsay came in. “Time to get up.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “No.” She was more exhausted than when she’d gone to bed.
“I brought you breakfast before I have to leave.”
“Leave? Where? You better not abandon me.” She opened her eyes and sucked in a breath. The man certainly had a way of stealing the air from her lungs. She propped up on her elbows to get a better look.
His hair was wet and he was wearing a kilt!
This wasn’t a khaki utility kilt either. The wool was a green-and-blue plaid with a red stripe in it. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt that left nothing to the imagination about his brute strength. All Brawn was definitely all brawn today.
“Wow,” slipped out before she could stop it. “Why are you all decked out?”
He handed her a small sack and a cup of coffee. “For the Highland games, lass. Get up and eat with me before I go.” He winked at her. “For luck.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why luck? What’s going on?”
“I’m competing.” He grinned at her as he took a slug of his coffee; then he set his cup on the windowsill.
She sat all the way up and shook a finger at him. “You promised to help me today.”
He frowned at her pointed finger and for a second she thought he might call her on it. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes playfully at her. “I made a promise to you?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“You ought to know, lass, I’m not the promising type.”
It was a telling statement. He was one of those men who couldn’t be counted on. “But I paid you.”
“Ye’re paying me to drive you. Nothing else.”
It was good they were going to have an argument. Because really, between what had transpired on the bed yesterday and how outrageously gorgeous he was this morning, fighting was her only salvation. She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “You have to help.”
“The sprite is ordering me around.” He laughed at her. “Aye, that’ll work.”
Desperate, she could only think of one way to convince him. All Brawn could certainly be persuaded by All Woman. She didn’t think it through, but launched herself at him, knocking the breath from the both of them. She latched her arms around his neck and kissed him with everything she had. Certainly, this was the only way to get this Neanderthal to do what she wanted.
His arms automatically caught her, but he didn’t kiss her back. He snarled as his fingers gripped her waist and he set her away from him. He took a deep breath as she held hers. He looked to be grounding himself.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. Her cheeks were on fire and her lips tingled where she’d tried to persuade him.
“Don’t fash yereself,” he grunted. Then he cleared his throat. “It happens all the time—women throwing themselves at me. Ye couldn’t help it.”
She glanced up to read his expression. He didn’t quite pull off the lightheartedness he was shooting for, but he was definitely in better shape than she was.
He grabbed his cup but then stopped, reaching a hand out to her. Did he mean to stroke her cheek, or some other tender gesture to make her feel better? She stood still in anticipation, terrified it would be some kind of intimate, romantic gesture and, at the same time, hoping it would be.
But then he chucked her lightly under the chin. “Hang in there, little sprite. You’ll be okay.” He turned and sauntered out the door, cocky as ever.
She stared after him. What had she been thinking, making a pass at him? What kind of professional throws herself at a man, anyway? Prostitutes, maybe, to secure a client. But not a matchmaker! Kit could die of embarrassment. They’d bury her with red-hot cheeks, a frustrated body, and a stupid tombstone with only one word written on it—Mortified.
Chapter Seven
Kit finally got her nerve up for the Highland games. She was, after all, here to find bachelors—not to worry what her chauffeur thought of her ineptitude. Armed with her messenger bag for taking notes and cell phone for shooting pictures, she left the boardinghouse. Later, she would do background checks, so as not to encounter another Morven. Speaking of . . . She would steer clear of any booth that had a potato on it.
She followed the throng of people to the field and paid her eight pounds for access to the grounds.
It was a kilt-lover’s paradise. Real men were everywhere, decked out in their clans’ colors. Kit found herself inadvertently looking for the Armstrong tartan and made herself stop. She had a job to do. Today was not about Ramsay. She would put him from her mind. She had to forget how breathtakingly gorgeous he was in his tartan and remember that he was nothing more than a kid in a man’s body. No woman could rely on a boy. Besides, today was solely about the business at hand. If she’d had some forewarning, maybe she could’ve rented one of the booth spaces and taken applications. She pulled out her notebook and jotted down that idea for the future.
