30DaystoSyn (14 page)

As to his personal life, precious little
was known. Unmarried, never engaged, rarely dated the same woman twice. He was
considered one of both New Zealand’s and America’s most eligible bachelors.

Beyond those few facts, his past was
shrouded in mystery and it was speculated he’d paid a small fortune to see that
it remained that way. There were rumors he had organized crime connections but
that was either conjecture or spite on the part of his detractors.

“Who I am. What I am. What I was.”

There
were
demons chasing him. She
would lay odds on it. Those demons would explain the deep, abiding sorrow she
caught a glimpse of from time to time. She had told him he had sad eyes and
something had brought on that sadness.

She longed to know what that something had
been.

Night Eleven

He acknowledged his executive assistant’s
droning on and on with an occasional nod of his head but had his life depended
on it he couldn’t repeat to her what she’d said. He wasn’t listening. He
trusted her enough to know she’d handle what needed handling and if it was
vital enough, she’d make him aware. He knew she realized he wasn’t paying
attention but she had grown accustomed to his lack of concentration of late. It
didn’t seem to bother her and he suspected she was rather pleased that he had
enough faith in her to allow her free rein.

“And I believe we should…” she began but he
stopped walking and she did as well.

“I need you to make a reservation for two
at Luigi’s for eight p.m.,” he told her. “And send an arrangement of gardenias
to 601 Haley Drive.”

She quickly one-finger typed the
instructions into her ever-present iPad. “To whom should I send the flowers?”

“No need for a name,” he snapped.

“And the card? How should it read?”

“I’m a jerk.”

She nodded as though that was a given.
“Anything else?”

“Tell the guy at Luigi’s I want a private
table and to chill a couple of bottles of the best plum wine he can find.”

“Plum wine,” she repeated as though he’d
ordered her to have them chill a bottle of castor oil.

“Just do it without the eye rolling and lip
pursing,” he grumbled. “Is there anything else I need to ignore before I shut
myself up in my office?”

“The new head of PR?” she questioned. “You
are to meet with her today to go over the—”

“I’ve got a new head of PR?” he snapped.

“Tatyana Sakova,” she replied. “Jamey hired
her when Barrett retired a few weeks ago. She’s been here since last Friday.”

“Why the fuck didn’t he tell me?” he
demanded.

“Well, you’ve been a bit preoccupied of
late,” she said in an accusatory tone. “Perhaps he did and you ignored him as
you do me.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Watch it,
Spike,” he said, calling her by the nickname he’d given her when they were
children in New Zealand.

“You asked,” she said. “I answered. You
want me to lie to you, be good enough to warn me in advance and I will deliver
the appropriate mistruth.”

It annoyed him that she grinned at his
snort.

“When am I supposed to meet this woman?” he
asked, pinching his nose between his thumb and middle finger. He had another
headache brewing.

“At ten,” she answered.

“And what time is it now?”

“Five minutes to ten.”

He whipped his head toward her. “And you’re
just
now
telling me this?”

“It’s on your calendar,” she reminded him.

“You know goddamn well I
never
look
at that fucking calendar!” he barked. “I’m paying you a ridiculous amount of
money for
you
to do it for me!”

She just smiled at him and that irritated
him even more.

“Why am I meeting with her?”

“She wanted to pay her respects to his
majesty,” she said. “Kiss your ring or your arse if your prefer. Blow you if
you’re in the mood for—”

“Knock it off! Where is she now?”

“Waiting in your office.”

“
Fuck
, Christine!” he exploded. “And
you would have let me walk in there with no warning?”

“No,” she said. “I believe I just reminded
you that you were to be meeting with—”

“Just shut the hell up and get me some
ginger ale,” he grumbled.

“Your wish is my command, oh high one!”

“Fuck you.”

“Right back at you, boss,” she said as she
walked away.

He went right down the corridor toward his
office and she turned left heading for the break room on the executive floor of
his ten-story high-rise office complex. Furious at having to deal with a
stranger when he was out of sorts to begin with and courting another migraine,
he marched right past the woman in question and entered his office, slamming
the door behind him.

“Fuck!” he groused as he slammed himself
into his chair. “I don’t need this shit today!”

There was a knock on his door and he ignored
it. Christine wouldn’t bother to knock so the one on the other side of the
portal had to be the woman he had little interest in meeting. The knock came
again—a bit louder this time—and he clenched his teeth.

“Come in!” he shouted.

The door opened and the most beautiful
woman he’d ever seen came through it. Her burnished-copper hair was arranged
artfully, her complexion flawless, her lips as red as ripe cherries. She moved
like a ballerina with grace and poise and her long legs went all the way up to a
tight, well-shaped ass. She was tall and buxom and the deep green dress she
wore clung to her like plastic wrap.

“Mr. McGregor?” she inquired, extending a
slender, very pale hand. “I am Tatyana Sakova, your new head of public
relations.”

He rose, took her hand—finding it cool and
as soft as silk—and was surprised at the strong grip that met his. “Miss
Sakova,” he greeted her. He didn’t like it that her grip tightened as he made
to pull his hand from hers. He felt himself frowning as he told her to sit.

“I have been looking forward to meeting
you,” she said, fluttering her ridiculously long and thick eyelashes. Her
accent was sultry, intentionally sexy and her eyes bore into his like pale
green lasers. “You have quite the reputation.”

He knew women. He especially knew when one
was flirting with him. This one was doing more than flirting. She was
anticipating his reaction to her, counting on it, and that aggravated him. He
ignored the blatant come-on and leaned back in his chair.

“What did you want to see me about, Miss
Sakova?” he asked.

“Please call me Irisha,” she said. “That is
my nickname.”

“Miss Sakova,” he said with deliberate
emphasis on the
Miss
, “I am very busy today. If you’d get to the reason
you wanted to meet with me, I would greatly appreciate it.”

He watched some of the self-assurance slip
from her smiling face and the green eyes turn a bit frosty. Obviously she had
expected him to quickly fall under her spell and was not pleased that he showed
no signs of doing so. He almost laughed when she slowly licked her lips. It was
a not so subtle invitation he had no intention of RSVPing.

“I thought perhaps we could go over some of
the plans I have for—”

“Any plans you have should be run first
through my personal assistant Christine Bowker. She will report back to me what
those plans are and if I agree with them, I will inform her and she in turn
will inform you,” he said. “That’s the way it works around here.”

She blinked, clearly surprised at his
reaction. “Everything goes through her?” At his nod, her mouth tightened. “I
was hoping we could work closely together.”

“Well, that’s up to you and Christine how
closely you two work together,” he said, grasping what she was inferring but
deliberately misinterpreting it.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I meant
you and me. The two of us working closely together.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said.

Spike came in with a can of ginger ale and
a glass. She cut her eyes to the Ukrainian woman sitting in front of her boss’s
desk but didn’t speak to her. She placed the can and glass on the desk then
asked him if he needed anything else.

“No,” he said. “I believe Miss Sakova was
just leaving.” When she didn’t rise from the chair, he arched a brow. “Is there
something else you wish to discuss? If so, I’m sure Christine will be happy to
listen, won’t you, Christine?”

Spike pursed her lips. “Of course, Mr.
McGregor. I’m always available for listening.”

“Miss Sakova?” he pressed. “Do you need to
go over something with Miss Bowker?”

The beautifully made-up face of the Ukrainian
woman froze. The pretty green eyes took on a brittle glint. She rose to her
feet, smoothed down the front of her dress—palms lingering over her crotch then
sliding over her hips—before she leveled a hard glower directly at him.

“No, Mr. McGregor, I think not.”

“Then close the door on the way out, would
you?”

He saw Christine flick a triumphant smirk
toward the woman and knew his instincts about the new PR head were spot on.
Spike was a good judge of character and he knew it wouldn’t be too many weeks before
she found a way to get rid of the redhead.

For the first time in two years she called
in sick. The cramps were whipping her ass and she was curled up in her bed,
burrowed beneath the covers while she waited for the Midol to kick in.

The house was quiet. Her neighbors had gone
to work, their children to school. No dogs were barking. No birds were singing
in the oak tree beside her window. It wasn’t garbage day so there would be no
loud racket to interrupt her so she began to drift into that semi-awake
state—helped along by the med.

She’d been thinking about
him
—as she
found herself doing more and more often—so it was natural that he would show up
flitting across her mind’s eye as she succumbed to the delicious pull of sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Racing along the beach, sand flew from the
hooves of the stalwart black stallion. Mane rippling in the breeze, neck
rhythmically extending and retracting, the destrier carried them effortlessly
past the undulating ocean and the waves breaking close by. The scent of saltwater
was sharp, its tang tickling the nose. Overhead, seagulls soared on the
thermals and a lone albatross dipped its wings in greeting. The summer sun beat
down with just the right intensity as white clouds skidded haphazardly through
the sky.

She rode with her cheek pressed to his
broad back. Her arms were clasped around his waist, her thighs rubbing against
his as the fluid gallop of the horse slid them forward and back. Beneath the
tricorne, his dark hair curled at the nape of his strong neck. He had one hand
expertly controlling the reins of the thundering horse and the other clasped at
his navel over hers. The scent of him—cinnamon and some other dark spice—was in
her nostrils and the feel of his body against hers sent fingers of need
crawling over her.

They were running from the law, she and her
highwayman lover. The rapier buckled to his left leg glinted in the sunlight.
The pistol stuck into the waistband of his buff-colored breeches was part of
his stock and trade. In the brisk wind, the ruffles of his white silk shirt
fluttered. Left behind at the tavern had been his long-tailed embroidered coat,
his silk waistcoat, and her lace shawl—all their belongings in fact. They had
barely made it out the window of their rented bedchamber and to the barn to fetch
his mount before the Redcoats stormed the tavern with muskets primed.

He was her beloved Syn, her lover, her
master in the arts of sensual pleasure, and the most wanted man in England. If
they caught him it would be the noose for him unless his wealthy father could
intervene. In that case, it would be Botany Bay for the dark sheep of the
McGregor clan.

The skirt of her burgundy velvet gown
whipped along the stallion’s flanks. There had been no time to don stockings
and her legs and feet were bare. Syn had swung her behind him and raced out of
the stable as shots rang out and wood splintered in their wake.

“Hold tight, milady!” he had shouted as he
jumped the black brute over a low stone wall and set it to galloping over the
heather-dotted meadow.

Now he was reining in his mount, the
Redcoats far enough behind they could take shelter, hide until the danger was
past.

He swung his long leg over the horse’s
head—the dusty black leather of his knee-high boot grazing the thick mane—and
slid gracefully to the ground. Turning, he held his hands up to her and she
went easily into those powerful arms. Holding her above him, he gave her a
devilish grin that made her insides turn to mush then let her body slide
slowly—enticingly—down his hard length. Arms wound tightly around her, he
brought her to him, slanted his mouth over hers and thrust his tongue firmly
between her lips.

The sound of pounding hoofbeats brought his
head up and he reached down to take her hand. He smacked the stallion smartly
on the rump then tugging her behind him, he ran for the protection of a high
dune. They were barely hidden before the Redcoats galloped past, chasing after
the high-spirited mount that was rapidly outdistancing the troop.

“Close call,” he said.

“What will we do without a horse?” she
asked.

“Raven will be back,” he said. “He’ll lead
them a merry chase then circle back around. I’ve trained him well. All we needs
do is wait, milady.” He lay down on the heated sand with her hand still firmly
in his and splayed her palm against his thudding chest.

“You are a reckless brigand, Synjyn
McGregor,” she accused.

“That I am, wench,” he agreed. “That I am.”

He pulled her down to him—her body covering
his—and took possession of her mouth once more with a fiery kiss that made her
toes tingle. His expertise with that endeavor underscored the reputation he had
for being a devil-may-care rogue for whom the ladies stood in line to be led
astray. When he turned her over so she lay beneath his enticing weight, she
knew her chastity was soon to be a thing of the past.

Her man was aptly named for he was as
sinful a rogue as had ever walked the moors.

The hard, thick swell of him pressing
between her legs as he shifted hers apart with his knee brought a moan to her
lips. His hand was on the bodice of her gown, pulling it down, uncovering her
camisole. He lowered his head and caught the gauzy fabric between his teeth,
capturing her nipple as he did.

“Syn, nay!” she cried out and would have
thrown her arms around him had he not imprisoned her hands in his to hold them
to either side of her head.