The Highlander Next Door (16 page)

Damn, she really needed to get some sleep, because she was in for a really busy day tomorrow. The first thing she would have to do was explain to her insurance company why she’d totaled a second car in only two months, then start shopping for a new one. But she was buying a truck this time; something big and heavy enough to ram back anyone trying to run her off the road. Yeah, a four-wheel-drive like Niall’s, only red.

She also had to replace her laptop and cell phone and all the important stuff in her purse. But maybe she could ask her mother to help with that, which should keep Hazel too busy to continue fussing and worrying over her.

Oh, she forgot; her mother already had a job. Birch didn’t know if she should feel sorry for Niall and his two new officers, or if she should warn them what they were in for. Because despite this being the first legitimate job Hazel Callahan had ever had, the woman could be downright scary when she was on a mission.

Used to watching her mother trying to save the world one charitable project at a time, Birch had immediately recognized the growing spark in Hazel’s eyes this morning as Peg had talked about Niall’s lack of funding for a desperately needed secretary. Birch had said yes before her mother had even finished trying to guilt her into letting her volunteer for the job—partly because she
did
feel guilty for dragging the woman away from all that was familiar to her, but also because she thought Niall deserved Hazel Callahan on a mission.

But then the jerk had gone and saved her butt—and likely her life—again.

So he might be easily offended, but he apparently didn’t hold grudges.

Birch really didn’t know what to make of Niall, because he didn’t seem to fit her notion of a cop. Not only was he big and strong and handsome, he definitely knew how to impress a girl by crumbling castle walls and galloping to the rescue on plow horses. He also didn’t seem to mind dangling off high places to save someone—although that more or less was expected of anyone who wore a badge.

Realizing she was actually smiling, Birch decided that instead of reliving her accident she should focus on her growing attraction to Niall MacKeage. Because even though her heart was still racing, it had changed to a shivery thump of anticipation.

Yeah; she definitely preferred this train of thought.

But once again, where to begin?

Well, she could start by revisiting last night’s plan to have an affair with him. Because really, what better way to work off lingering terror than to have mindless sex with all that amazing muscle? She
had
spent over an hour in the bathroom shaving her legs and doing her hair and making sure she smelled nice, so why not sneak across the yard, knock on Niall’s door, and ask if he might have a powerful desire to do more than just kiss her?

Seriously—it couldn’t be any crazier than talking to a tree.

It could be embarrassing if he turned her down, though, seeing how they saw each other every day. But when Titus Oceanus had come upon her walking Mimi on the beach before she’d left for Turtleback this morning, Birch had gotten the impression the man also thought Niall was attracted to her.

After thanking her for returning his wife’s barrette, which Rana had apparently lost while horseback riding on the other side of Bottomless, Titus had then asked Birch to describe her feathered visitor. Birch had told him that even though she’d always assumed seagulls were the only birds bold enough to approach a human holding food, she had questioned this particular bird’s sharp yellow eyes and pointy beak. But she knew some species of gulls were that large and had motley brown and white feathers.

Titus, obviously fighting a grin, had told Birch he suspected her visitor had been an immature bald eagle; likely a juvenile that considered a shiny object might be fair exchange for the pie she was holding.

Mon Dieu
, had the man been hiding in the woods watching her talking to a bird? “Do eagles fly at night?” she’d asked to cover her embarrassment.

“Not usually,” he’d said with a shrug. “But then, most juveniles—animal
and
human—often take crazy risks for the simple thrill of feeling alive. Especially,” he’d added with a wink, “if a beautiful woman is involved.”

Birch was afraid she’d actually given a derisive snort, since Titus had arched a brow at her from his towering height, even as she’d recalled the Oceanuses were rumored to be royalty—though hopefully not the King and Queen of
Nowhere
. Titus had then praised Birch for her role in rescuing the Vaughn women, smoothly segueing into how fortuitous it was that they had such a strong, intelligent Scotsman for a police chief.

Birch had smiled and nodded—adding little murmurs of agreement when appropriate—as Titus had gone on and on about Chief MacKeage’s many fine qualities, even as she’d wondered what dirt Niall had on him. Because no man she’d ever met, especially not one reputed to be richer than God, talked up another man to a woman unless someone was holding a gun to his head.

Birch had never been so happy to hear her cell phone alarm go off, allowing her to slowly back away as she’d explained she didn’t want to be late for her luncheon with the Turtleback high school teachers.

“If I might be so bold as to suggest,” Titus had called out, halting her sprint up the lawn. “You might find that embracing the ups and downs of your journey, Miss Callahan, is far less annoying than trying to control them.”

Having absolutely no idea how to respond, since she had no idea what he was talking about, she’d merely waved and headed off again to the sound of the man’s soft laughter.

Blinking in surprise to find she was sitting on the couch instead of walking up from the beach, Birch decided having an affair with Niall might be an easy journey to embrace.

So what to do? she wondered, drumming her fingers on the couch.

What to do . . .

Well, she could head across the yard and see if she couldn’t
do
the highlander.

Birch stood up and headed to her downstairs bedroom before she could change her mind or lose her nerve, pulling the ratty old T-shirt she’d stolen from her father off over her head and tossing it on her bed on her way by. She then ran a critical eye over her body as she stood in front of her bureau mirror and hoped to God towering mountains of testosterone liked short women with small, perky boobs, petite nipples, and . . . oh, who was she kidding, even her freckles were so small they were almost invisible.

Still, she considered her figure
proportionately
perfect.

Birch opened the bottom drawer of her bureau, pulled out the nightgown she’d bought for Mr. Four Freaking Children and slipped it on, only to frown at her reflection as the satin material slithered down her petite curves. Deciding the gown more or less said
seducer of dorks
, she pulled it off and dug in the drawer again, then held up a semitransparent little number she’d bought to shut up her mother about her nonexistent love life. She tossed it toward the bed with a snort. “Definitely don’t want to knock on his door wearing something that screams
slut on the hunt
.” The flannel granny gown she pulled out next said
I’m having my period so leave me alone
, and the baggy bottoms and oversized top . . . well, they basically said
I don’t freaking care
.

Birch finally came to the deep purple silk pajamas she usually saved for room-sharing at conferences or girls’ nights watching a movie at home with her mom. She held them up to her nose and sighed when she caught the hint of buttered popcorn, then slipped them on with a soft hum of pleasure. She unbuttoned the top button and turned up the collar, ran her fingers through her hair to give the curls a fluff, then studied her reflection. Not dowdy or off-putting and not the slightest hint of slut; this sleepwear said
Hi, I came over here wearing pajamas because I want to sleep in your amazingly muscled arms until I stop shaking inside
.

Yeah, the pajamas were feminine and sophisticated and modest while still being easily removable, their color made her eyes appear sort of lavender-ish, and they didn’t make her look like a woman who talked to trees and eagles.

In fact, she looked exactly like her perfectly
normal
self.

Heck, she would invite the woman in the mirror inside if she came knocking on her door at eleven o’clock at night, and if Niall MacKeage didn’t, then . . . well, she was writing his name in big bold letters at the top of her list of reasons she
should
hate men.

Niall had been staring up at his bedroom ceiling for over an hour now, wondering how to deal with the fact that someone might actually be trying to kill Birch, when he heard a soft knock on his door. He sat up and snapped on the bedside lamp, grabbed the pajama bottoms off the foot of the bed and put them on, then followed Shep’s wagging tail into the kitchen. He opened the door, not really surprised but definitely intrigued, to find Birch wearing a bathrobe and getting ready to knock again. In fact, it looked as if she’d been about to pound on it with her fist.

“Is there a problem at the shelter?”

Her eyes widened. “You sleep in pajama bottoms.”

“As opposed to?”

“Um, I thought you . . . I just always pictured . . .” She gathered her robe closed at the throat and aimed her gaze at his naked chest. “Everyone at the shelter is asleep.”

“Except you,” he said gently, the taut skin of her flushed face making him suspect she kept reliving the accident every time she closed her eyes. “Would talking about what happened today help?”

“Probably not,” she said on a sigh. “I just wanted to see if . . . I thought maybe you and I could . . .” She took a deep breath. “You didn’t kiss me. Today,” she clarified when he said nothing, “after you pulled me out of the car, you didn’t kiss me like you did after you broke us out of the Vaughns’ cellar.”

Niall made sure not to react when he finally realized why she was here. “I’m sorry; I didn’t think it would be appropriate, considering we had an audience.”

She dropped her gaze to his chest again, her blush kicking up another notch. “Oh. Yes. That makes sense. I guess it wouldn’t look good for the police chief to kiss a woman he’d just rescued in front of his new officers.” She took a step back. “Well, that answers my question. Sorry to have bothered you.”

Not only not suicidal but sure as hell not an idiot, either, Niall caught hold of her shoulders before she could turn away. “Are you sure about why you’re here, Birch?” he quietly asked. “Because I’m needing to hear ye come out and say it.”

He didn’t think she was going to, she was silent so long. But then she reached up and pressed a hand to the spot on his chest she was staring at. “I’m sure.” She looked up. “And just so you’ll be sure, I don’t want you to worry that I’m the clingy type. Our sleeping together doesn’t mean I’m going to text you every few hours or expect you to call me three times a day, and I’m definitely not looking to get married. Or pregnant,” she muttered, her gaze dropping back to his chest.

“Deal,” he said, sliding a hand under her knees and sweeping her off her feet, then kicking the door closed and heading for the bedroom.

“Wait, Shep’s outside,” she squeaked.

He stopped in his bedroom doorway. “You want an audience?”

“Ah . . . no.” She looked down at
her
chest. “You . . . you can wear a condom if you want, but you don’t have to worry about . . . I’m on birth control,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing again as she fingered the edge of her robe. “And I don’t have any contagious . . .” She sucked in a deep breath and gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”

“I have no way to judge, since you’re the first woman I’ve had knock on my door wearing pajamas.”

That got him a snort. “You intend to stand here holding me all night or are we—oh!” she gasped. “Your bedroom is nearly wall-to-wall bed.”

“It’s a small room and a big bed. Are ye
certain
you’re sure, Birch?”

That got him another smile, this one showing a hint of spitfire. “I guess that would depend,” she murmured, twining her arms around his neck. “Have you had all your shots?”

Assuming that was a rhetorical question, since she kissed him before he could respond, Niall decided it might be wise to let her be in charge. Miss Callahan not only appeared to know what she was doing, she also seemed to know exactly what she wanted—which, for tonight at least, appeared to be him.

She was attacking his mouth much the way she’d attacked the pie down on the beach. Hell, she even started making the same little noises as she deepened the kiss, and he didn’t know if he should get up to speed or try to slow her down.

Deciding he’d figure it out as he went along, Niall took a step forward and bent to set her on the bed, only to have her arms tighten so she wouldn’t lose contact with his mouth as she pulled him down with her. He hadn’t even finished landing when she rolled away with a husky laugh, then immediately moved to sit straddling him.

Okay then; apparently he wasn’t
letting
her anything—she was
taking
charge.

“You don’t have a problem with leaving the light on, do you?” she asked as she undid the belt on her robe. “I like . . . looking.”

“Nay,” he somehow managed
not
to growl when the movement of her shrugging out of the robe sent a couple liters of blood straight to his groin—specifically to where her womanhood was intimately rubbing against him.

Her hands stilled on the buttons of her pajama top, her eyes suddenly uncertain. “You . . . ah, you’re not a breast man, are you?” she whispered.

Her vulnerability caught him by surprise, but not enough to throw him off stride. “Aye,” he said quietly, sitting up and gently clasping her head. “I like breasts. And legs. Pretty little backsides shaped for a man’s hand. Lips. Necks. The translucent skin covering the pulse on a woman’s wrist. Big eyes that can be scolding one minute and filled with passion the next. But mostly,” he whispered with his mouth nearly touching hers, “I like a brain that knows what it wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.” He looked directly into her no-longer-uncertain eyes. “But I especially like when it comes packaged in a body just like the one you happen to have.”

And that put that worry to bed, apparently, because Niall found himself flat on his back again,
his
brain telling his heart to ramp up that blood flow when those lips he’d told her he liked slowly started working their way down his neck to his chest—stopping to visit each of his nipples—then continued over his ribs and stomach, not stopping until they reached the waist of his pajamas.

She sat up straddling his thighs instead of groin this time, and Niall knew he was in trouble when she smiled—not at him, at his body—and simply pulled her top off over her head. But the lass bent again before he could see anything interesting as she scooted even farther down his legs—taking his pajamas with her.

Niall’s last coherent thought before her warm, sexy mouth closed over him was that Greylen, Jack Stone, Duncan, Matt Gregor—
somebody
—could have warned him that twenty-first-century women definitely weren’t shrinking violets in the bedroom.

Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if
he
learned a few things tonight.