Love of Her Lives (7 page)

He had taken her by surprise back there in the kitchen. She thought he was flirting with her when he raked her body with a sensual look–over. He’d probably been calculating the ease with which he’d throw her over his shoulder. She’d be ready for him if he tried that again. An ember of excitement glowed at the thought. Okay, so she was slightly attracted to the guy — less than slightly, just a mere sliver of attraction — but that had no bearing on her urge to drive clear into another province with him.

Right.

Better watch that. She would not be ruled by physical attractions
. Remember how Matthew had looked like the whole package?
With a vital break–up dinner pending, she would not be fixating on another man — ever. She would be a career girl, a psychologist specializing in addictions. Sex was the addiction that had ruined her family. She would save others from the same fate.

The sun had set when Beth slowed the car and pulled into the Hilton parking lot. “Where are we then, lass?” he asked.

“Montreal.” She stretched out her legs with a satisfied smile and waited for his exclamation. He had abducted her with a pretext of protection from a threat he wouldn’t explain, so he shouldn’t be surprised to learn she would seek her own answers. Too bad for him those answers were a province away. Perhaps he’d learn a lesson in minding his own business.

“Very good.”

She felt her brow rise. “Very good? You’re not bothered that I’ve taken you so far from Ashbury?”

He shot her a dry look she couldn’t fathom interpreting. “No,” he answered simply. “You choose to stay here?”

She nodded her head. “Don’t you have to answer to anybody? No girlfriend at home who might be surprised to hear you’re in Quebec?”

“No.”

“Fine then, if you don’t want to share details of
your
personal life, so be it. I’m tired. Make sure my suite has a Jacuzzi, please and thank you.”

“I’ll see what I can do about a Whatoozi, but I’ll not have you staying alone, not yet.” His fair eyebrows drew together. “You can wipe that look off your face. I’ll not sleep in your bed.”

• • •

Calum made up an address and checked them in, ignoring Beth’s gape when he admitted to not having a credit card. And no, he didn’t need help with their luggage. Did he look like a man who needed a lad no bigger than a toothpick to carry a few bags? Not that they had any luggage. Beth made him stop at the gift shop for all sorts of toiletries.

It was a good thing she’d not seen his face when that little room she’d boxed them into had risen up in the air and taken them to the eighth floor. An elevator, he realized afterwards. He’d not liked it one bit. For a man used to living in the Highlands and given the choice, he preferred solid ground.

Calum locked the door to the hotel room after they entered. No suites were available, only a room with a king–sized bed. If it was suitable for a king, it should be adequate for Beth, but bloody hell — the room was tiny with only one bed.

Two upholstered chairs sat in front of a window flanking a round table. He looked from the enormous bed to the puny chair. Damn. It would be an uncomfortable night.

He dropped the shopping bag on the floor and flexed his fingers. “I need to clear my head. Where will I find the whiskey?” Inside the closet, he found hangers and a long board, ah, pressing clothes.

“Over here,” Beth said with a lopsided look as though he’d been in a Hilton before. It wouldn’t serve him to admit it, not yet. She left a small door open for him under a contraption named Braun.

Snatching a tiny bottle of Crown Royal from the shelf, he tried to imagine a purpose for such an apparition. “What kind of men are these Quebecers? Are they wee people then or can they not hold their liquor?”

Beth’s mouth almost quivered to a smile as she took a step back. “Just so you know, I don’t find you funny at all. Humour often doesn’t translate well across cultures. And speaking of that, where did you say you were from?”

He swallowed the contents in one not nearly satisfying swig. “From a place where you’d as soon die as serve a customer a piddle as that.”

Beth sighed. “Can’t you just phone room service for more instead of complaining? I feel clammy from the drive and need to scrub the scent of Bruce Hopkins from my skin, so I’m going to take a shower.” She pulled a white robe from the closet.

“All alone?” Calum raised a brow suggestively.

“Not funny.” With the robe tucked under an arm, she crossed the room and snatched a desk chair that she pulled behind her towards the bathroom.

Too damn cute for her own good. “Must you sit down?”

She stopped to glare at him. “No, Calum, I’m wedging this chair under the doorknob — the locked doorknob — as extra insurance against you. If you dare come near that door — ”

He flinched. “‘Twas a jest, Beth. I’ll not intrude on your bathing.” Noting a lack of humour let alone arousal in her expression, he decided she was in no mood for him to clarify when she may deem his intrusion appropriate.

The door closed abruptly. The sounds of a scuff and rattle followed. Calum snorted disapproval and then looked over the room. She said to phone for service. A fine idea. A telephone sat on the desk against the wall. Surely he could manage room service; it was self–explanatory. He picked up the phone and frowned — not one offer to serve — but there was a bell tone.

“Ah,” he said smugly, putting the phone down. A servant would answer his page. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered out the window.

Ten minutes later, he still had no whiskey.

Though he hated to leave the room to seek help, he was resigned to do just that when a soft wind gusted behind him lifting the hair off his neck. No windows were open to let in such a breeze. His leg muscles tensed. Windless breezes preceded only one occurrence.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled.

“You were supposed to speak into the mouthpiece,” said a voice behind him. “Humans are pitiable mind readers.”

Calum steeled himself and turned.

Leaning against the wardrobe was the trickster, dressed in a pale green waistcoat over close–fitting breeches belted in black leather with a gleaming, square buckle set in his middle. One knee–high, black, cuffed boot was propped casually on the seat of the chair.

“Finn, I didn’t expect to be seeing you again so soon,” he whispered and glanced toward the thin door with Beth on the other side.

“You’re so newly human,” Finn said. “You’ll be seeing me fine enough.”

That wasn’t what Calum had meant. He knew humans weren’t able to see Finn unless he allowed it. He’d meant — what the hell was Finn doing there?

“How is it, being human once again?” Finn pushed off the chair to give Calum a look–over. “I expected to see you in a tangle of bed sheets regardless of your,” his gaze dropped to Calum’s groin, “‘incapacity.’ Is your true love not happy to see you?”

Vowing to control his temper before his head burst, Calum counted to five and took a deep breath. A soft grunt escaped him as he unclenched his teeth. He and Finn were eye–to–eye. Calum took a step back. He would not be examined like a prime specimen.

“Perhaps I can help,” said Finn.

Ah now, there’s a suggestion. He gave the immortal his full attention.

Beth’s voice sounded from the bathroom. “I could have sworn I brought that robe in here.”

Finn’s lips curled in a thin smile. He held the white terry robe up between two fingers.

Calum rolled his eyes. That wasn’t the help he’d had in mind.

“You don’t want Bethia out here in a wee towel?” Finn asked.

“Well …”

“Calum,” Beth called. “I’ve washed some things in the sink, so I need a robe. Bring me one, but turn your back first. Just hold the robe out, and I’ll grab it.”

The trickster put a finger to his lips.

Calum shook his head and advanced on Finn. “That kind of help I don’t need.” He jerked the robe from Finn’s grasp that was so loose the robe snapped into the desk light sending it clattering to the floor.

Finn looked pleased despite his robe game gone to ruins.

“Calum! What are you doing out there?”

He rapped on the bathroom door with his knuckles.

It opened a crack. She hooked her body behind the door. Humid air misted around her carrying a soft scent of vanilla. He inhaled deeply.

“I asked you to turn your back.”

His smile was full of innocence. “Oh, did you now? I couldn’t hear you so well. Thought you asked me to wash your back, and I was about to explain how that translates in my culture.”

“You are so very not funny. Just give me the robe.”

He held the robe a tad beyond her reach until she opened the door further. The tease couldn’t be helped. She was beautiful, damp hair brushed off her faultless heart–shaped face, skin flushed and glistening, a hand fisted in the towel clenched under her neck.

“Get a good eyeful, warrior?” She snatched the robe from his hand.

“Not nearly full enough,” he grumbled to the door shutting in his face. “But I’ll do for now.”

Finn laughed. “Ah, warrior, it pains me to see you persist in what can only be a futile end.”

“You don’t look the least bit pained,” Calum pointed out. The last thing he wanted to accept was his propensity for a futile ending among the bed sheets. Barring Calum’s expectation that sheer will would overcome his physical handicap, there was no prospect greater than Finn’s power. Bloody hell. He needed the trickster.

“Sorry,” said Finn, looking anything but. “I find you most entertaining, warrior.”

Another last thing Calum wanted. “Finn, perhaps I could appeal to your sympathetic side. If you could just fix this wee — ”

Finn vanished in a soft gust that blew through Calum’s hair. Faint silver laughter trickled out of the hotel room.

“Of all the self–serving, egocentric … to suggest I be his damn entertainment — ”

“Who in the world are you talking to?” Beth exited the bathroom clad in robe and turbaned in white terry.

“No one!” Calum roared, then immediately stifled his outburst and smiled sheepishly. “I was talking on that phone trying to rouse some servants.”

“You were doing what?”

“I’m in need of a bottle of whiskey, woman — a big one.”

Her brow furrowed. She glanced in the mirror and rummaged through the bag of goods they’d purchased downstairs. “Since you didn’t give me time to pack my hair straightener, I’ll have to pull it straight with a brush and blow dry. And just so you know, I have clothes on under this robe, so — ”

A bottle dropped from midair at ceiling height. Calum caught it inches from the ground. “For the love of God!”

In the mirror’s reflection, Beth’s gaze fell from his face to the bottle in his hands.

“Imagine that.” Focusing on the bottle, he read the label. “A 1973 Edradour single cask. There was whiskey tucked away here all along.”

Her gaze narrowed to such a degree, he worried she might strain a muscle. Calum was happy to turn his back to slide forward the two glasses on the desk. He dumped a good measure in both and handed one to Beth.

“
Slàinte
.” He raised his glass to hers before draining it. “Now that’s a damn fine whiskey.”

“I don’t drink Scotch … normally. Couldn’t be much farther from normal, could I?” She took a healthy gulp, squeezed her eyes shut, and shivered. “Ugh, that’s awful. Fill me up again … just half.”

Beth felt a little more relaxed after the burn of whiskey dulled to warmth she felt mostly in her head — all buzzy and unperturbed up there. The slight haze felt welcome.

Calum’s eyes trained on her like a hungry wolf, but he stayed put in the Bergère chair. Not that she wanted him to get closer, she affirmed. Then affirmed again.

The more she looked at him, the more appealing he became. The polar opposite of Matthew, Calum looked like he’d be one with the mountains, not a city boy. The rugged look was accentuated by stubble that shadowed his square jaw. His hair was chin length, usually off his face, but caramel strands swung forward as he reached for his glass, muscles moving smoothly under his mocha sweater. She imagined him wielding one of those heavy claymore swords with elegant grace. Now that was a dangerous direction for her thoughts to go. Why was there nothing about this man that said professor?

“What course do you teach, Professor Cunningham?”

“I don’t teach. Just collecting research, lass, for the University of Edinburgh. How do you know for sure that this Matthew is the one for you?”

“Matthew is a man driven to set goals and attain them — not my strong suit. I tend to live in the moment. He’s breaking me of my disorganized habits and has detailed a three–year plan for me. It’s tacked up on my bulletin board, and believe me, I am on track.”

Calum leaned back in the chair with cougar–like eyes on her. “Does your soul burn for him? Do you feel him now deep in your bones? Does he know you so well that his mere touch brings you to your knees, Bethia?”

If bullshit was music, this guy would be a brass band. And he’d done it again, drawing out her name with that sensual inflection, and speaking of burning, that smoldering look could melt the robe right off a woman. Beth slid back until her head bumped the wall and her jean–clad knees were pulled up tight against her.

“You are so inappropriate,” she said. Soul–burning love? Right up until the one you love walks out the door for good. She’d always known she wouldn’t waste her life chasing it.

“And you wish Matthew was more so?”

Infuriating! “I live in the real world, Calum, not a fantasy. Is that what the women in your life tell you — that you make them weak in the knees?”

His smile was back to seduction. “Just one woman.”

“Really? Good for her.” He has a woman? Oh. Well, the man did have some appeal after all, if you liked the primitive, animalistic sort.

It was getting late. She put her glass on the bedside table. “I’m going to sleep now. You look quite comfortable over there in that chair, and I’ll thank you to stay in it.”

“You need not worry about me molesting you in the night.” His smile was as slick as a devil’s. Did he practice in front of a mirror? Oh geez. She couldn’t quite look away as he wet his lips and continued. “Not unless you want me to.”