Lethal in a Kilt (Hot Scots Book 7) Read online

  I dropped onto a sofa and propped my feet on the table in front of it, but Serena gingerly lowered herself onto a chair, gripping the armrests and clamping her teeth over both her lips. Her gaze flitted here, there, and everywhere.

  "Something wrong?" I asked as I linked my hands behind my head.

  "No..." She hugged herself, one foot tapping furiously.

  I should've enjoyed watching her, enjoyed the view of her delectable body swathed in pale-pink trousers that hugged her thighs and a blouse that clung to her torso, not to mention the bra that cradled her breasts, the ones I'd often fantasized about licking and nibbling and squeezing. I couldn't enjoy any of it, though, not with the anxiety evident on her face and in her posture.

  "Are you a nervous flyer?" I asked. "You've flown to Scotland several times, so I assumed you were a seasoned veteran."

  "Doesn't matter how many times I fly, I'm always like this for takeoff and landing." She glanced out the window. "Once we're in the air, I'll be okay."

  "But until then, you'll be a mess? That's not acceptable. I won't watch you squirm until the jet reaches altitude."

  She flashed me a scowl. "So sorry I'm ruining your flight experience."

  That wasn't what I'd meant, but I decided not to argue with a woman in distress. Her anxiety bothered me more than it should have. I'd traveled with nervous flyers before, but I'd never suffered an overpowering need to ease their anxiety. I should let her deal with it on her own.

  I couldn't.

  "All right," I said, getting up. "I'm coming."

  "You're what?" Wide-eyed, she tracked my movements as I headed toward her. "What are you going to do? Hit me over the head? Or give me the Vulcan death grip?"

  I chuckled, kneeling in front of her. "Vulcan death grip? It's a myth. Spock invented it to trick the Romulans into believing Kirk was dead. I think you meant the Vulcan nerve pinch, which knocks you out."

  Serena stared at me. "You're a Star Trek fan?"

  "Oh, aye. My mother loves it, so we grew up watching the show. I've seen dubbed versions of it in several countries, but you haven't lived until you've heard it in Russian."

  "I—" Her brows cinched together, making a wee crinkle above her nose. "You are the most confusing man I've ever met."

  "Because I like Star Trek?"

  She chewed the inside of her lip. "Because every time I think I've got you figured out, you throw some new surprise at me."

  The engines started up, and the jet rolled across the tarmac toward the runway.

  Her fingers clenched the armrests hard enough to turn the knuckles white. She glanced from window to window while gnawing on her lower lip.

  I pried her fingers away from the armrests and clasped her hands. "Easy, gràidh. Look at me, not the windows. Come on, Serena, look at me."

  She swiveled her gaze to mine.

  "Tell me how you met Keely," I said. "You've known each other for a long time, haven't you?"

  "Are you shitting me? You want to hear my life story when we're about to d—" She froze when the engines revved up, their high-pitched whine growing louder as the jet's speed increased. "Can't talk."

  "On to Plan B."

  "Plan what?" Her voice had become a high-pitched whisper.

  "Donnae worry, I always have at least three backup plans."

  I lunged up to mash my lips to hers, thrusting my tongue deep without waiting for her to give me a tacit invitation to ravish her mouth. She could barely speak, much less focus on what I was doing. Not yet, anyway. I slid a hand behind her nape to tip her head back a touch, so I could forge deeper into her mouth. She tasted like sweet coffee and cherries. I scraped my tongue over hers, tickled the roof of her mouth with the tip, groaned when she began to respond with ravenous swipes of her own tongue.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I noticed we had lifted off the runway.

  Not that takeoff stopped me. I'd meant to kiss her only enough to short-circuit her anxiety, but I couldn't stop. Her velvety tongue demanded a response, and I gave it, relishing the odd combination of flavors in her mouth and the pinch of her teeth nipping my bottom lip.

  My wits reassembled themselves about the time my cock roused.

  I sat back on my heels, the taste of her lingering on my tongue. "You'll be fine now."

  Serena gazed at me, her eyes glossy with desire. "Huh?"

  "We're in the air." I patted her thigh. "You survived."

  The lass blinked several times until she'd regained her senses, then slapped my arm. "That was a dirty trick."

  "No trick. I distracted you."

  She puckered her lips, but then sighed and slumped into her chair. "Thank you. I guess."

  "You're welcome. I guess." I ran my tongue over my lips. "What did you have for breakfast? I tasted cherries and coffee."

  "I ate a light breakfast."

  "Of what?"

  She screwed up her mouth. "Cherry Pop Tarts."

  I stifled a laugh. "What will you have for lunch? M&Ms?"

  "No," she said, sticking her tongue out. "For your information, I was in a hurry this morning. Besides, Pop Tarts have vitamins and stuff in them."

  "You should try a hearty Scottish breakfast. Now that's a meal to get you ready for the day ahead. What you had at brunch on Saturday was only a sampling."

  "Oh no, I've heard about the full Scottish breakfast." She wrinkled her nose. "It involves sausage made from pig's blood."

  "If I feed you blood sausage, you'll be able to call me disgusting again. I know how you enjoy that."

  She hadn't called me disgusting, or any of its synonyms, in quite a while. How strange.

  Giving her thigh one more pat, I returned to the sofa. Ankles crossed on the table, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. A wee nap sounded good.

  "May I sit here?"

  I opened my eyes to find Serena standing at the other end of the sofa while pointing at it.

  "You don't need my permission," I said. "Sit on the sofa, sit on the floor, stand on your head, whatever you like."

  She settled her bonnie erse onto the sofa and clasped her hands on her lap. "I thought we should have a conversation."

  "We had one a minute ago."

  "I mean a real conversation."

  Groaning, I shut my eyes again. "When a woman wants to have a real conversation, it means we'll be discussing feelings and all that barmy nonsense."

  "It's not crazy to talk about feelings." She cleared her throat. "Isla paid me a visit last night. After talking to her, I realized I'd like to know more about you."

  Opening one eye, I peered at her. "Why?"

  "I guess being suspicious comes with being a spy, hey?" She shimmied her bottom, inching backward until her back met the sofa. "I want to understand you. We can at least try to be friends."

  I glanced at her with both eyes this time. "Friends? We've had sex twice. I don't become mates with women I've fucked."

  "Friendship is a starting point."

  "What exactly are we starting?"

  She huffed, slapping her palms on her thighs. "For heaven's sake, Logan, I'm trying to be nice. Naturally, you have to turn friendliness into a capital crime. I want to get to know you, that's all."

  "You don't want to know me better, lass." I closed my eyes again. "Trust me on that."

  "Do I have to smack you to get a straight answer?"

  I bit back a Gaelic curse. "Why don't you get to know the pilots better? I'm sure they'd love to have a beautiful woman haranguing them."

  The sound of her clothes rustling told me she was moving around, but I had no illusions she would go to the cockpit to have a blether with the pilots or that she would leave me alone. The scent of her drifted to me, infiltrating my senses. She smelled of powder and flowers and indefinable womanly things. Christ, how could she smell like pure woman but taste like Pop Tarts?

  And why did that make me want to bend her over the table and shag her until she screamed?


  "I'm not going away," she said in a sing-song voice. "I have a teenage son, so you'll have to do a lot better than surly and childish to run me off."

  "Childish?"

  "Playing possum is juvenile, at the toddler level."

  I had no bloody idea what she was talking about, so I looked at her. "Since I've never seen a possum, I can't pretend to be one."

  "Playing possum means you're pretending to be asleep."

  "Give me one minute of silence and I won't be pretending."

  "Logan."

  "Mhac na galla. Why don't you go back to calling me disgusting and storming out of the room?"

  She half turned toward me, her fingers tapping on her legs. "It's been suggested to me that I've been a bitch to you because I'm afraid I might like you. A little bit. Not hate you, at least."

  Realizing I couldn't get out of this unwanted conversation, I rubbed my eyes and sat up straighter. "Keely told you that, I imagine. Evan and his wife have become the worst meddlers on any continent."

  "It wouldn't actually kill you to be honest with me."

  "You want honesty? I'm not the relationship sort, much less the marrying sort. In fact, I am the last man on earth any parent would want their daughter to get involved with."

  "Please. You are not the worst man on earth. I can think of three or four who are worse."

  I arched one brow. "Three or four? You aren't very good at comforting me."

  "Do you want me to comfort you?"

  Why had I said that? I hadn't needed or wanted anyone to comfort me in years, not since I was a starry-eyed lad who still believed in happy endings.

  Serena tucked one leg under the other. "Isla mentioned you were in the military."

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  I shrugged and rubbed my neck.

  She made a disgusted noise. "Trying to have a conversation with you is like talking to a fish."

  "Fish don't speak."

  "Exactly." She faced forward, drumming her fingers on her thighs. "You are the most infuriating man on the planet. If I knew how to hire a hitman, I'd have you whacked."

  "Come on, lass. If you want me dead, at least do me the courtesy of whacking me yourself."

  She growled. Loudly.

  Making her angry seemed like the only way to stop her from asking questions I didn't want to answer. Maybe I should have told her anything she wanted to know, but I couldn't. If Serena found out about the things I'd done, the men I'd killed, she wouldn't want me anymore.

  Why did that matter? I wasn't the man for her anyway.

  "You need to talk to me, Logan."

  "Only if I want a relationship with you, which I don't." I turned sideways, resting my arm on the sofa's back. "Let's join the mile-high club."

  She snorted. "You already blew any chance you had to get in my pants when you refused to talk to me."

  "I don't need to share my past with you when all I want is to fuck you on every surface in this jet, starting with the table." I leaned over to skim a hand along the table's glossy surface. "Your scent and your cream will be all over this."

  Her cheeks had turned pink, and her pupils had enlarged. But instead of admitting what I'd said made her randy, she curled her lip at me. "I was right the first time we met. You are the most disgusting man on earth."

  She slapped me. Hard.

  I chuckled, though even I noted the dark edge to it. "You're finally catching on. I'm a right bastard, and I always will be."

  Serena stalked down the aisle to the chair farthest from me, one that faced the opposite direction, and flumped onto it.

  I had a view of the back of the top of her head.

  Maybe I had gone too far in making her angry. She'd thank me for it later, when she finally gave up her fantasy that I might be a decent bloke underneath the surface. I was sparing her from making an enormous mistake. Getting friendly with me would bring her nothing but misery. A woman like Serena Carpenter deserved a good man.

  No one with a past like mine ever got a happy ending.

  Seducing her was out of the question. Leave the lass alone, that's what I needed to do. Leave her alone and hope she gave up on her fantasy of who she wished I was.

  I stretched out on the sofa and tried to sleep, but I only ended up playing possum.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Serena

  Logan and I did not speak for the rest of the flight, or on our way to the hotel, or in the hotel. He walked me to my room—since it was next door to his, that wasn't much of a sacrifice—and then retreated into his own room. Our rooms turned out to be adjacent suites. He said precisely five words to me: "See you in one hour." That was all I'd gotten from him since the moment I'd slapped him.

  Why had I let him goad me into getting mad?

  Nobody knew how to push my buttons the way he did. Ticking me off hadn't been that hard for him to do, but I couldn't fathom why I'd let his taunts get to me. I didn't want a relationship with him. Did I? No, of course not. Logan didn't want that either. I never should have listened to Keely and let myself believe for even a moment that Logan and I could be anything other than casual lovers.

  I couldn't do that anymore. Sex with him confused me even more than his evasions did. I needed a clear head to get through three days with James Bond MacTaggart. If I could avoid him during the daytime, I could slip away to my suite and order room service in the evening. No need to leave my room. No need to see Logan.

  First, I had to survive an afternoon with him.

  But I had a plan for that.

  An hour after he'd skulked off to his suite, Logan knocked on my door.

  "The conference is starting," he said. "We need to check in."

  He turned on his heels and stalked toward the elevators.

  I grabbed my purse and spiral notebook, then hurried after him.

  Logan did not speak another word while we exited the hotel or during our cab ride to the conference center. It was two blocks away, and I would've liked the fresh air and exercise of walking there, but I decided not to argue with him anymore today. We registered at the conference and sat through the introductory boringness, all without speaking to each other. I kept glancing at him, but he acted as if I weren't there.

  His behavior might have indicated he was still angry about our argument on the plane, but I didn't really believe that was the case. I had the strangest feeling he was ashamed for some reason. I couldn't explain why I thought that. Something in his demeanor, something in his eyes, something intangible and indescribable. He'd transformed into an ass when I asked about his military service. Rob hadn't liked to talk about his tours in Iraq, so I wondered if Logan had served in a war zone too.

  I wouldn't find out today.

  Logan took me back to the hotel and scurried into his room without so much as saying good night, leaving me to order room service and ponder the mystery that was him. I'd wanted to get away from the man, to hide in my suite and avoid him as much as possible. Now that he'd made the decision for me, I felt weird about it. Three times I picked up the phone in my suite and started to dial the number for his, only to hang up before I finished punching in the digits. Several times I grabbed my cell phone and almost texted him. After that, I tried to sleep.

  At two a.m., I finally gave up and resorted to flipping through the TV channels. Since it was the middle of the night, I came across a dirty late-night cable movie. Watching naked people getting it on made me think about Logan, which made my eyes burn for some strange reason, so I switched to a nature documentary. Lions chasing down cute little gazelles didn't bother me half as much as thinking about Logan naked.

  Not that I had any idea what he looked like in the buff. But I had a vivid imagination.

  I fell asleep at some point but didn't realize it until three confident knocks on the door roused me. Groggy and cotton mouthed, I crawled out of my enormous, very comfy bed and stumbled to the door. When I pulled it open a few inches,
Logan smirked.

  "Still sleeping at eight o'clock?" he asked. "You can't blame jet lag with a one-hour time difference."

  "Didn't sleep well, like that's any of your business." I rubbed my eyes and blinked until at least I could see him clearly. As for thinking clearly, I hadn't achieved that level of wakefulness yet. "Why are you here?"

  "The conference starts at nine. It's eight o'clock."

  "What?" I flung the door wide open, spinning around like I could summon more brainpower with kinetic energy. "Shit. I have to shower and—"

  I froze when I caught sight of Logan.

  He was staring at me. At my body. At the skimpy nightie I wore.

  "Better hurry," he said, running a hand up and down his clean-shaven jaw while he continued ogling me. "I'll order breakfast while you get dressed."

  I ran to my suitcase and dragged it toward the bathroom.

  Logan rushed over and snatched the suitcase away from me, picking it up like it weighed nothing instead of the five thousand pounds I was sure it did weigh. He carried my suitcase into the bathroom, then strode over to the phone on the bedside table.

  "Thank you," I said.

  He mumbled something.

  I slammed the bathroom door shut and showered in record time. For my next amazing feat, I got dressed, put on makeup, and blow-dried and styled my hair, all in ten minutes flat. When I ambled out of the bathroom, I looked entirely presentable. Yeah, presentable was all I could manage this morning.

  Logan was sitting at the foot of the bed looking delicious, as always, in his gray suit with no tie.

  His gaze veered to me, and a slow smile warmed his expression. "You look as beautiful as ever."

  "Thanks. You look pretty damn good yourself."

  "Breakfast should be here any minute."

  I sat down at the foot of the bed a few feet from him. "I'm starving. Hope you ordered a good meal, and not one of those light, nutritious breakfasts that comes with green goo that's supposed to be a drink."

  "No goo." He angled toward me. "I ordered pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, and waffles with plenty of butter and syrup."

  For a couple seconds, I could do nothing but stare dumbly at him. Then I grinned and laughed. "You really do know how to please a woman."