Bad Boys In Kilts (13 page)

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Authors: Donna Kauffman

BOOK: Bad Boys In Kilts
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“Stuffy?”
She blanched. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. Maybe not so much stuffy as proper.”
“What’s wrong with being proper?”
“Nothing. It’s just, you do come across as professional and all business, but you definitely—” She broke off, shook her head. “I know you said this is off the record, but I am seeing the cornerstone of my business plan going right down the tubes here. I should stop talking now.”
“No, please don’t.” He covered her hand with his own, keeping its place on his arm. “I definitely what?”
She stilled, and looked down to where they touched. “I, uh ...” She trailed off, then looked back at him.
“You’re really serious, aren’t you? This isn’t some kind of game?”
“What game would I be about playing? I’m all but surrendering my integrity here. It’s doubtful I’d have anything to gain by asking such potentially ego-crushing questions of you.”
She smiled a little. “It’s the way you phrase things.”
“What way?”
“Very ... properly. Polished.”
“I like to make sure my meaning is clear.”
“It’s an interesting mix, is all. That crisp brogue, and your—”
“My what?” he asked when she paused.
“Your intensity.”
“My—you think I have intensity?”
She grinned. “Ah, yeah.” She held her thumb and forefinger close together. “Just a wee bit.”
He felt his body tighten again. There was a definite twinkle in her eye now ... and it was most definitely directed at him. And he didn’t think it was remotely business related. “And this intensity ... it’s a good thing?”
“You asked about women seeing you as anything other than a proper gentleman. You have this way of focusing on something quite intently. When that something is me—well, a woman,” she amended, “then I think you can safely say she might feel a little ... provoked. In a good way.”
“And that’s why you laughed?”
She cocked her head. “You really don’t think you have that kind of magnetism?”
“Honestly, it’s not something I thought much about until ... well, until I met you. Brodie poked a bit today, and I suppose it’s made me think. I do have a habit of focusing rather intently on one thing in particular. The distillery. And he suggested maybe I needed to spread my attentions around a bit. Then there you were, being quite provocative, although I’m certain it was innocently played ... but you didn’t seem the least bit affected by my reaction.”
“What reaction?”
Had he been the rogue he claimed he wanted to be, he’d have pulled her into his arms and she’d have felt quite clearly the reaction he was having. As it was, he took her hand off his arm and turned her around so her back was to him. “Perhaps we should end this discussion now, before it does intrude on our business dealings with one another.”
She went to turn, but he kept her firmly in place with his hands on her shoulders. Once again, she stilled. And though he’d only intended to aim her at her bedroom door, now that her back was to him, the feel of the play of muscles in her shoulders, shifting through the thin cotton beneath his fingertips, made him wonder if there was such a thing as touching her impersonally.
“What are you doing?”
“Here,” was all he said, as he pushed her hair over one shoulder. “Hold that.”
She gathered her hair in one hand, then glanced back at him. “So does this mean we’re going to have business dealings with one another?”
He didn’t respond—he was too intent at working the damp fabric to release the top button of her shift.
She stilled, her breath held.
“Just getting the hard-to-reach ones for you.”
She said nothing ... but didn’t move away, either.
Once done with the first, he attacked the second one, then debated on the third. He’d left the fabric clinging to her skin, not parting it, not tormenting himself more than he already was. And yet, there was her exposed neck, tilted so perfectly for him to access the tender skin with his mouth. Just one taste. He even found himself drifting closer, dipping his head just slightly, before pulling back. “There.” With great effort, he dropped his hands. “You should have an easier time of it now.”
She, however, did not turn back around. “Still the gentleman.”
He let out a sigh. “I suppose I’m doomed.”
She still didn’t move. Neither did he.
“And this business talk we’re going to have ...” She trailed off, then was silent for so long, he finally prompted her.
“Yes?”
Once again she glanced back at him. In that moment, with her gaze intently on his, her dress half undone, and her hair moving in a curtain of silk back across her shoulders as she released it ... He was forced to curl his fingers inward to keep from reaching for her right then, and damn the consequences. Whatever they might be.
“What is your stance on mixing business with ... being provoked?”
At any other time, coming from any other person, the question could have only been interpreted as in invitation. An invitation to provoke ... and keep provoking. But there was a look in her eye, something almost wary, that made him wonder if perhaps this was a trick question after all. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’ve never had the occasion to give it any thought.”
“Hmm,” she said, giving him absolutely no indication of the murmured sound’s meaning. “I’ll be out in just a moment.” And then she was gone and the door between them shut quietly.
Leaving him to wonder what in the hell had happened.
And just what the bloody hell he wanted to happen next.
Chapter 4
D
aisy closed the door between them, then immediately slumped against it. Was he kidding? Back home, men in his position of power—even one without Reese’s good looks and intensity—always had a very clear idea of their appeal and hold on the opposite sex. Maybe it was a Scottish thing.
She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered a little. Which had nothing to do with the damp dress, either. Just picturing the sincerity in Reese’s eyes as he’d asked his questions made her body respond. No, he hadn’t been playing any games. He’d said she’d provoked him. She rubbed her arms, and squeezed them more tightly against the ache in her breasts. He’d certainly managed to do that to her. How could a man like him honestly believe he didn’t have the right kind of mojo to pull that off? What, were the single women of Glenbuie napping or something? Surely, even if he’d been too buried in his work to do the chasing, some bold lass would have given it a go her own self. He had to know that not only was his reserved nature an incredible turn-on, but he had the kind of intensity and focus that, if harnessed properly, could shoot laser beams or something.
The way he’d been looking at her as he’d asked her if he could be the kind of man who provoked a woman ... And then, the feel of his hands on her, ever so lightly brushing her skin as he unbuttoned the back of her dress. It had been all she could do to stand there and not lean back against him, feel the length of his body bracing hers. Her gaze shifted to her bed, and her body quivered at the thought of the two of them there, naked, skin on skin, passionately entwined, rolling amongst the sheets and pillows, wrestling, teasing ... Provoking one another.
There came a tap at the door at her back. She let out a little squeak of surprise and leaped away from the door, as if he could see her standing there, staring at the bed, fantasizing about the two of them together.
“Daisy? I’m going to step down to the shop, take a look about.”
“Uh, sure. No problem. I’ll be down in a minute.” She immediately started peeling the sodden dress off, feeling foolish for giving in to her urges, even for a moment. He’d asked her a couple of highly personal questions, sure. And definitely there was some serious electricity bouncing between them.
Business, Daisy, stick to business
. She hadn’t moved all the way across the Atlantic Ocean just to fall back into the same patterns she’d gotten herself into before. Reese Chisholm was her ticket to building a strong financial base from which to launch her small-business plan. She wouldn’t make a fortune here, but she’d make a living and, more importantly, a home. In quiet, quaint, wonderfully off-the-beaten-track Glenbuie.
She’d find a nice local lad and settle into an easy, calm, relaxing relationship. No pressure, no high stakes. Given the fact that Reese had already bailed out and gone downstairs was proof he’d also thought better of instigating anything further.
And yet her gaze went once again to the bed. There was the critical difference this time, and it was the one thing she couldn’t shake. Yes, Reese was quite confident about his role in his professional life, which he put first, investing the lion’s share of his energies into it at the expense of a more fulfilling personal life. In that respect, he wasn’t much different from the men she’d become involved with in the past.
Where he was different, however, was in his personal life. He was quite restrained there. Not taking advantage of his powerful position in any personal, private way. He was very focused on his job, but not because he wanted to improve his social standing, or gain power, or increase his financial net worth. He wanted his business to succeed in order to help his family, not for any personal measure of success. In that respect he was very different. Which led Daisy to speculate just what it would take to make a man like Reese take some personal time, maybe lose a little of that ingrained, controlled restraint. Her gaze remained fixed on the bed, the images flashing one after the other through her mind.
Reese, naked, all long and lean, sinewy and perfect, lying flat on his back as Daisy moved on top of him. Starting with his mouth, then moving down along his body, making his hips buck, eliciting guttural moans from somewhere deep in his throat. She’d slide down his body, run her tongue down the center of his torso, then take him in her hand, slide her mouth slowly down every rigid inch of his—
No. No, no, and no.
She yanked her dress the rest of the way off and tossed it in the direction of her hamper. No more carnal images, no more thoughts of exactly what she’d like to be doing to him in that bed right now. Or what she’d like him to do to her. She resolutely pulled a pair of crisply pressed, khaki capri pants and a short-sleeved yellow camp shirt from the towering walnut wardrobe that doubled as her closet. No more dresses around Reese. She’d be buttoned down and covered up and wouldn’t give romping in the sheets with him another thought. Who the hell was she kidding? She slipped on her blouse, then slumped down on the edge of her bed as she did up the buttons. She really had to get a grip.
She’d come here to learn to relax. To find peace and embrace a slower pace of life. One that didn’t involve eating antacids like candy, and where intimacy meant more than grabbing the occasional nooner with a power broker during her lunch hour.
Reese was off limits. Only his business was up for grabs. Nothing else.
She stepped into her bathroom and pulled a brush through her hair, then smoothed it back and clipped it at the neck. There. Very sedate. Quite professional. Almost schoolmarmish. There would be no more off-the-record chats with Reese. She would go down to the shop, then very carefully and precisely lay out her business plans, and do whatever it took to make him understand that refusing her services as a marketing and publicity consultant would be detrimental to his business and that of the residents of Glenbuie.
She sighed. “I’ll be happy if I can get him to agree to let me launch a Web site for him.” Which was her basic plan. Get her foot in the door, introduce him to the global world of the Internet, give him a taste of the kind of exposure his distillery could be enjoying, then gradually get him to let her overhaul his entire marketing scheme. Once the other residents saw what she was doing for the distillery, they’d surely clamor to have her help them expand their global presence as well. On a much more minor scale, of course, but one that would enable her to settle here quite comfortably. Not that running the stationer’s shop as it was wouldn’t provide her with a decent income, but she wanted to incorporate her own skills, do the things she loved to do. Just on a far more modest, down-to-earth scale.
With a determined smile, she squared her shoulders again and resolutely refused to so much as glance at her bed as she marched through the bedroom and across her flat to the stairs leading below. She’d get Reese’s business. And that was all she was interested in getting from the man.
Really.
She found him downstairs in the shop, looking at a display of patterned envelopes by the front window. His head was bent and he appeared to be giving the arrangement the same kind of focused interest he seemed to give everything that crossed his path. Including her. She felt that shivery little rush of arousal again and very purposefully shut it out of her mind. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He straightened and turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “Not a problem.” His gaze stayed on her face and didn’t so much as dip beneath her chin.
Of course, that was exactly what she wanted. That’s why she’d pulled her hair back and dressed more conservatively. She was positively thrilled that they were back on a professional footing, and the awkward conversation between them was going to be pushed aside as if it never existed.
Now if she could only have the same kind of convenient amnesia about the electricity that had crackled between them upstairs. In her flat. Not a dozen feet away from her bed. Her big, empty bed.
“If you want to come back to my office, I can show you some of the other Web sites I’ve designed and we can talk a little about what kind of thing I’d have in mind for the distillery.” She was already talking too fast and her voice was pitched higher than normal, but if Reese noticed, he didn’t let it show. He merely nodded and fell into step behind her.
She crossed the small shop floor, wending through the narrow aisles filled with stationery, cards, notepads, journals, and the like, along with a variety of ink pens and marker sets, until she arrived at the set of paneled doors in the back. One led to a tiny bathroom, the other to her almost equally tiny office. With shelves lining one wall and a desk and office chair wedged into the corner, it was more a nook with a door, actually.
Something she became painfully aware of the moment he stepped into the small space behind her, all but filling up what little available room there was. Bad idea, she thought, her body already reacting to the proximity of his, clearly with a mind of its own, no matter what restrictions she tried to impose mentally. “Um, there is a stool just outside the door. Maybe if you want to slide that in here and ...”
She heard him moving around behind her, but took that moment to slide into the chair facing her desk, which faced the back wall. There was a giant tackboard hanging in front of it, with a few photos that Maude had pinned up there, along with various articles and columns she’d clipped from the newspaper, all of them yellowed and faded. There was a dried rose with some baby’s breath still entwined around it, tacked next to a picture of the shore. She hadn’t removed any of Maude’s memories or notes, but had merely made some room for her own. Notes, that is. She’d left all her memories behind, intent on making new ones here.
In the center of the tackboard was a flowchart she’d drawn up with a list of the various local businesses she intended to target, followed by a basic marketing plan for each. She wondered what Reese would make of it, and his prominent position at the top of the chart, but it would be too obvious to remove it now. And besides, she had nothing to hide here. Her plans were for the good of the town. And her own business, of course, but she hoped Glenbuie and its residents would come to embrace her business savvy as they’d seemed so willingly to embrace her.
She heard the scrape of the stool across the tiled floor and felt Reese angle himself just behind her right shoulder. It was imposing enough to be stuck in these small quarters with him after what had transpired upstairs. Having him in such an alpha position, his body seemingly surrounding hers as he leaned forward to get a better view of the monitor ... well, it was nothing short of pure torture.
She moved the mouse and clicked on the Chisholm Distillery icon she’d created along with his file.
Pay attention to the monitor
. Not to the fact that Reese’s body was emanating heat, and hers had somehow become a heat-seeking missile. “I’ve worked on a variety of accounts over the years that have successfully marketed products ranging anywhere from imported Scandinavian furnishings to a line of Japanese jeweled collars for your pet.” She paused and delicately cleared her throat. Somehow her voice had gone a bit hoarse. “I initially worked on print ads and catalogue layouts, but eventually, as the Internet became an important tool in the global consumer market, I shifted my focus to building a Web site catalogue for my company that complemented the print, radio, and television ad campaigns for our larger clients.”
“Sounds interesting. And complicated.”
She tried not to shiver. His voice was so deep, so smooth ... and so close. She wondered what it would feel like if he just dipped his chin slightly, and pressed his lips to that sensitive spot on the back of her neck. “It can be,” she said, with a bit more forced cheer than absolutely necessary. “But the beauty of it is we can adapt each Web page to the needs of the client. Make it eye-catching, inviting, user-friendly, and, most of all, memorable. So that the person browsing your site thinks of Glenbuie first the next time they buy a bottle of whisky. Or, better yet, orders it directly online from one of your distributors. Or, one step beyond that, plan a trip to the Scottish countryside to tour the distillery in person. We can facilitate all of that very easily, in a single, unified site that will link—”
“We don’t rely heavily on that kind of tourist market,” he interrupted. “We’re not close enough to the tour loop for that to be—”
“Nonsense. If people think you have something unique to offer, they will go out of their way.”
“While I would like to think that the whisky that has been my family’s pride and joy for close to two centuries is something unique, I’m afraid there are too many distilleries in Tayside alone to—”
“You are one of the only family-owned distilleries left in Scotland.” She made the mistake then of turning to look at him. He’d been leaning down to see the monitor, so she found herself quite abruptly face-to-face with him. His gaze immediately shifted from the monitor ... to her. She felt it like a physical touch.
“Yes, we are,” he said, not so much as blinking. “But that by itself isn’t such a big attraction.”
“I, uh, it can be,” she said, struggling not to just sit there and stare into his eyes.
Finally he shifted back in his seat, which, in a way, was worse, as now she had to stare up at him. And he was dominant enough at the moment.
“It may not be something that would attract the locals,” she said, persevering. “But if you promote yourself properly to the tourist trade—”

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