Logan (22 page)

“That was Fletcher. They’re on their way up.”
 

He shot Angus another irritated glower, and then turned to look out the window again. They wanted this expert, but that didn’t mean Callum had to be nice, especially since they were paying this woman a bloody fortune.
 

“Promise you’ll keep an open mind about this, Callum.”
 

“I said I would.” He couldn’t—wouldn’t—hide his animosity or his impatience.
 

“Be civil to Dr. Chilton. She’s the top of her field and was supposed to take a bit of a breather between assignments. She only returned from a dig last week.” He paused, and when he spoke next, his tone was measured and all levity had dissolved from it. “This might be our last chance.”
 

Pushing aside his annoyance, Callum nodded—once. Angus was right.
 

“I’ll be professional. By God, we’re paying the woman just to meet with us. I never promised to be civil.”
 

When Angus didn’t reply, Callum realized his cousin’s attention was focused on the door. The anger there melted into a smile that Angus reserved only for women.
 

“It’s so refreshing to meet a man with such honesty.”
 

The voice—crisp and thoroughly English—held a tone of amused condescension that grated down Callum’s spine. He felt the heat of embarrassment creep up his throat to his face. Knowing that their guest had finally made her entrance, he turned to greet her. The moment he saw her, every bleeding thought in his brain vanished.
 

Phoebe Chilton wasn’t anything like he expected. He’d seen pictures of her in her file and on the back of her books, but apparently the woman didn’t photograph well. If she had, he’d have been prepared to behold the Botticelli angel who stood before him.
 

A wealth of curly blonde hair surrounded a gently rounded face. Fat drops of water clung to the curls, which had been in some kind of an arrangement, but half of it had fallen out and was now draped over her shoulders. Pale lashes framed green eyes that reminded him of the sea. One blonde brow rose as his gaze moved to her cute, slightly upturned nose, a lush, pink frowning mouth, and a pointed chin—which she lifted ever so slightly. The shoulders of her ill-fitting, tweed, brown jacket were damp from the rain, as was her skirt, which seemed to be a size too big. The run in her hose and unattractive pumps completed the outfit.
 

Angus made the introductions. She didn’t offer her hand. Her gaze raked over him, reeking of disapproval. Though they did not touch, her attention sent heat leaping through his veins, not only surprising but frustrating him.
 

When she made eye contact, she said, “I would say I was delighted to meet you, but then my mother taught me never to lie.”
 

Sarcasm often amused him—unless it came from those on his payroll. He pushed back at the urge to respond to the woman’s barb. He definitely didn’t like the sharp punch of lust to his gut for what amounted to an employee—and an English one at that.
 

“I apologize that you overheard my comments.”
 

She smiled without humor. “But not for saying them?”
 

He shrugged. “I don’t apologize for my opinions.”
 

This time she laughed. The light, joyous sound took him by surprise, as did the dance of anticipation his pulse did when he heard it.
 

“Forget it. I deal better when someone is honest with me. I don’t need anyone to pump up my ego. It’s rather big enough on its own.”
 

Before Callum could respond, Angus gestured to the seat behind her. “Dr. Chilton, why don’t you have a seat?”
 

She turned her attention toward Angus and smiled again. This time it reached her eyes, lighting them from within. Angus, full-grown man that he was, blushed to the tips of his ears.
 

“Thank you, Mr. Lennon.”
 

As she settled into the chair, Angus spoke in a voice just solicitous enough to agitate Callum. “I think to keep confusion at a minimum, you should call us by our first names.”
 

Her smile turned impish, dimples winking at the corners of her mouth like a mischievous fairy. “I completely understand. With three Dr. Chiltons on a site, my parents and I tend to be informal as well.”
 

Apparently forgetting about Callum and Fletcher, Angus eased his hip up onto the corner of Callum’s desk. He wore the expression of a besotted puppy as he leaned forward and rested his forearm on his leg. Callum would be amazed if Angus didn’t expect a pat on the head or a scratch behind his ear.
 

“That’s right. You sometimes dig with your parents. Your husband is in the same field, correct?”
 

Her happy expression faded, and her eyes lost some of their lightness. “He did. My husband passed away eighteen months ago.”
 

“Oh.” Angus straightened and cleared his throat, breaking the beat of silence that followed his comment. “I’m sorry.”
 

She shook her head and patted Angus’s hand, the short contact annoying Callum. “No need to apologize. Unless you move within archeological circles, you wouldn’t have heard.” She sat back and then turned her attention to Fletcher, who had taken the seat next to hers. “Thank you once again for retrieving me from the airport.”
 

The smile Fletcher offered oozed charm and seduction. “It was definitely my pleasure, lass.”
 

When she didn’t do more than return the pleasant expression and then direct her attention to Callum, Fletcher frowned. Callum bit back a chuckle. Fletcher wasn’t accustomed to women ignoring his charm, and it was damned refreshing to meet a woman who was immune to it.
 

When he turned back to Dr. Chilton, her practiced, professional smile was back in place. Frustration crawled through him until he stopped himself. Why should he care if she didn’t give him a warm smile? He didn’t, not when she was destined to be another disappointment.
 

When he said nothing, that damn eyebrow rose again. “Since you seem a bit anxious, why don’t you tell me what you want, and we can get down to business.”
 

*  *  *  *
 

Phoebe Chilton didn’t get flustered easily. Her life had never allowed for that. Starting college at the age of thirteen and earning her second doctorate by twenty-two, not to mention the constant lectures she gave, supplied the experience needed to think on her feet, even when males outnumbered her three to one.
 

In her field, she was accustomed to men, but nothing in her experience even came close to the masculine beauty surrounding her now. The testosterone filling the office was enough to make her dissolve into a puddle of very feminine lust.
 

When Fletcher Lennon had met her at the airport, she’d had a hard enough time not drooling. At least six feet tall, blue eyed with brown hair tipped in bronze from the sun, he turned the head of every woman between the ages between two and ninety-two. There was a rugged appeal to his face, with the strong jaw and wide, thick shoulders. Not to mention the outfit: a chambray shirt, worn, butt-hugging jeans, and cowboy boots. Cowboy boots on a bloody Scot!
 

Unlike many other handsome men, he didn’t make her nervous. Oh, at first her tongue had been double-tied in knots. With the ease of a longtime friend, he’d joked with her on their trip to the Lennon house, and before she knew it, she found herself relaxing. It was a pleasant surprise when he made the pretext of flirting with her. For him, it was second nature, she understood. But there was no way she would ever be seriously interested in a man who was more beautiful than she. Besides that, she could never take a man who wore cowboy boots in Edinburgh seriously.
 

She turned her attention to Angus, whose jade green eyes sparkled behind his glasses. Where Fletcher was all practiced seduction, Angus held an air of forgetful genius. She’d talked with him on the phone, never realizing he would be so scrumptious.
 

His face was lean, as was his body, but not skinny. Sandy blond hair, a bit overgrown, kept falling into his face, which he absentmindedly brushed out of his eyes every few minutes. As he studied her, she sensed deliberate calculation. It didn’t bother her, as she tended to study people and situations in the same manner. And though his voice was gentle, there was an underlying strength beneath that calm. His solicitous behavior reminded her of many research assistants she’d encountered over the years.
 

Callum Lennon was another story altogether.
 

Before coming to Scotland, she had researched the Lennon family, especially their leader. It was her way. Any smart woman would do the same before embarking alone on a mysterious trip like this. Other than the fact that he headed up one of the most successful corporations in the UK—if not the whole bloody world—Phoebe found precious little else. No pictures, no personal information. A man with this sort of money usually took pains to be seen out, a beauty on his arm, attending benefits, galas and whatnot. Truthfully, though, she doubted any photo could have lived up to the flesh-and-blood man standing before her. And what beautiful flesh it was.
 

From his expression to his dress, black suited him. Ebony hair, peppered with bits of gray, was cut ruthlessly short. Like his office, he was dour, and more than likely as predictable as a schedule. Where his cousins seemed approachable, Callum’s demeanor was a red light.  
 

The only thing appealing about him, other than the fact that he possessed one of the best bodies she’d ever seen, was his eyes. The shape of them would be considered bedroom sleepy, seemingly half-closed. The lazy sensuality was belied by the vigilant alertness she sensed in his study. This man missed nothing, but that wasn’t their most amazing quality.
 

The color held her almost mesmerized. Blue, a completely boring description, would not do justice to their beauty. Flecks of gold lightened the dark, sapphire hue. And when light struck them in just the right manner, there was a hint of green. She’d sigh over them, if it wasn’t a completely adolescent thing to do. She’d just have to wait until she was in her room alone. With the lights turned out.
 

 “First, we need to talk contracts.” The burr in his voice had thickened since she’d first heard him speak, making her belly flutter. When his words registered, she sighed in regret. Such a beautiful man, completely out of her league, but she’d hoped they’d work on friendly terms.
 

“No. First, we need to talk about what you want me to do.”
 

He didn’t respond for a moment, clearly taken aback by the fact someone disagreed so openly with him. There was a flash of irritation and something akin to admiration—which was an odd combination, to be sure—in his gaze.
 

“There is no discussion of anything until you sign a contract. We, meaning Lennon Enterprises, must protect our name.”
 

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave her what she was sure was his most intimidating stare. Silly man, didn’t he know anything about her? She was handling professors who were just as intimidating when she was barely thirteen. And nothing
would stand between her and the grant she needed to complete her most important work ever.
 

“No. As I discussed at length with Angus before I traveled here, I made it very clear that once I arrived, I wanted information up front. I will sign a confidentiality agreement, but I will not sign a binding contract. I understand the need for secrecy, but I assure you there is no problem. I have a reputation that far exceeds even your valued standing in the business community.” One ebony brow rose in aggravation—or respect?—for her snooping. “All I know is that it’s a serious matter dealing with an artifact you found and need help translating. We will work much better together if I understand what I am dealing with.” She offered him her best business smile, the one she used on interviewers and donors.
 

“I’ll no’ risk my family name, our honor, to be sold to the highest bidder. The information you could gather would be more valuable on the open market.”
 

She could tell he was angry. His brogue had thickened to the point that she could barely understand him. But she was irritated too.  Her temper wasn’t quick to ignite, but was a dangerous thing once it did. And Callum Lennon was perilously close to burning.
 

She took a deep breath. Then another. “Are you questioning my integrity? That something in your twisted logic thinks I would take what information you give me and sell it, my reputation be damned, is an insult to me!”
 

By the time she finished, her voice had risen almost to a shout, but the moment she stopped talking, deadly silence filled the room.
 

Callum’s eyes flashed and narrowed. “I doona know or care about your reputation. I have a policy for dealing with
this
situation. I willna have my family used.”
 

She counted backwards from ten, then did it twice more. Questioning her honor, was he? Granted, she wasn’t being completely honest with him, but she knew if she rolled over on this one, he would either be suspicious of her motives or think he would win every argument.
 

Phoebe pushed herself to her feet even as she told herself smacking a six-and-a-half-foot broody, totally delectable Scotsman wasn’t a good idea.
 

“Phoebe.” She didn’t even flinch when Angus tried to interrupt. “Dr. Chilton.”
 

She ignored the worry in the younger cousin’s tone. Locked into a stare down with Callum, Angus’s voice didn’t completely register. The room, and everything in it, faded away until only she and Callum remained. Fire leapt in his eyes, showing his barely-controlled temper. His rigid stance bespoke his command over his emotions. He probably hadn’t said even a tenth of what he was thinking, and she was already offended.