Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 (10 page)

Julian held up one of his hands. “Fair enough. Subject dropped.”

The last thing he wanted to start discussing this morning was women. Women who caused him to lose sleep and precious practice time. Women with deep-seated impulses to lie and manipulate.

He got up and started pacing the waiting room, scanning the different plaids on the walls. Irina kept a swatch of every tartan she’d ever worked with, overlapping them until the entire space was almost completely wallpapered in them. Yellow, blue, green and red stripes of all colors filled the walls, a patchwork of history and tradition.

He fingered a deep red plaid crossed with a slate blue, the Wallace family tartan, the woven wool heavy and comforting. A man couldn’t wear the rough plaid and not be aware of every single movement, the weight of history wrapping around his waist and forcing his chest to swell with pride.

There was nothing like a kilt to set men to rights and women aflame.

It was the unofficial family motto, one that Julian had learned from his stepfather long before most boys knew what it meant to ignite a woman’s passions. It was one of the many things he’d loved about his mother’s husband. Bright, bold and sprouting hair from almost every inch of skin, Harold had been exactly what a shy, awkward, fatherless boy of ten had needed.

Harold had given Julian his first kilt that year, when he was still so young and far from convinced that there was anything about the colorful plaid that didn’t signal “kick me in the ribs until my internal organs bleed”. The fabric had hung down to Julian’s painfully knobby knees, the white shirt billowing around him and making him look like an elf in giant’s clothes.

“They’ll murder me,” Julian had whispered then, standing next to Harold, who was also in full dress and beaming with the pride of it all. Whereas Harold had looked as though he’d stepped right out of the Highlands, the big, hairy sporran hinting at the male prowess hidden underneath, Julian looked ridiculous. He was a little island boy who’d never seen the ocean, the result of an island girl’s one-night stand with a tall, handsome navy officer. His heritage was written in the planes of his face and the color of his skin, and until then he’d never been able to feel a physical connection to the warrior culture that had bred him.

Harold breathed might and power and confidence. With a tweak of Julian’s ears, which stuck out painfully far from his recent buzz-cut, his stepfather gave him the oldest and most paternal advice known to humankind.

“Man up and own it.” With a wink and a laugh, Harold had added, “Stand with your legs at least a hip’s width apart and keep that chin held high. Women will fall in your wake. I guarantee it.”

And they had.

That weekend, Julian’s first ever visit to the Scottish Highland Games, every single girl over the age of sixteen had fallen immediately to her knees, squeezing him with affection and declarations of “adorable!” All those breasts pressed against him were soft, pliable and warm—and they had changed him. It was one of those pivotal moments of boyhood when he realized there was much more to the world than backyard forts and bicycle races. There were boobs. And they were wonderful.

There was more too. Women dancing the fierce, practiced steps of the Highland Laddie became a line of bouncing parts. Hair, skirts, breasts. The men with veins outlined on their forearms and necks were fierce barbarians one moment, demonstrating superhuman might on the playing field, only to be transformed into regal idols fit for feminine adoration the next. Over the next few years, Julian came to learn the whole thing was one big, pulsating orgy waiting to happen.

The key to becoming a part of it was the kilt.

And when that kilt was paired with a unique coloring that added a hint of mystery and individuality, it only greased his entrance into this enticing, feral world.

He’d stolen his first kiss at a Scottish Highland festival. It had been a hasty, wet affair he’d known needed a little work. When he’d confessed the entire escapade, Harold patted him on the back and promised many more untold delights in the magical mystery that was woman.

God, he missed that man. He’d been gone six years, and Julian still didn’t know who was suffering the most—his mother, his two sisters or the little boy who occasionally peeked out from underneath his own rough exterior.

“If it isn’t my two favorite Scots,” the tailor called out, interrupting his reverie as she emerged from behind the dark curtain separating the storefront from her workspace. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Irina was tall, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, thin wire glasses seemingly stapled to a face that was composed almost entirely of angles. She was the kind of woman one would have expected to turn out impeccable suits that cost more than most people’s cars. She should have known nothing about kilts and everything about European design—but she could work a man in a skirt like no one else.

The client Irina had been attending emerged out from the curtain behind her. There was a slight swagger to his steps, and he carried an almost palpable aura of antagonism.

Julian stopped. He recognized that antagonism. He’d known Duke Kilroy as long as he’d known Peterson and Michael. They’d been something of a brat pack back then, four young men learning the ways of the Highlands—only Kilroy had failed to learn the most valuable lesson of all. Honor.

Julian forced the smile on his face to freeze there for as long as he could possibly hold it. “Kilroy,” he said, nodding.

Duke Kilroy’s own face was held in a mask of barely concealed hostility. “Wallace. What a pleasant surprise.”

Julian tensed. There was nothing pleasant about being caught in a confined space with that man.

“And Mrs. Wallace,” Kilroy called. He grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips and offering her a dazzling smile Julian knew worked well on women of all ages. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since last year’s Games. My mother had hoped to see you at her Christmas party this year. You couldn’t make it?”

His mother smiled politely but didn’t respond. Julian had to bite his tongue to accomplish the same level of outward calm.

All of them knew his mother hadn’t received an invitation to Kilroy Hall for this Christmas or any other holiday event. Duke and his family had made it patently clear over the years the Wallace family wasn’t quite up to their caliber—not even fit to wash the precious marble steps leading up to their twenty-acre estate.

Julian refused to look away from Kilroy’s cold blue eyes.
One more word.
Let the bastard say one more word against his family, and Julian would have him running faster than the French at wartime.

Irina, always cool and diplomatic, intervened. She brushed past Kilroy and focused her attention on Julian’s mother. “Well, are we fitting you for a sash today, Chika, or just your fine, strapping son in his kilt?”

His mother laughed and turned away from Kilroy, effectively dismissing him from her presence without another thought. She had power, his mother. She might be small and she might not have even a hundredth of the Kilroy wealth, but she had power.

“Oh, Irina. I couldn’t possibly. No one cares what the little old lady serving up the haggis wears.”

“Thank you, Duke. I’ll call you when your kilt is ready.” Irina’s voice was kind but firm as she ushered him to the front door. Not even Kilroy’s pig-headed crudity could keep him in a room against Irina’s iron will.

But of course, the man had to get the last word. “Looking forward to seeing you at the practice field, Wallace. It’s always such fun when you’re in town. You’re the only one who can come close to my record. But then, neither you or your dad was ever able to beat it, were you?”

As if Julian needed a reminder.

Kilroy had broken the record in the hammer throw—one hundred eighty-seven feet—back in his early twenties, outstripping Harold’s standing by a good twenty feet. Julian knew full well it was his responsibility to get the family title back. If not for Harold, then for himself. Losing to Kilroy—every single damn time—was excruciating.

It would have been easier to bear if Julian thought for a minute Kilroy cheated or manipulated the judging. But Kilroy just won. He was always a little bit stronger, a little bit more successful. And a complete and utter asshole in the bargain.

Even now, he refused to leave the shop. He lingered in the doorway like he had a God-given right to oversee everything Julian said or did.

“A word, if I might, Wallace?”

Julian scowled but followed Kilroy outside the shop. There was no use delaying it. Kilroy would track him down one way or another.

Kilroy leaned against the brick wall, his arms crossed. “It’s quite fortuitous we met like this. I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

“Good for you.”

“I thought maybe a beer or a few practice throws could get us on good terms again. We might be able to reach an accord, you and I.”

“I doubt it.”

“But you haven’t even given me a chance—always so hasty. Don’t you even want to hear my proposition?”

“Cut to the chase, will you?” Julian wasn’t in the mood to put up with Kilroy’s oiled jocularity.

“I always liked you, Wallace. Never a man of many words. Well, I’ll have out with it, then. I have twenty thousand dollars with your name on it.”

“Do you?” Julian didn’t allow a glimmer of emotion to cross his face, though his stomach flipped at the casualness with which Kilroy dropped the figure “How nice for both of us. I don’t suppose the bank considers it legal tender if you’ve defaced it, do they?”

“Oh, it’s legal, all right, and it’s yours for the asking.”

“And what, exactly, am I asking?”

Kilroy’s lips contorted into a curl of self-satisfaction. “You’re asking yourself if playing in this year’s Games is really that important to you.”

“And I know the answer to that question. It’s yes.” A resounding yes, which beat in his heart loud and strong.

Kilroy gave a short laugh. “C’mon, Wallace. Who do you think you’re kidding? You have a chance—a very, very remote one—of beating me. And even if you do win, the prize money is five thousand dollars. Hardly enough to set a man up in the style to which he is accustomed, don’t you think?”

“You and I both know this isn’t about the prize money, Kilroy. Get to the point. I don’t want to keep Irina waiting. It’s rude.”

“You’re right—it’s not about the prize money. It’s about money, period. I have it and you don’t. I’ll tell you what. I’m feeling particularly generous after seeing what a fine figure I cut in my Highland formal. Name your price and it’s done.”

The temptation was there, especially with his mom so close by. The whole reason Julian worked so hard was to give her a better life, to bring her up into a more comfortable sphere. And there was nothing illegal about stepping down from the Games. There were a lot of things Kilroy might be angling after—putting on a good show for Rockland Bluff Whisky to get the sponsorship for himself, keeping the competition limited to ensure his reigning title or even painting Julian as the fool. Hell, it could have been all three.

But Julian couldn’t do it. No figure was large enough to lay his honor on the line. He was so close to getting the money he needed, and without doing it on Kilroy’s filthy family dime.

“See you at the Games, Kilroy,” Julian replied.

He turned on his heel and stalked back into the shop, glad when the door stayed firmly shut behind him. He seethed with a thousand emotions, none of which he allowed to rise to the surface. All that showed was a smile for his mom, who placed a gentle hand on his arm and beamed.

“Well, Irina, Julian here needs a new kilt for the ceremonies—he’s running this year’s event, so we can’t have him coming out looking like an orphan.”

“Should be a good show, if you’re in charge. You’ve always had a good respect for the traditions.” Irina nodded toward Chika. “Will you be joining us?”

His mom laughed and waved them off. “Jules hasn’t needed me to help dress him since he was three.”

Julian stepped up onto the platform in front of the tripod of rectangular mirrors. Little copies of himself continued on in an infinite pattern, each one scowling and tense. He forced himself to smile as Irina moved effortlessly around him, grabbing pins and measuring tape and eyeing him closely.

“You’ve built up quite a bit.” She nodded at his shirt and watched as he lifted it over his head, nothing but professional interest in her eyes. There was a time, in his teens, when standing before this cool, efficient woman had been the height of fantasy. She’d known it, of course. There were certain things a boy could never quite hide from the woman who measured his inseam.

“All muscle, I think. But you need to relax or the measurements will be off.” She nodded again, this time toward his jeans. He pulled them off.

“Sorry, Irina. I’m a little wound up.” He tossed the pants to her, and the perfectionist in her promptly began folding them. As she did, a crumpled piece of paper floated to the ground.

Kate’s invitation.
He forgot he’d pulled the same pair of pants on that morning, too tired from a night spent mostly staring at the ceiling to care much about his attire.

“Is this important?” Irina asked, picking it up and pointing it at the trash can.

Julian furrowed his brow. “It might be.” He took it from her, flattening it out and scanning the contents. It was simple, a beige rectangle with fancy lettering, swirly lines everywhere and the silhouette of a couple dancing across the upper right hand corner. It was pretty basic—one of those things women liked to have for weddings and tea parties.