To Scotland With Love (10 page)

“Are ye all right?” His Scottish burr came out as thick as warm fudge. He took her arm and helped her over the threshold.

“You scared the bejeebers out of me, that's all.” She liked him holding on to her, and he didn't let go.

“Sorry. Got home a bit ago. I flew into Inverness and drove back.” He did let go of her then and went to the laptop on the desk and shut the lid. It seemed an odd thing to do, but she didn't question him.

“So, have ye been staying here like I asked?” he said.

“No. I've been at Deydie's. She got a little tipsy at the cookie exchange, and the next night we had an emergency quilt session. We've been busy, busy, busy.”

“Haven't come up here at all?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head, maybe overdoing it a bit, so she stopped.

“Hmm,” he said. It almost sounded like,
We'll see about that
.

Cait tried to act as nonchalant as possible, but her cell phone in her pocket felt mighty heavy with guilt right now. “Deydie needs her sewing basket. Left it by the fireplace. Do you mind if I get it?”

“
Mi casa es su casa
,” he said.

She dug in her pocket and produced the key he'd given her. “Here.” She hated offering it back.

He waved her off. “Hang on to it. It might come in handy.”

She smiled to herself and put the key away.

“How about staying for a drink?” he offered, giving her a slow, easy smile.

It should've been a no-brainer—either spend a few moments with Mr. Darcy or rush back down the bluff to Cruella De Vil. “Deydie has socks to darn.” She tried to move past him.

He touched her shoulder, infusing more than a little sizzle into her bones. “At least let me show you what I got Duncan for Christmas,” he said.

What was it with the Buchanan men that she had to keep their Christmas secrets?

“Sure, but only for a minute,” Cait said.

* * *

Graham walked down the hallway with Caitie trailing behind. He had to do it now, had to talk to her about Duncan before things went any further. He spun around to her.

He must've stopped too quickly, because she was right there, her hands landing on his chest. He liked it.
A lot
. With her standing so close, he could smell her shampoo—some sort of flowers or something. He breathed her in. She tilted her head back and looked up at him with dazed eyes. After a moment, she slowly pulled her hands away. He didn't miss the blush forming on her cheeks.

“Duncan needs a wife,” he blurted. Not exactly how he'd intended to approach the subject, but it was on the table now, for better or for worse. And no matter how wrong it felt, he would make this sacrifice for his son.

“You're not interested, are you?” he said.

She flinched like his words had pricked her.

“I had to know before . . .” He stepped forward and brushed a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

She shifted nervously away from him, looking like she was gathering her thoughts. “Graham, if you're trying to play matchmaker . . .”

He waited, watching her, maybe even holding his breath. Was she going to say she wanted to be with his son?

She turned to him with her face screwed up in pain. Or was it confusion? “I like Duncan, I do. And Mattie, well, he's a sugarplum—”

Graham cut her off, taking a step back. “If you're worried about romantic love, well, it's overrated. Love doesn't fade over time. Reality snuffs it out.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “And here I thought I had cornered the market on emotional baggage. Listen, about Duncan: I used to babysit him. I'm not interested in your son in that way. And for your information, I'm not marrying again. Period.”

Like a rogue wave, he was slammed, almost knocked from his moor. A variety of emotions hit him. Relief that she didn't want Duncan. Disappointment that she would never marry again. And shocked at himself that he was distressed by her declaration. He stepped closer to her.

“It's like this.” She put her hands on her hips, Ms. Badass now. “Love is a freaking fairy tale. And I'm no longer nine and want to marry Prince Charming. This princess doesn't need a man to take her to the ball. I'm going stag.”

“Whoa. I'm the one who's supposed to have issues.” He laughed, laying his hands on her shoulders. It was settled. Things would go on the same. But then several things happened at once. Time stood still. Her tough girl act fell away. As they gazed into each other's eyes, he saw something there.
Is it a future?
Then her pupils dilated, and he knew he was going to kiss her.

* * *

Part of Cait was dying to find out what it would be like to kiss Graham Buchanan. But her heart couldn't chance
it. And her mind knew without a doubt that kissing him would be detrimental to this new life she was trying to forge for herself.

She wriggled out of his arms. “Back off, hoss. This show pony wants no part of your rodeo.”

He tipped her chin up. “Your eyes say differently, lass.”

Even if she'd wanted to shoot him down with a snarky remark, she couldn't muster one, especially since he was wrapping her up in that sultry gaze of his. She was under his spell and didn't stop him as he leaned down and deposited a small kiss on her lips. And in response, an inferno lit up inside her, burning downward into her lacy underwear. God, what a delicious ache. She went all Julia-Roberts-for-Hugh-Grant soft, wanting more, even leaned in for it, but he stopped and pulled away.

“Is that the best you can do?” She only said it to keep him from seeing how embarrassed she felt.
Who in their right mind gets so hot and bothered by an innocent kiss?

He took her words as a challenge, though, and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to him. Before she could tell him she'd only been kidding, he was kissing the hell out of her. Not some milquetoast BBC kiss. An R-rated, no-holds-barred kiss.

Every molecule in her pulsed for Graham. It had been so long since she'd been with a man. Cait had all but forgotten what lust felt like, but she damn sure knew now.

He set her away from him at that moment. He stood back and grinned at her like the kid who'd won the triple-dog-dare bet. “Was that better for ye, lass? I can try harder if it wasn't good enough.”

She wanted to smack him. He knew exactly what he'd done to her. She'd have to go sit in the snow to cool off
her panties. She put her hand up. “Nope, I'm fine. All good, hoss.”
Go back to the ranch and leave this sad cowgirl alone.

She backed out of the doorway and stumbled her way down the path. When she got to Deydie's, she slung the door open. She must've been a sight, because her gran looked alarmed.

“Caitie?” Deydie rose from her chair. “Ye look as if ye've encountered a banshee.”

“Fine. I'm fine,” Cait practically yelled. “Just need a little snack, that's all.”
To take the edge off.
She headed for the mini cherry cheesecakes in the fridge.

And ignored how her hands shook as she opened the box.

As she took her first bite, Deydie asked the question that Cait had forgotten all about. “Where's me sewing basket?”

“Crap,” Cait mumbled under her breath. She couldn't go back to Graham's tonight. Or ever.

Deydie snarled. “Are ye daft? That's the reason ye went up there.” She snatched her coat off the hook. “If I want something done, I'd just better go do it meself.”

There was a knock on the door. Before Cait could process who it might be, Deydie swung it open. There stood Graham, holding the sewing basket and looking like the devil himself.

G
raham should've taken pity on Caitie, but he couldn't help himself. He had to witness her frazzled condition again—the one he'd put her in. She still looked disheveled and frustrated, like the kind of woman he wanted to see naked in his bed.

“I believe you forgot this.” He held up the basket, not cutting her any slack.

Deydie snatched it from him. “What the devil are ye doing home? I thought ye were in London.”

“A cheery good evening to you, too.” He leaned down and gave Deydie a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Git off me,” Deydie said as she took a swing at him with her sewing things. “Ye're so fresh.”

“I came home early,” he explained. “Got back an hour ago.” It'd been just enough time to fast-forward through the surveillance tape. Caitie hadn't been on it. Which he didn't understand. If she was a reporter, wouldn't she have jumped at the opportunity to scour through his things and get the
ungettable
story?

Unless he'd come home too early. But he'd finished up in London and had missed his family.

“Would you ladies like to join Duncan, Mattie, and myself for a Christmas movie and popcorn?”

“Which movie?” Deydie eyed him shrewdly.

Graham shrugged like he had no particular one in mind. Finally, he gave her one of his full-on grins. “You know which one, ye ole bird.”

Deydie clapped her hands together. “
White Christmas.
Caitie, get the things ye need from the icebox to make that spaghetti you've been talking about.”

Graham looked over at Caitie. She was stuffing a piece of cheesecake into her delectable mouth. He dared her with his eyes to turn down his offer.

She narrowed hers back at him and swallowed the rest of her bite. “You'll have to help.”

“I make a killer spaghetti,” he said.

“You'll be my sous chef. I'll be in charge.”

He liked it. Her feistiness. But she had it all wrong. He was the one in charge. He could have her sizzling like garlic in a hot pan, right here, right now, if he wished it. It might be fun to show her who had the upper hand, but then he remembered they weren't alone.

Deydie bustled around, pulling out two Christmas lap quilts, a red one and a green one. “For me and Mattie,” she announced. “I told him these were our special movie quilts.” She looked over at Caitie. “Ye'll have to bring yere own.”

Graham came to Caitie's rescue. “Don't bring a thing. I have a cupboard full of quilts and a refrigerator full of food. Everything you need for spaghetti.”

“Okay.” Caitie grabbed her jacket, and as if it were a last-minute thought, she grabbed her laptop, too. “Needs charging.”

He helped her into her parka. She didn't say “thank you” or even look up at him. He liked that he could affect her with just his presence.

Blocking Graham's view, Deydie bent over a box by the fireplace and shoved a bundle under her coat.

“What are you hiding there?” he asked.

Caitie turned to her gran, panicked, her eyes growing to the size of serving platters.

“Never you mind,” Deydie groused. “Go on, now. I need to stop by Moira's first.” She squished her face together and glared at him. “Don't ye dare start Bing Crosby without me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” He turned to Caitie. “Ready to go?” He held his arm out to her and she ignored it.

“I was born ready,” she said.

She didn't look
born ready
. She looked frightened to be alone with him. Again.

* * *

It's going to be okay,
Cait kept telling herself. Everyone would be at Graham's. It wouldn't be like before, alone with him in his house. This time Duncan, Mattie, and Deydie would be there as chaperones, keeping her safe.

When they got to his house, though, no one else had arrived yet. Cait felt as jittery as a doe being circled by a hungry wolf.

“Let's put your coat in here.” Graham grinned, unnerving her more.

She cautiously followed him into the spare bedroom off the kitchen. It was pretty, straight from
Better Homes and Gardens
, decorated in blue—indigo paisley on the comforter, cobalt-striped curtains, and blue-and-white plates hung in an interesting pattern above the bed. The neutral color on the wall pulled it all together nicely.

But it didn't help her feel better. Being with him alone, next to the inviting bed, added to her unsettled feeling. She wanted out.

He acted like he didn't see her distress. “If I had a maid, these would be her quarters. There's a small sitting room through there.” He pointed toward an arched doorway. A plaid blue love seat and a white oval coffee table sat under the window. He walked farther into the room. “The view from here is amazing. Come see.”

She felt paralyzed and didn't move. Her eyes flitted to the bed. For a crazy brief moment, she could visualize the two of them there, doing
the deed
with the blue paisley comforter twisted around them. She shouldn't think such things. She was much too wise, and wary, to entertain those kinds of irrational thoughts anymore. No more falling for guys just because they had a pretty face. No more exposing herself to the lying, cheating half of the population.

What about sex, pleasure, and orgasms?

Shut up, Lust,
she told herself.

He cleared his throat. “Coat? Closet?” He had his hand held out to her.

She slipped out of her parka and saw him zero in on her chest. Her tight brown turtleneck betrayed her, showing her stupid
hello-there
nipples. Embarrassed, her first instinct was to cover her breasts with her hands, but she wasn't one to back down. She straightened up and stood tall, her chest more in his face than ever. His eyes widened. It felt good turning the tables on him.
Who has all the power now?

She handed him her coat. Their hands brushed, and more than a little crackle buzzed between them. Just that quickly, the power had shifted back to him.

And he knew it. He smiled at her like he loved being in control and she was the helpless damsel. Darn him.

He swept his gaze over her chocolate-colored turtleneck and dark brown cords. “Why do you always wear brown?”

With a sniff, she defended herself. “Brown's my color.”

“No. That's not it. I think you're trying to fade into the woodwork.”

“Kitchen,” she demanded. “Now.”

“You're prickly tonight, my Caitie. What's the matter?” he teased.

“Don't worry your pretty face over it.” She stomped out.

He followed her. “Plug your laptop in over there next to mine.” He pointed to the table, and she did as he said.

From the pantry, he pulled out several packages of whole wheat pasta and jars of sauce. “There are homemade meatballs in the freezer. There should be enough for us all.”

She opened the bottom drawer of the stainless-steel industrial-sized refrigerator and found perfectly labeled containers of soup, homemade bread, and a large bag of meatballs. “Did you make these?”

“What do you think?” He smiled, showing his Ultra Brite teeth.

“I think you fly in a personal chef once a month to fill up your freezer. I've seen
Oprah
and how she runs her kitchen.”

“Ah, that's where you're wrong. No one knows I'm from Gandiegow. They think Glasgow is my home. The truth is, most of the food in my freezer is from your gran and the other women in town. But the meatballs are my
own recipe.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Not completely my own. It's adapted from an Italian friend of mine.”

“Friend? Ha!” She glared at him. “Everybody knows about you and Antoinette Rossellini.”

“Antoinette and I never had a thing.” He pulled out a huge pot.

“All the tabloids said you two were going at it like rabbits.”

He filled the pot with water. “Didn't happen.”

“I saw you on
Entertainment Tonight.
You were giving her tongue.”

He opened the pasta package. “Publicity. It was in our contract. I don't approve of it, but the studio insists we use the press to sell tickets. And the audience eats that stuff up. It worked. The film was a hit.” He took the bag of meatballs from her. “As a sign of friendship, Antoinette shared her mother's special recipe with me—but not all of it, though. She left out her secret ingredient. I improvised, and these babies turned out pretty well. You'll see.”

Cait still saw green. “Why didn't you sleep with her? She's beautiful.”

He frowned at her like she should know better. “Beauty's in the eye of the beholder.”

“Well, you're not blind.”

“I never thought of Antoinette in that way.” He shrugged, looking totally sincere. “Most of my
extracurriculars
have only been PR fabrications.”

“I see your point. You'd have to have one hell of a libido to have bedded as many starlets and supermodels as they say you have.”

He cocked his eyebrow as if offering to show her the extent of his sex drive.

She shook her head. “You don't need to prove your manhood with me, buster.”

He stopped and became serious, as if this important point needed to be made. “I've had my share of relationships and I've come to an inescapable conclusion.”

“What's that?”

“I'll never have the great love and subsequent happy marriage my parents had.” He shrugged again, looking oddly apologetic toward her. “I've found it's best to keep things casual.”

She frowned. Two things gnawed at her. Why did she feel so let down by the “keep things casual” statement and why did he look so sorry?

But her inner reporter wanted the details about all those failed relationships. Or was it her own curiosity? Either way, he looked closed on the subject, like he'd sealed the vault and destroyed the combination.

As if on purpose, he changed his expression to the happy chef. “I brought back fresh tomatoes from London. Lettuce, too, for a salad. What else do you need?”

She needed her freaking head examined for getting sucked into liking this man, the same man she meant to expose. But she shouldn't feel bad. He used the press to get what he wanted. Why couldn't she play his same game from the opposite end of the field? “Green peppers and parmesan,” she said sweetly but not really feeling it.

“Got them.” He pulled out a chopping board.

Cait poured the sauce into a pan and dropped the meatballs in. She put Graham to work, dicing and slicing. There was no more intimate talk between them. But cooking together like that felt pretty damn cozy.

Thirty minutes later, Duncan knocked at the back door. Graham answered it. “Why didn't you just come on in?”

“It's not my house,” Duncan said coolly.

“It could be,” Graham snapped. “I built it for all of us.”

Graham had gone from pleasant to irate in three seconds flat. Other than on-screen, she had never seen him furious, and it was powerful, but Duncan didn't back down.

“I told you, I'll not be taking your charity,” he said as he helped Mattie out of his coat.

Mattie looked from one to the other of his male relations, his sad eyes welling up with tears. Cait wanted to smack both for being idiotic enough to argue in front of the boy.

“Hey, Mattie,” she said. “Go put those coats in the room off the kitchen.”

As soon as the boy was out of sight, she spun on the Buchanan men. “You two had better get your act together. You have a child who needs you united, not bickering like a couple of primary-school girls. Now, put on your happy faces before he returns.”

“She's got a tongue,” Duncan said to his da.

“I know,” Graham agreed, glancing toward her mouth.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she hissed as she walked by.

Obediently, Graham handed Duncan a loaf of bread as Mattie appeared in the doorway. The kid looked afraid to come in the room. Graham put his acting skills to good use. “Do you mind, son,” he said to Duncan, “slicing the bread?”

Duncan poured it on thick. “Sure, Da.”

Cait smiled at them both as Mattie wandered all the way in and sat at the table. She handed him a head of lettuce. “Can you tear this up for me?” She set the colander in front of him.

He nodded his head once and got to work.

Duncan buttered each slice of bread. After a while, he spoke to Cait. “I put the roast in the refrigerator. Mattie and I'll enjoy it for dinner tomorrow.”

Graham looked at her questioningly.

“No biggie,” she said. “I helped out, that's all.”

Duncan disagreed with her. “She was a huge help. Showed up just when I needed her.”

Mattie finished with the lettuce and wandered from the room.

Duncan nodded in his direction. “I really appreciated that you stopped by.”

“Don't mention it,” she said, knowing she'd have to own up to what she'd done to Mattie by taking him out on the pier. “Your little guy is awfully special.”

Graham gave her a queer sort of look. Like she was harder to crack than the
New York Times
Sunday crossword. Then his eyes softened, doing serious damage to her resolve to never fall for anyone again.

He came over to put the pot on to boil and in the process spoke quietly only to her. “Thank you for helping my family while I was away.”

There was no suggestiveness in his voice, but her deprived body responded anyway. She melted like snow set before the fire. Then she hid her feelings by stirring the sautéed veggies into the sauce a little more fervently than need be.

Deydie came in through the back door. “Duncan, you look as ragged as my aunt Aggie's quilt, and she's been dead fifty years. Is dinner ready yet?”

“Go sit yourself down and we'll call you when it's done,” Graham commanded.

Deydie paraded from the room, speaking over her
shoulder as she went. “I'll do it because I want to and not because ye're telling me to. I'll be in the media room with me feet up.”