Confidence Tricks (40 page)

It takes a real man to wear a kilt. And a real woman to charm him out of it.

Love is a Battlefield

© 2012 Tamara Morgan

Games of Love, Book 1

It might be modern times, but Kate Simmons isn’t willing to live a life without at least the illusion of the perfect English romance. A proud member of the Jane Austen Regency Re-Enactment Society, Kate fulfills her passion for courtliness and high-waisted gowns in the company of a few women who share her love of all things heaving.

Then she encounters Julian Wallace, a professional Highland Games athlete who could have stepped right off the covers of her favorite novels. He’s everything brooding, masculine, and, well, heaving. The perfect example of a man who knows just how to wear his high sense of honor—and his kilt.

Confronted with a beautiful woman with a tongue as sharp as his
sgian dubh
, Julian and his band of merry men aren’t about to simply step aside and let Kate and her gaggle of tea-sippers use his land for their annual convention. Never mind that “his land” is a state park—Julian was here first, and he never backs down from a challenge.
 

Unless that challenge is a woman unafraid to fight for what she wants...and whose wants are suddenly the only thing he can think about.

Warning: The historical re-enactments in this story contain very little actual history. Battle chess and ninja stars may apply.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Love is a Battlefield:

“You came!” Kate smiled up at him as they approached, and Julian had to remind himself to smile back. Flash teeth and relax. Laugh and flirt. The serious, competitive warrior he was on the field had a tendency to take over even when the situation didn’t call for it. And this situation, with a woman like that looking up at him with genuine pleasure in her hazel eyes, most definitely didn’t call for it. She was everything he didn’t know he found attractive in a woman, with a small and delicate build, a nose that turned up just a little at the tip and the kind of softness that normally put him on his guard. Cute but not obvious. Quiet but not shy. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say she brought out his territorial instincts, but there was a definite urge to protect and serve.

So he smiled, pleased to find it didn’t feel quite as forced as he expected it to. “Sorry we’re late. Michael wanted to do his hair.”

Michael, whose longish, wavy hair almost always looked like it had been lifted straight off the pillow, grinned widely. “What can I say? I’m a vain man.”

The women scooted their chairs to make room for them. Julian sat next to Kate—so close he could smell her slightly floral perfume. She was still wearing the tiny slip of a dress from before, but she’d allowed her brownish-blonde hair to fall down in soft waves almost to the middle of her back and changed to a pair of gold sandals with bands going halfway up her calf, winding and hugging her flesh in ways that seemed almost indecent.

He had a hard time looking away. If it was possible to slap sex on a pair of legs, she’d done it.

“Do you guys want something to drink?” Kate asked, dangling one of those perfect legs close to his own without even seeming to realize what she was doing.

Her friend, Jada, on the other hand, leaned over the table, angling to give both him and Michael a clear view down the top of her bright red dress.

“I’m going to bet you two are Scotch men. Neat?”

He let Michael argue the finer points of ice in a drink with her. Jada was the type of woman Michael lived for—flashy, obvious. Julian had dated those types of women before, usually when he was on the job down in Arizona or on the road for the Games. For all their superficial trappings, women like that made great companions for the short term. But right now, a one-night stand was the last thing on his mind. His body was definitely warming for something a bit softer. A bit more real.

He turned to Kate. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

She shrugged, and the thin strap of her dress fell along the gentle curve of her shoulder. He watched it, mesmerized.

“A few minutes. It’s not a big deal. There was a blues singer on before the pianos started.”

“Oh, it’s too bad we missed it.”

Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry about this place. It’s probably not your thing, pianos, is it?”

Julian laughed. People always took one look at him and assumed the worst. “I’m a large man, Kate, but that doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian. A little jazz isn’t going to kill me.”

“You never know. Jada is her own force of nature, and I thought maybe you guys got caught up in it against your will. Lord knows she’s made me do one or two things I regretted later.”

Julian’s pulse picked up, and he leaned forward. That was a topic he could warm to. “’Like what?”

Kate shook her head firmly. “No way. I’m going to need a few more drinks before those secrets start spilling.”

“She’s being modest,” Jada interrupted, watching them both with a smile. “Kate here once drove an entire rugby team off the road. Their van tipped over into a ditch.”

“They deserved it!” Kate declared, her eyes dancing. “Don’t believe a word she says. They were trying to cut in line after the rest of us had been waiting for hours to get through a single lane of traffic. I just blocked them from doing it, and they drove themselves off the road. What’s the point of driving a nice big Cadillac if you can’t use it for good?”

“Did you stop to see if they were okay?” Julian asked, amused.

“They didn’t really tip over. It was more of a gentle lean. You should have heard all the cars in line, honking their approval. I felt like a superhero.”

“A vigilante in a Cadillac.” Julian laughed.

“Like the Green Hornet,” Kate agreed.

Julian settled back in his chair, taking in the scene with a deep breath. There was a gentle ferocity to Kate he hadn’t been expecting. He liked it. “So, you run cars off the road when you’re mad, you grew up in Seattle and you wear pretty shoes. What else should I know about you?”

She blushed and lifted one of her feet, examining the appendage as if seeing it for the first time. “You think my shoes are pretty?”

“Well, they’re not very functional, that’s for sure.” He fought the urge to rub his hand over her leg to double check how well that footwear was working out. “But nice. Definitely nice.”

She toyed with the stem of her glass, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you. But I’m not sure what else you want to know. Birthmarks? Employment history?”

“Good call, Kate,” Jada said from across the table. “Always start with birthmarks.”

“How about what it is you want Cornwall Park for?” Julian offered. He doubted he was going to get anything about birthmarks out of her.
Yet.

She blushed and played with the edges of her cocktail napkin. “It’s this group I’m part of. A historical preservation society—kind of like your Scottish Games, I guess? We do a big annual event, and we need a place to hold it.”

“Historical? Like what?”

“Umm…Regency. Jane Austen type stuff—the nineteenth century. We wear pretty elaborate gowns, and we do lectures.” Her leg tapped a nervous beat, inching closer to his own.

Julian nodded. An academic he was not, but he knew enough of history and women to know what she was talking about. Waist-cinching underthings. Thigh-high stockings held in place with ribbons and silk.

A group of women doing Regency playacting—he could get on top of that idea.

“That sounds interesting,” he managed to say without giving away the sudden loss of blood in his brain, which was coursing hot and thick toward his groin. “But isn’t that all indoor stuff?”

“Well, we hold balls and tea parties, and those are all inside.” She chose her words carefully and watched after each one for his reaction. “But I’m hoping to recreate this big, elaborate outdoor garden thing. And Cornwall Park is the perfect place for it.”

“You’re doing this all by yourself?”

“Sort of. It’s for the whole group, but I’m in charge of this particular event. It’s a long story, but I’m basically being punished for some…er…misbehavior on Jada’s part. I’m excited to do it, though. You probably think it’s silly, but—”

Her leg brushed against his. He reached over and rested a hand on her knee, stilling her nervous movements. “Don’t do that. It’s not silly at all. Recreating history and honoring the past is important.” He grinned down at her. “I should know. I do it in a skirt.”

He hadn’t yet let go of her leg, unable to pull the pad of his thumb and fingers away from the soft skin. Like before, her leg was almost cool to the touch.

“I’m sorry,” she said so softly it was almost a whisper. But her gaze was direct, and she didn’t pull her leg away.

“For what?”

“I’m so used to people making fun of the Regency group that I get weirdly defensive. If I’m not stammering about it, I’m usually up on a soapbox preaching the superiority of my ways.”

He nodded. “I get it. I used to get a lot of flak for the Scottish Games when I was younger, but I don’t anymore.”

“Of course you don’t. Who would dare?” She cocked her head and raked her gaze over him, appreciation and awe glinting warmly in her eyes. His internal body temperature jumped several degrees.

She softened her tone and added, “That’s not a fair comparison. You have extreme powers of intimidation. I don’t.”

Julian finally released his hold on her leg, allowing himself to take in the curve of her thigh where it met the hem of her dress, which fluttered higher as she shifted. All of it—the dress, the skin, the promise of what lay farther up—writhed with silken sensuality.

“Oh, you have powers too. Believe me.”

Danger comes packaged in bulging muscles…and a codpiece.

The World is a Stage

© 2012 Tamara Morgan

Games of Love, Book 2

Highland Games athlete Michael O’Leary is famous for his ability to charm a woman right out of her pants. Maybe a little too famous. When he’s sidelined with a knee injury, his wingman pounces on the chance to take full advantage of Michael’s idle time.
 

Trying out for the local adult-themed Shakespearean production seems simple, but there’s a catch. Michael must woo the notoriously demanding lead actress, Rachel Hewitt, thereby freeing his friend to pursue a courtship of Rachel’s sister.

Rachel hates the thought of handing over the lead role in her admittedly scandalous troupe to someone so wholly uneducated in the ways of the Great Bard. But she’s in a bind, and the only one who can step up is a man who looks way too good in a codpiece—and knows it.

To add insult to injury, he refuses to take the role until
she
agrees to take his place in some barbaric warrior race. She’ll do it, but not with a smile. Unfortunately, the hardest part isn’t antagonizing her Scottish foes. It’s resisting the one man who seems determined to line and cue her heart—forever.

Warning: This book’s half-naked Shakespearean actors are not approved of or acknowledged by people with actual literary merit. Neither are the dirty limericks.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The World is a Stage:

When Rachel returned to the theater, Michael took one look at her face and got to work. Her expression bounced between a heavy-browed, murderous gleam and the wobbly smile women always got when they were trying hard not to cry.

He wasn’t sure which one was worse.

“Oh, good. You’re back,” he called, drawing Rachel’s attention before she could run over poor Jillian, who was doing her best to scatter back toward the light rigs. He’d settled comfortably in the director’s chair near the back entrance to the stage, a sort of lordly position that let him see most of what was going on. Dominic had already told him to get out of that chair five times, but it was cozy, and he pretended he needed it for security purposes.

Mostly he just wanted to keep an eye on all the entrances.

“Why is that good?”

There was a hesitancy to her voice that didn’t sit well with him, so he laid the charm on extra thick, just the way she liked it. “Well, it just so happens I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m surprised you even know what that word means,” Rachel replied, her back bristling up within seconds, the murderous gleam taking a clear lead over tears.
Good girl.

“Proposition. Noun. A fancy way to tell a woman you want to see her honey pot.”

“You are
not
seeing my honey pot.”

“Now, now,” he chided, wagging his finger. God, she was easy to rile up. “We’ll get to that question when we come to it. What I was really asking was if you’ll do me the honor of coming to my house next week.”

“No.” She stalked halfway across the backstage area before stopping. “Why? Do you have some secret underground lair or something? Is that your new plan?”

He raised a brow. “You mean a sex room? As in, nipple clamps and ball gags and thirty-one flavors of lube?”

The vein near her temple throbbed a warning, so he put a hand over his heart and winked. “Not yet, Red. But you say the word, and I promise to dig you one with my own two hands.”