Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (3 page)

“Tell me something I don’t know.” With the smile of a fox, she turned on her heel and strode off.

Rubbing his chin, Callum considered what she’d disclosed with growing excitement. As the representative for Caithness in the House of Commons, Sinclair was an important and powerful politician. He also was a total party puppet who routinely ignored his constituents while committing flagrant adultery. In addition to being a conservative who opposed independence—bad enough on its own, Sinclair was a descendant of the ruthless bastards who stole Castle Barrogill, killed Callum’s son, and drove his first wife to suicide.

Casting the long-past offenses aside, he said to his friend, “Can you have a candidate ready to run in time, do you think?”

“To be sure. In fact, I’ve already got one in mind.”

Intrigued, Callum arched an eyebrow. “Are you at liberty to divulge the name?”

“Aye.” Duncan gave him a cock-sure grin. “Lord Lyon, the Baron of Duncansby.”

Callum sputtered in surprise. “What? Me? Are you mad?”

Duncan’s earnest blue gaze held his like a lock. “I’m perfectly sane—and perfectly serious—I assure you.”

“But…I prefer to pull strings from behind the scenes, as you well know.”

Duncan’s grin gained confidence. “Your party needs you, man. As does your country. So, I’m afraid the time has come for the Great and Powerful Oz to step out from behind the curtain.”

The room was emptying, but there was still a tangle of people by the door. Callum scanned the cluster for long dark hair and a willowy figure in a black pantsuit. When he saw none of those things, a sick frightened feeling took him over.

Duncan touched his arm. “Callum? Are you all right?”

He wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Though he wasn’t sure whether it was the lass leaving or Duncan’s unexpected suggestion that had thrown him off-kilter. He dragged his hand down his face. “I’m fine. Just knackered is all.”

“I’m sorry about the lass.” Duncan checked his wristwatch as he rose from the table. “I guess it just wasn’t in the stars. But come on. After a good meal, a few drinks, and a bit of verbal sparring, I’m certain you’ll feel better.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Callum said, even though he wasn’t. He should be relieved not to have to juggle a conquest and Duncan’s friends, but instead, he felt like a man who’d lost a sizable investment in what promised to be a sure thing.

* * * *

“Why did you disappear on me?”

Vanessa’s heart jumped at the sound of the deep and dreamy Scottish burr she recognized as Callum Lyon’s. As she pivoted on her barstool, her knees grazed his thighs, shooting a thrilling dart straight to her sex. Taking a breath, she drank him in like an expensive specialty cocktail with more alcohol than was good for her. His long golden hair was pulled back, giving her a clear view of his chiseled features, tempting mouth, and dazzling topaz eyes.

She didn’t normally care for beards, but his neatly trimmed one lent a sexy ruggedness to his Adonis-like appearance. He still wore the well-cut suit from earlier, but had shed the tie and opened the collar of his crisp white shirt. A tuft of golden hair peeked over the top button—a welcome teaser. She might not like beards, but she did appreciate a light dusting of manly chest hair.

There was such power in his presence he almost seemed to glow with an inner light. His closeness, mixed with the booze in her system, was making her head spin. Forcing herself to concentrate, she said, “Let’s just say, I don’t like competition.”

Her excuse wasn’t completely false, but neither was it wholly accurate. The real truth was, she’d suffered a fit of conscience and lost her nerve. As much as she wanted to get inside his castle—and his trousers—she couldn’t stop thinking about what the medium had said. If he was indeed her Knight of Wands, sleeping with him would endanger the thing she valued even more than her career.

Her freedom.

“She wasn’t competition,” he said with a heart-stopping smile. “She was a reporter who had business with my friend.”

Vanessa looked around for Duncan Faol. “And where might your friend be now?”

“In the restaurant, having a heated debate with his pack.”

She blinked up at Lord Lyon, still reeling from his sudden appearance. “Why aren’t you with him?”

“Because I’d rather be here,” he replied in a sultry way that heated her blood.

She let her gaze run over him again. He had the leonine good looks characteristic of his sign. Did he also have the enormous ego, fierce temper, and suffocating possessiveness typical of those ruled by the sun? Probably. Not that it mattered. Whatever the cards might have intimated, she’d come to Scotland to find a vampire, not a husband.

She offered him her coolest smile. “Then have a seat, Lord Lyon. Unless you’re in a rush to get back to your party.”

Slipping onto the barstool with feline agility, he hailed the bartender—a dark-haired Scot named Robert who, for the past hour, had kept her glass full. She was staying at the inn and, sure she’d blown her first assignment, she’d stopped in for a nightcap both to take the sting out of her failure and to give her the courage to call Mr. Armstrong.

“What can I get for you, Lord Lyon?”

Clearly, the bartender knew the baron, or at least knew who he was. She now was glad she’d resisted the urge to question him about the Vampire of Barrogill. If he let it slip she’d been asking about Lord Lyon’s castle, he would give away her intention and ruin the second chance she’d been given.

She still couldn’t believe her good fortune. She thought she’d blown it and now, here he was, as if by magic…or fate…or maybe just coincidence. Not that she believed in coincidences. For better or worse, they were destined to meet. Unfortunately, she’d had one too many single-malts to carry out her plan, even if she could charm him into taking her to his castle.

“A dram of Oban—neat,” the baron replied, “and another of whatever the lady is having.”

Vanessa almost said no, but then changed her mind. She’d accept the drink to avoid giving offense, but would leave it untouched. Barrogill, according to her research, was in the middle of nowhere. If she went home with him, she’d better have her wits about her.

Lord Lyon turned to her with a devastating smile. “Do you have a name, lass?”

“Yes, of course.” She offered him a smile along with her hand. “I’m Vanessa. Vanessa Meadows.”

He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he lifted it to his lips. Flames of lust crackled in her abdomen as he pressed a kiss to the back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Meadows. What brings you to John o’Groats?”

Luckily, she’d had the foresight to invent a cover story. “I was on my way to Orkney to join a Green Peace protest against arctic drilling when I happened to see you were lecturing this evening—a lucky coincidence, given my interest in astrology.”

“Very lucky. For both of us.”

Vanessa gave him her most charming smile. Given the acrobatics of his speech, she couldn’t help wondering what other feats his tongue might perform for her benefit.

The smoky look in his topaz eyes threw tinder on the blaze in her loins, burning away her lingering guilt about sleeping with him. Fortunately, her shrewdness was more flame-retardant. If she invited him up to her room, he’d have no reason to take her to Barrogill. Yes, she could try to finagle her way in, but, being a Leo and a player, he would probably find pushiness in a potential lover as unattractive as she did.

No, if she wanted to keep his interest, she’d have to use her knowledge of astrology to gain the upper hand in this little dance of seduction—by letting him take the lead. Leos, being lions, were proud hunters with fiery passions and romantic sensibilities. In other words, Leo men liked to do the chasing, usually with all the hearts-and-flowers schmaltz.

They also liked to be stroked and, if crossed, could instantly turn from purring pussycats into roaring beasts. At the first sign a woman wanted to rule him, a Leo man beat a hasty retreat back to his den. If, therefore, she wanted this sexy jungle cat eating out of her hand, she’d have to play hard to get.

“When is the protest?” he asked, recalling her attention.

“This weekend.”

A roguish gleam came into his eyes. “Really? Well…what are you planning to do until then?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, spinning her web. “I thought I might have a look around the area. I flew into Wick, and the scenery I observed on the way up here was breathtaking.”

“Aye. That it is. Would you like someone to show you around?”

She fluttered her lashes. “Are you offering?”

“I might be…depending.”

“Depending on what?” she asked, brow furrowed.

As he sipped his drink, his gaze spread over her like honey, leaving sweet warmth behind. “What you’re looking for.”

She smiled, ready to set the trap. “I’m looking for a hot Scot to have fun with. Even better if he owns a castle and a kilt.”

“You’re in luck, then. Because I own both.”

“Really? Cool. What’s it like to live in a castle?”

“Like most things, it has its ups and downs.”

The Tower from her tarot reading flashed through her mind. The image showed a man and a woman falling headlong from a burning barbican. “Tell me about this castle of yours. Does it have a tower?”

“Aye.”

“Where is it?” She sipped her drink, pretending ignorance. “And what’s it called?”

“It’s up near Easter Head, and it’s called Barrogill, which translates roughly as ‘fortress in a ravine.’”

She smiled at him coquettishly. “Do you ever take your conquests there?”

He shook his head, clearly fighting to suppress a smile.

“Why not?

Lowering his gaze to his drink, he began to play with the glass. “Because I value my privacy too much.”

“That’s too bad…because I’ve never been inside a castle before.”

“Aye, well. We might be able to work something out.”

“Really?” She beamed at him. “That would be awesome.”

Vanessa had never been on this side of a pick-up before and didn’t like it much. Men pursued her; she didn’t pursue them, and trying to walk the line between showing interest and coming on too strong was like walking a tightrope without a net underneath.

Tapping his glass to let the bartender know he was ready for a refill, the baron offered her a disarming smile. “At the risk of sounding like I’m handing you a line, what sign might you be?”

“I’m Aquarius…but with Leo rising.” A grin played on her mouth. “Which makes me a paradox.”

“As well as a wide-eyed idealist who can’t bear to be tied down,” he said, eyes glittering. “A butterfly flitting from flower to flower, never settling on any for long.”

She furrowed her brow. “I don’t flit, Lord Lyon. But otherwise, you’re spot on.” She bent to sip her drink, keeping her eyes on him. “What about you? You’re a Leo, obviously, but what’s your ascendant?”

“Also Leo.”

She nearly choked. “Good God. You’re a double Leo?”

“Aye, and it behooves me to warn you we double Leos are ruthless romantics, a dangerous prospect for a free-spirited butterfly such as yourself.”

“Ruthless?” She gulped. “In what way?”

The barkeep had poured the baron another drink. Raising it to his mouth, he took a sip before licking his lips in a most discomposing manner. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

She held his stare with a defiant gleam. “Go on. I dare you to say something to sweep me off my feet.”

He gazed at her intently for several thrilling moments, then said, “I’m fire and you’re air…and fire needs air, to breathe and to burn.”

Though impressed, she wasn’t about to let on. “That’s not half bad, but I’m not quite bowled over.”

He laughed and sipped his drink. “Aye, well. It’s your loss.”

She pursed her lips. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

He tilted his forehead down to rest against hers. His skin, his whole being radiated sex. Closing her eyes, she soaked his essence in, along with his alluring aroma. Whisky, a pleasant herbal fragrance, and sultry manliness. Without planning to, she pressed her mouth to his. To her delight, he not only kissed her back, he also parted his lips and gave her his tongue. She brushed his with hers, but only for a transitory moment.

“Are you staying here at the inn?” he asked.

“Um-hmm,” she murmured against his lips. “Would you like to see my room? It’s got a nice, big bed.”

Oh, shit. She hadn’t meant to say that. Now what?

“I want more than one night,
mo dearbadan-de
.”

Pulling away, she scowled at him. “What did you just call me?”

“My butterfly, in Gaelic.”

“Oh.” Her resistance melted away until she remembered what else he’d said. “You want more? How much more?”

“All three days you’re in Caithness.”

Seeing her chance, she asked with a smile, “Can I stay at your castle?”

He answered with a devastating smile of his own. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Yes! She was in. “What are we going to do together for three whole days?”