Some Like It Scot (10 page)

She doubted Graham sported such a card in his wallet. He'd claimed to be the wealthiest of men, but not necessarily by count of the almighty dollar. Or British sterling, she supposed, in his case. Rather than be put off by the distinction, it drew her more fully into the circle of…whatever spell it was he was weaving around her. Perhaps he wasn't human at all, but some kind of Celtic faery.

If Celtic faeries came in the form of six-foot-plus rugged hunks in a kilt, it would explain a lot. And she'd be quite willing to believe if it got her own questionable sanity off the hook. But the idea that the man would go so far out of his way to act on the convictions of his beliefs to take care of his people was intensely attractive to her.

She had no business being attracted to anyone. Her wedding might have been a complete sham, but she still had a number of things to work out, before even thinking about someone else. But she
was
thinking of someone else. A very specific someone. Her eyes widened as she watched that someone shift ever-so-slightly closer. Like some invisible beam was pulling them toward each other, that neither had the power—or, okay, inclination—to resist. Was he really—did he think it was remotely appropriate to—she was wearing a wedding gown for God sake. Surely he didn't intend to—and she certainly wasn't prepared to allow him—

“Katie,” he said, with a fair bit of gravel to his tone, which only engraved that accent of his even more deeply into her psyche. If that's what she was calling it at the moment.

“Yes,” she whispered, as breathlessly as any helpless heroine who'd ever traipsed across a windswept moor toward her certain doom—and was perfectly happy to do so if it meant one last, swooning moment in the arms of the ruggedly handsome, but impossibly, untamable Scottish hero.

“Rest stop, just ahead.” The direct voice of the driver injected a cold shock of reality into the otherworld that the rear compartment in the limo had become. “Should I pull in?”

“Uh”—she cleared her throat, more than once—“yes,” she managed, sounding choked. “Please. Good idea.”

She would have tugged her hand free then—surely she would have—and damn the irrevocable consequences her fantasy-saturated brain had dreamed up. But his grip actually tightened and held her in place.

Just like that, she was back in the netherworld. Helplessly stranded on the moors, but not trying too awfully hard to look for an escape route.

“It's no' just me,” he said, a hint of earnest wonder in his tone. Possibly a bit of worry, as well. Maybe more than a bit. She chose to focus on the former.

“Is it?” he asked. “Ye do feel it?”

She could only stare, rooted to his gaze, his touch. He reached up then, and brushed his blunt fingertips softly across her cheek.

“Do ye, Katie?” he urged, sounding every bit as confused as she felt.

“I-I don't know what I feel,” she said, which was partly true. She felt like pressing her cheek against the work-roughened fingers stroking her soft skin. She felt like pulling the palm of his hand down and placing it over the hummingbird speed pulse of her heart.

He brushed his thumb across her lips, making her shudder as a sharper sensation of pleasure arrowed straight through her. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back as he pressed harder on the softest part of her lower lip, and clenched her thighs together against the sudden, very insistent ache that bloomed there.

The instant she shut her eyes, his finger still caressing her lip, she was suddenly, and very intensely assaulted with vivid images of two bodies, passionately entwined, limbs twisted in linen sheets, skin sheened with sweat, as the man—beautifully sculpted, perfectly naked—pistoned himself into the woman beneath him, her long, slender legs wrapped around his hips, blond hair spread out on the mattress beneath her.

That was no random mental scenario she was dreaming up. It was far too vivid, filled with sights, sounds, scents…happening right in front of her—except it was only in her mind, and not for real. Or was it? It felt real, sounded real…she wasn't making it up. It was as if the entire thing had been put directly into her brain, like a memory of something that had already happened, something she was simply recalling.

The man in her vision started to climax, arching his back, groaning, his voice so deep and guttural it made Katie gasp. When he rolled off the woman, Katie gasped again. The woman was her. The man was Graham. Only neither of them looked exactly…as they did. But it was her. And him. Only…different.

“Katie?”

She snapped her eyes open and the vision vanished.

Of course it did. And of course it had been her, with Graham. She'd been the one to think it up, hadn't she? It might not have felt that way in the moment, but maybe she was in some kind of subconscious denial of how badly she was wanting the man presently stroking her bottom lip.

And leaning his head closer, she realized, as her own eyes widened.

“You do feel it, then?” he said, his voice barely more than a dark whisper. “No' only me.”

The town car pulled off the interstate, and the slow swerve pitched Graham slightly forward, and her back. She realized their hands were still linked when he tightened his grip, pulling her forward to keep her from falling backwards. Only to lean her back slowly and follow her down.

She should be stopping him, squirming, pulling away, telling him to knock it off. She'd just been an almost married woman. But that was ridiculous. He'd been there. He knew the whole thing had been a sham.

Still…who made out in the back of a limo wearing the wedding dress bought for another man? Even if the man was just Blaine?

“Miss?” the driver's voice intruded. “We're here.”

“Graham—we shouldn't—”

He immediately pulled back and tugged her upright. “I'm sorry,” he said, steadying her, then abruptly letting go of her hand. “I—I dinnae know what came over me.”

“No, no, don't apologize. I…” She stopped before she said something even more foolish—like he shouldn't apologize because she'd wanted it every bit as much as he did.

He was still looking at her, but his expression, for once, was shuttered. “Was I alone in that moment? Be honest with me, Katie.”

Lie
, she told herself, knowing it was the wiser course. Even as she knew she couldn't. He'd asked her, several times, while she was having heart palpitations and sex dream visions, if he was the only one feeling it. He'd just wanted to know if she was feeling the same urge to kiss. Didn't he? Because it wasn't possible that he'd been experiencing the same out-of-body—but totally in body, her body!—sensation she had. Was it?

Some latent sense of self-protection finally, mercifully kicked in and she shook her head. “I don't know what that was. But I can't—we can't—it's…” She shook her head, then tucked her hands around her waist and hugged herself as she turned to look out the passenger window as the driver pulled alongside a low stone building. A rest stop. She was going to go into a gross, highway rest stop, in a twenty-thousand-dollar wedding dress. Her mother would die.

Of course, it had been her mother who'd ordered the dress that Katie'd never wanted in the first place. Her mother wasn't there, was she? Nor would she ever know what had happened in, to, or with the dress.

Feeling almost jubilantly emancipated by the very thought—and clearly clinging to any thought that had to do with the part of her life she fully understood…and not the inexplicable, hormone-laden insanity that was the present moment—she shoved the door open and slid her slippered foot out. Then looked back at Graham. “It's been a long day. I just need some time. To sort things out.”

“Of course,” he said, lifting his hand as if to dismiss the subject between them, his expression even more shuttered, if that was possible.

As she looked at him, it was difficult to believe just moments ago they'd shared…whatever the hell that had been.

As she reached over to haul the length of train up to her lap, so she could turn and slide the rest of the way out of the limo without tripping over it and face-planting on the pavement, he said, “I'm—I was simply curious. I won't speak of it again.”

His quietly spoken words pulled her right back in. She paused, and looked over her shoulder, but she didn't say anything. Frankly, because she wasn't sure what to say. That she'd touched him, felt some really weird connection to him, then closed her eyes and imagined them writhing naked in some big, ancient bed? Right. It was clear he was flummoxed by whatever was bothering him. But it was probably just guilt overcoming on to her after promising things would be just business between them. She was sure there was no way it could have anything to do with the same stress-induced, feverish sex scenario that had played out inside her own mind.

“I need to get inside to change,” she said, rather abruptly, but she had to do something. Anything. “So we don't miss our flight,” she added, though she was once again questioning what her best course of action should be. She'd been all decided on going with Graham. Only…maybe that wasn't the wisest move if she truly did want time and space to sort through things. Whatever their connection was or wasn't, one thing was clear: they were both feeling it. That could only spell one thing. Danger, danger.

“Do ye need any further assistance?” He gestured. “With the dress, or whatnot?”

She shook her head. “But—my suitcases are in the trunk. The outfit I was going to wear when we left the reception is back in the dressing room, so I'll need to dig something out to wear.” Another thought occurred to her. “My purse. My phone, cards, all of it, back in the dressing room.” She barked a short, humorless laugh. “Probably just as well. I do not need to see what kind of calls and messages are being left on my phone. I imagine the only thing still valid in my wallet is my driver's license—and that's only if Father hasn't figured out how to revoke that, too.” Her eyes widened further. “Crap. That means I don't have identification.”

“Passport?” Graham asked.

She had to stop and think for a moment, then sighed in relief. “With our travel documents, in the valise in the trunk. Oh, thank God.” It only took a moment for her to also realize that Blaine's passport was in that same valise, and his clothes were all neatly packed back there, too. Well, she could always send the limo back to the church. Or to the Sheffields' home. She doubted Blaine was going to need it right away.

“Good,” Graham said. When she started to slide out again, he added, “Just hold there for a moment.” He opened his door and got out, then came around…and lifted her straight out of the car into his arms. “No need to ruin the dress.”

There was a sudden burst of clapping from behind them. They turned to find a trio of college age coeds, grouped together by their SUV, cheering and clapping for them.

“That's so romantic!” one girl gushed.

Another threw a wink at Katie. “Your new husband is one hot Scot.”

The last of the three sighed and held her hand to her chest. “Your dress is stunning, and that outfit…” She fanned her face as she looked quite openly at Graham.

Who, Katie could see from her close vantage point, was actually blushing just a little. It surprised her when he gave them a brief smile and salute. “Thank you,” he said, then carried her around to the rear of the town car, and the trunk that had already been popped open.

“Oh my God!” one of the girls squealed. “Did you get a load of that accent?”

Katie didn't bother correcting their assumption either. It seemed easier to let it go. “You can put me down,” she said, so only he could hear. “I need to get in my suitcases.”

“And ruin the show?” His smile grew, but that bit of a blush was still there.

He let her slip to her feet, but took the train balled up in her arms from her. “Allow me.”

Embarrassed
, she thought,
but still gallant
. She could have told the coeds he was every bit as swoonable as they thought he was.

“Should we send the car back with your—with Mr. Sheffield's luggage?” he said, noting the number of bags arranged neatly inside the trunk.

“What?” she said, still distracted by him. “Oh.” She peered inside the trunk to point out which were hers. “Hmm. These are all mine. I guess Blaine's hadn't arrived yet.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't comment.

“I'm not as high maintenance as this would indicate,” she assured him. “If it were up to me, I'd go with a duffel bag and a backpack.”

“It was no' up to you? It was your honeymoon, was it no'?”

“No,” she said, “it was no'.” His brow lifted a bit at her mocking of his accent, but she smiled at him, and the amusement was immediately returned if the light in his eyes was any indication.
Thank goodness he has a sense of humor
, she thought. He could appear quite stoic, she realized, but that steady, focused exterior hid a very complex and thoughtful man. At least that's what she was coming to understand about him.

“It was a McAuley-Sheffield honeymoon—which was far more a European marketing campaign than any kind of celebration of a new marriage. Of course, the marriage was about the business anyway, so this was not exactly a surprise. But I'd have been expected to make at least several wardrobe changes a day, and I certainly wouldn't have been seen in the same thing twice.”

“Certainly,” he said, the deadpan undertone making her dart a look his way. He looked completely innocent. But when her own mouth quirked a little, that twinkle surfaced again.

She liked his quiet humor. And that he got it, but in such an understated way as to make it feel like something intimate and personal, shared only between them. She and Blaine had many such little private jokes and understandings between them, borne of a lifetime spent in close cahoots with each other.