It’s wrong. She’s going to work under your supervision. He had been pleasuring women for years and taking scraps in return. Now, he wanted to take everything. Greedily. It had taken this delicate, angelic-looking blonde to provoke this intense reaction in him, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to at least try to work something with her. Nae, no’ my supervision. Maddox’s.
When her garage was emptied of all her works, Laetitia felt hollow. She followed the men as they loaded the wood boxes filled with pieces of herself into the truck.
She had the most ridiculous desire to hug them and wave good-bye until she couldn’t see them anymore. But as Tavish remained beside her, she just imagined herself doing it while signing the receipt.
She looked up. She had already offered tea, water, and soda, and he had accepted nothing. “Mr. MacCraig—”
“Tavish Uilleam.” He applied his most calm, commanding tone to his question: “Would you like to have lunch with me?”
Yes! No! Her limbs went weak. Can you please decide, Laetitia? “Unfortunately, I can’t.”
“Right,” he nodded. “I’ll—”
“But I have a few minutes if you want to talk about the contract. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be great,” he answered. His mind was working out backup plans. He didn’t like to lose when on a mission.
Tavish waited for Laetitia in the living room, willing his erection to wilt, and to distract himself from even more libidinous images forming in his mind, he looked around the spacious floor.
The furniture had been selected with meticulous care, clearly picked from antiquaries with a preference for English furniture: handcrafted oak chairs and cabinets. The lack of gilded furniture or frames contrasted with little treasures, such as small porcelain statues and ormolu clocks. In a corner, a few antique instruments, including a twelve-string mandolin and what was possibly the most ornately carved grand piano he had ever seen, would make any musician swoon.
It’s a contradiction. As is everything about her.
Tavish opened the lid and ran his fingers over the keys. The notes floated in the air, perfectly tuned, which made him wonder if she played it. An itch to hear her playing or to play it for her inserted itself under his skin, and he could imagine himself playing her a romantic, melodic piece, not the dark thundering ones that had been hammering around him lately.
The hardwood floors gleamed clean under the soft light from small abat-jours, two adapted pairs of gondola lamps on each side of the French windows, and an iron chandelier. The room was filled with rich textures from fluffy pillows, comfortable sofas and ottomans, and the fine antique textile curtains dropping as cascades of velvet.
And it all led him to wonder about the use of the furniture for creative sexual positions—the many ways and times he could have her there in that room before they moved to her bedroom.
He ran a hand over his face, wondering how he would be able to find a balance between his ardent desire to see her work recognized and the blazing lust that coursed through his veins when he was near her. He heard her footsteps, and she appeared in the living room carrying a tray.
He cursed. He was still primed as he had been five minutes before. Fuck Fate and her tricks!
Laetitia fixed her gaze on the biscuits she had arranged to accompany the tea and took a deep breath, which she hoped was discreet enough not to show she was unnerved by his presence.
“I would like to explain a few things about The Blue Dot.”
Laetitia was too aware of him: his masculine smoky-sweet scent and his undisguised strength, highlighted by the fine wool of his tailored suit. She had noticed his stolen glances, his stance. She had observed his body language, and her body wanted to let him take whatever he willed. Her throat went dry, and her heart hammered against her ribs.
In fear.
Not in fear of him, but of herself. She wanted to paint that strong face, that huge body, delineating the tendons and sinews, planes and muscles, to capture his strength in stencil and transfer it to the canvas, and with her brush she would discover the hardness, rawness, gentleness. She could dive into him and drown gladly.
And she would, if something didn’t happen to break this spell.
God, I must do something. Anything. Mustering all her hard-learned social skills and composure, she motioned to the table under the rowan tree in her back garden. “Shall we sit outside?”
He had to concentrate on her words to keep from getting aroused, but it was impossible, because as her lips moved, he imagined her doing many things with them on his body. He was glad he was wearing a double-breasted suit, or else he would have embarrassed himself—and her—with his erection. They stayed on the safe subject of art, and Tavish perceived her unwinding.
But as she did so, he felt himself become more wound up. He admired the way her hands fluttered when she talked; how her brows drew together when she was trying to explain a concept that seemed to be ingrained in her, but which he didn’t grasp; and the way she chewed her bottom lip when in deep thought as he explained the way The Blue Dot dealt with the artists, buyers, critics, and the public in general. And his whole body stiffened every time her tongue delicately licked a fine dusting of powdered sugar from her lips.
After an hour, he was burning; his manhood was so hard it was hurting, and he welcomed the pain. Act on it, Tavish Uilleam! His arm stretched behind her, his fingers touching her silky hair, and he bent his head, intent on kissing her, on having her ride him hard on that bench. And then carry her to her room for another round.
My! Laetitia regrouped her scattered wits, determining the most effective way to avoid him without being rude. She scooted away and looked at her watch. The few minutes had transformed themselves. “Oh. Our conversation was so engrossing, I forgot I need to get going. Mr. MacCraig, it was a pleasure.”
He reined himself in and tilted his head, wondering why she was acting this way, suddenly evasive. During all the time they had been chatting, the signals were there. He had been certain she wanted him just as he desired her, as much as he was sure there was no friend coming. Perhaps I am fooling myself, and these are figments of my imagination.
“Aye, I’ve delayed you. I will give you more information tomorrow. Say, ten o’clock, at The Blue Dot?”
What! “Mr. MacCraig . . . I haven’t decided anything yet about the contract.”
You will sign. “You have until Monday, next week, to decide about it.”
“And . . .” she hesitated, and then lied: “I work tomorrow. I can’t go.”
His eyes narrowed. “Laetitia. You seem to forget a pertinent fact. If The Blue Dot is going to sell your paintings, even if only those which we’ve already paid for the transportation . . .” He paused for effect. “We need to settle a few bureaucratic issues—taxes and all that. Let’s make it Wednesday, then.”
Nothing was going as he intended; he thought he had complete control of the situation.
She frowned at the rigid set of his shoulders and the sudden, unmistakable tension in the air. “I—”
“Ten o’clock,” he commanded, and not leaving any space for escape, he added, “I’ll give you a ride.”
“Mr. MacCraig . . .” If you want this, Laetitia, postponing the inevitable is foolish. Now, what are you going to do? Confess you lied and you don’t work tomorrow, but do on Wednesdays? She stifled an irritated sigh and prayed that her friend, the manor chef, Sebastian Buchanan, would be able to cover for her. “I have to check with my employer. Could you wait a second?”
“Of course.” He watched her disappear inside the house. Flushed with the need to hit something, he rose and paced the garden.
A few minutes later, she was back, but there was a tilt to her chin, which spoke of defiance.
“Wednesday. At ten,” she said.
He had tried to convince himself he didn’t need any woman. Much less a complicated woman, as she was proving to be. He should have been satisfied with her coolness and left it at tha
t. Instead, it had settled like a burr under his skin, making him desire her more, to force a reaction out of her, an emotional reaction to him. The very type of reaction that had made him seek to distance himself from other women for years.
Illogical, yes. But knowing how illogical his motivations were wouldn’t stop him. To have her, he would face his fears and even swim through a dangerous moat and climb the highest tower. “I’ll pick—”
“There is no—”
“I’ll pick you up.” He gritted his teeth. He needed an excuse for it. “It’ll take you hours in the traffic.”
“And with you, it won’t?” she asked bewildered.
“Nae. We’ll be using the gallery’s chopper,” he answered. At the widening of her eyes, he cursed in his head, not having considered she might be afraid of flying, but forged on, “Unless, you are against it.”
“I wouldn’t know. In fact, this will be my first time in a chopper.”
“Good. I’ll be here at nine,” he said.
“I’ll be ready. Good afternoon.” She was about to enter her house when she called him back. “Mr. MacCraig.”
He turned and saw there were a light smile and an innocent look on her face, which didn’t bode well. “Aye?”
Looking over her shoulder, she said, “I trust you won’t be upset if I get sick in your helicopter.”
With that, she entered the house and closed the door.
So, this is how it’s going to be. He couldn’t keep from smiling. His mild erection turned to iron at the thought of the challenge. Escaping him was something he wouldn’t allow her to do.
CHAPTER 8
London, Kensington Gardens
Atwood House
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
8:58 p.m.
Sixteen. Breathe.
He was mentally counting his bench presses and his breaths to keep Laetitia out of his mind. But he wasn’t having success. Her face kept appearing between numbers.
Seventeen. Breathe.
How her fingers intertwined when she was enraptured by something, enchanting him with her delicacy. How her light-brown brows furrowed when her mind wandered to someplace else as she thought how to explain her feelings.
It was all much more interesting than the hard stress and pressure his arm muscles were undergoing.
Eighteen. Breathe.
Then his wayward memories became creative fantasies.
The taste of her mouth, the softness of her skin, the tensing of his whole body with her nearness.
Nineteen. Breathe.
Her mouth parting under his, her fingers tugging his head down. His hands cupping her breasts.
Tw—
His arms stopped on the way back up, muscles bulging, straining under the lack of concentration. For a moment he thought the barbell holding heavy weights would fall on his neck. Drawing a huge breath, he finished the movement. “Argh!”
Twenty. Breathe!
“Nice job.” Alistair’s face appeared over his field of vision, helping him guide the weighted bar back onto the cradle.
Sitting up to straddle the bench, Tavish reached down to grab his towel and water bottle. “Thanks. That last one was about to kill me. Good thing you were here. I would have strangled myself.”
Alistair rolled his eyes at Tavish. “Ha-ha.”
“Come on over to the bicycle, Brother-in-law.” Sophia, Alistair’s wife, motioned to him.
“How did it go with your new love interest?”
“Love interest!” Sophia squeaked, her long, black ponytail bouncing, as she ran on the treadmill at a more sedate pace than usual due to her pregnancy.
“My what!” Jesus! Gossip tongues are already wagging. Tavish paused with the bottle in the air and swung his gaze to Alistair, who was joining Sophia on the other treadmill. “I—Fuck you, Alistair Connor. I’m no’ your baby brother anymore.”
“Wretched language, Baby Brother-in-law.” Sophia tutted and turned her intelligent eyes to analyze him. “What’s ruffling Lieutenant-Colonel-Doctor-Lord Arrogance’s legendary composure?”
Tavish smiled. Fortunately for him, Sophia was not a woman to hold grudges. Due to two horrible incidents he had initiated when Alistair had introduced her, the nickname had stuck more as an endearment. Much had happened after, and they had become fast, close friends—soul siblings of a sort.
Alistair glanced at his wife. “He is in love with a woman called Laetitia Galen.”
Tavish frowned to discover his heart became interested at the mention of her name and the word love in the same sentence. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Love at first sight is for fools. “What a ridiculous idea!”
“I needed to reach you to discuss a new art fund—your mobile was out of service. Eamon told McKeenan, who told me you had used the chopper and had gone along with the carrier.” Alistair smirked at him. “And stayed in Leam the whole day, not even returning to The Blue Dot. Munro told me you were coming back to London only this morning, and Garrick picked you up at Battersea with a clean suit for the day.”
What will you say when you find out I’m going to waste a lot of money on a whim, just to pick her up tomorrow? “Oh! Our assistants, chopper pilot and chauffer are now your informants!” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Note to self: don’t use our companies’ services next time. For your information, I visited Richard, Hugh, and Martha.”
“I know that part, too.” Alistair used to have a horrible tendency to stalk and keep himself abreast of every step when he was interested in a person or that person’s actions.
Of course you know.
“I also know you are flying her in tomorrow.”
Fucking great! Tavish gulped down the rest of the water and walked to the new ergonomic bicycle Sophia had acquired. She said it was to complement her already complete and up-to-date workout space, but it had been bought particularly with him in mind, so he’d come to visit more often.
“How did it go? Did you sleep with her already?”
Not yet. His brother could irritate the hell out of him sometimes.
“Alistair Connor, stop this,” Sophia breathed, horrified.
Tavish crunched the water bottle in his hands to a flat piece of plastic and reached for another. “You got something else to ask?”
“Now that you mention it, I do,” Alistair said. “When are you going to start living again?”
“Alistair Connor. Tavish Uilleam. Don’t you both start!” Sophia exclaimed. She knew Tavish didn’t like that conversation and that it was useless to pressure him. She eyed Tavish with renewed interest. “So, you found a love interest?”
“Because I stayed in Leam overnight, it makes a woman my love interest?” He crossed his arms and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the bicycle’s handlebar.
“Hell, Tavish Uilleam, it’s been almost six years. She’s not coming back. You’re not betraying her memory, and you can’t blame yourself for what happened.”
“Doona ye think I know that?” he asked Alistair through clenched teeth, hating that his Scottish accent displayed his tumultuous emotions.
Sophia glared at Alistair, who muttered under his breath, “Sometimes I wonder.”
“So, Lord Arrogance.” Sophia’s voice was full of sweetness when she turned back to him. “Is she—”
“Before you ask, I can’t confirm nor deny,” he retorted. If I say something, you’ll harass me until you know everything and then some.
“Then I’m subpoenaing you.”
Oh, fucking hell, this is going to be hard. “You’re both confusing this. It’s just business, and she is not my type.”
Alistair groaned skeptically. “When does a man have a type? And business never stopped a man—or a woman, if I recall correctly—mixing it with pleasure.”
Tavish grunted, but he knew his brother was making a joke at Sophia’s and his own expense.
Alistair had always preferred tall, anorexic, blue-eyed, blonde model types. When he met Sophia on a business meeting, wit
h her bookish tastes and intelligent approach, average height, curvaceous toned body, and midnight hair that fell to her waist, his tastes changed radically.
“So, Lord Arrogance has hit upon a woman,” Sophia said to Alistair. “It was time. I was running short of friends to introduce to him. And they were becoming quite unhappy when your hot, gorgeous brother took them to an uneventful dinner, didn’t kiss them, and never called back.”
Seriously? Tavish was flabbergasted that a woman like Sophia had been gossiping behind his back with her friends. But he shouldn’t have been, because her interest in him was genuine love.
“Hullo! I’m still here!” exclaimed an amused Tavish, as Alistair and Sophia discussed his love life, playing matchmakers. “Sophia, she’s a talented artist, and I’m really interested in her work.”
“She is an artist from the gallery, and you’re interested in her?” she asked, shocked. “Are you actually going to approach her?”
I am. “Dear Sister-in-law. I don’t think with my lower brain.” His face split in a sardonic smile when she blushed.
Sophia was a seasoned lawyer, specializing in abuse against children and women, but she was still shy when someone talked about their personal sex life around her.
“Well, not only with the lower one, I mean.”
Alistair let out a bark of laughter. “Good to know, Brother.”
“And why are you behaving as if my interest is so . . . consequential?”
“Because it is,” Sophia said and looked at her husband. “He could have her petition for a case of sexual harassment against The Blue Dot or himself.”
“Aye, you have a point.” Alistair frowned, seeking a solution. “But only a mild one, mind you, Beauty. And you know him, he’ll not intimidate—”