Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 (23 page)

“Not really. What’s she like?”

“She’s strong, like you,” Julian replied, thinking. “And she works hard. Too hard. My stepfather was a wonderful guy, and he was the reason I got into the Scottish Games in the first place. He died a little over six years ago, and she’s been on her own since then, taking care of my sisters. I try to help out, but—”

He shifted to try to get more comfortable, but Kate must have taken it as manly reserve, because she reached out and laid a hand on his leg. He was wearing pants, but he could still feel the warm pressure shooting up from his thigh and spiking right into his groin.

“You take care of her,” she said softly.

He shifted again, trying to ignore how her sudden nearness had plunged them both in the soft, floral scent that followed wherever she went.

“It was the only thing my stepfather asked of me his entire life.” Julian sat up, breaking some of the spell. He needed to have the full faculty of his thoughts for this. He’d been aware that this moment of vulnerability was ideal for making his case. What he hadn’t realized was the effect it would have on his own sense of equilibrium. The skies spun faster, keeping time with the increased tempo of his pulse, and the rest of him was very rapidly following suit. It was only a matter of time before he was completely out of control.

He wanted her. She was woman and he was man. She was an incredible, soft, appealing woman, and he was a man whose blood burned at the very thought of her. It was as simple an equation as they came, and he wanted to put it to the test right then and there. But there was no way he was letting a few weeks of blood-pounding lust replace years of hard work.

Kate sat up too, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. A strip of white skin indicated where her bikini top had protected her from the sun, and the sudden image of her sitting in the hot tub, completely relaxed, the tops of her rounded breasts floating at the water’s surface, rose unbidden to his mind.

“Harold,” he said quickly, looking away. He imagined the man standing there right now, looking at Julian struggling to get control. He’d be laughing, that robust sound that shook him like a dirty, profane Santa Claus.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Harold Wallace. That was my stepfather.”

“You took his name.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. He
gave
me his name.”

Kate didn’t respond, but he felt the sudden press of her fingers on his. Good—his plan was working. She held his hand, intertwining their fingers together, his rough with work and dirt, hers smooth but contained of a tensile strength that did crazy things to his imagination.

“Harold gave me a lot of things. He was the most generous man I’ve ever known. His name, his family crest, his passion for the Highland Games—those are a few of the things I owe to him. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the best gift he gave me was family. Before my mom remarried, she always struggled with things—with life—though I didn’t know it at the time. After Harold came along, I finally realized what it was like to have a mother who didn’t have to work twelve-hour shifts every day. For the first time in my life, she was there, and she was happy. And then my sisters came along, and—”

Julian stopped. This wasn’t coming out right. He needed to focus on the Games, the money, the Rockland Bluff Whisky opportunity—not his personal sob story. Walking back through his history like this only brought him closer to that awkward, lonely boy he tried so hard to forget. That Julian didn’t exist anymore. Harold had buried him the first time the words, “Man up” crossed his lips.

“You’re lucky he was able to give you that,” Kate said, squeezing his hand. “I never got a second chance at a family. My mom and dad were around, but they’ve never been
around
. Not in the parent-daughter sort of sense, anyway. For as long as I can remember, my closest family has been Jada. Jada and my books, and even though I know it sounds pathetic, it’s been enough for me to know they’re both always there for me. It’s why this JARRS event is so important to me, Julian. I know you think it doesn’t compare to your big, grand Highland Games, but—”

Damn. She was turning things around again, flipping the certainties in his mind into a pile of mushy incoherencies.

So he stopped her the only way he knew how. Cupping the side of her face gently with one hand, he leaned in and prevented the words from ever reaching his ears. He captured them all—words, breath, lips—with his mouth.

And just like that, the entire campsite fell away. There were no sounds and no sensations other than the sudden tangle of hot, rushed breath and the fervent exploration of soft lips. The kiss wasn’t at all what he expected. From a woman like Kate—a lady to the core—it seemed almost wrong for so much fire to be contained by the brush of her tongue against his, back and forth, give and take. He’d expected a chaste kiss, a warm pressing of the lips, a spark of lust that could never be wholly realized.

But she held nothing back. Open to him, returning his kiss with a passion and force that brought life to every part of his body, Kate was nothing at all like a lady.

She was a
woman
.

Before he was able to fully register the movement, she swung one of her legs over his lap, hoisting herself over his body until she was straddling him. It was a bold move, and one that might have been calculated to achieve maximum efficacy in gaining her own ends. But from the way her eyes opened wide, looking into his with adorable uncertainty, he knew she was as surprised by her actions as he was.

She couldn’t control her lust any better than he could.

The knowledge of it was his undoing.

Her skirt had hiked up to the tops of her thighs, and his hands immediately gravitated to the exposed skin. He ran his palms up the back of her legs, stopping when he hit the edge of her skirt, his fingers unable to refrain from caressing the smooth surface of her thighs.

She leaned closer, both her hands resting on his chest. The movement caused his hands to lift farther up the backs of her legs, until he was almost cupping her perfectly rounded ass. There was lace. He definitely felt lace. And silk.

They kissed again, and although it was deeper and longer than before, Julian forced his hands to remain still at the tops of her thighs. They would not be allowed to travel any higher, or to shift to the warm breasts pressed against his chest. They were camping, for Christsakes, and this woman sported lingerie better suited for a presidential suite somewhere expensive and luxurious. His entire body reacted to the contradiction of it all with pure, animal interest. She had no idea how close she was to being dragged into the woods and taken up against a tree.

“I don’t want to do this here,” he murmured, lifting her off his lap and setting her to the side.

Her mouth fell open in a perfect “O” of surprise as he rose to his feet. Almost as an afterthought, he took her with him, lifting her off the ground and hoisting her over his shoulder, caveman-style. She squealed and pounded feebly against his back, but his grasp was firm. Her ass was definitely exposed now, and he could see her underwear was white. Lacy. Silky. White.

He hurried behind the collection of tents. There was no damn way he was giving the other guys a view of this.

“Down you go.” He dropped her gently to the ground, allowing his hands to slide all the way up her legs, ass and back as she went—all of her cool to the touch. She looked up at him expectantly, her mouth slightly parted. It would be so easy to kiss her again. So easy to wrap his arms even tighter around her and do all the things he’d been dreaming of since he first saw her here in this park. To nuzzle at her neck, his tongue delving into the hidden nooks and crannies that made a woman’s anatomy so mysterious and perfect. To feel the soft, wet heat of her mouth against his once more, to possess her in the most primal way possible.

But he couldn’t do it. Not here, and not like this. This kind of a woman deserved champagne and moonlit carriage rides. An English lord in a ducal manor.

What Kate deserved was the full force of his attentions, and that was the one thing he couldn’t give her right now. So he grabbed her hand instead.

“Come on. I want to show you something. The ruins look incredible at night.”

Her breath still came short and fast, and a slightly dazed look in her eyes indicated he’d been too abrupt in pulling away.

“I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He wasn’t talking about the ruins.

She eventually nodded and followed him, but he could see a line of worry across the middle of her brow. He wanted to do nothing more than to kiss it away, but one touch of his lips against that skin and the thin thread of resolve holding him back would slip entirely away.

The sounds of the hot tub party disappeared as they walked farther from the encampment, even though the park wasn’t big enough to separate them entirely. He walked slowly, savoring the way her hand rested in his like it was the most natural thing in the world. They neared the ruins, scattering a few woodland creatures as they parted the cold, damp grass. Marmots, most likely. Or mice. Kate was probably afraid of mice—she seemed the type to squeal and run, needing a man like Julian to whisk her into his arms and away to safety.

And he’d do it in a second. For as long as she wanted.

But it wasn’t a mouse at all. “Oh, look, a garter snake,” Kate called softly, pointing to the swoosh of a short, wiry serpent making its way into the weeds. She stepped forward as if to get a closer look, but Julian held her hand firmly. He was not taking another step.

Not. Another. Step.

She turned back in surprise. “What?”

When he didn’t respond right away, she laughed, a series of girly peals. Girly, silvery peals that pinged against his ego like so many tiny stones.

“Julian Wallace, are you afraid of snakes?” she demanded, a huge grin erasing the frown he’d caused moments ago. “Tiny, harmless garter snakes?”

“Of course not,” he said gruffly. He tried to pull her back from the ruins, but she refused to budge. “That would be ridiculous. I’m afraid of big, poisonous rattlesnakes.”

She clapped her hands over her mouth. “You are! You’re afraid the cute little snake is going to jump up out of the grass and bite you!”

As she said the last words, she jumped forward and attacked him, pinching at his arm with her fingers.

He didn’t scream or cower or do anything that might be used as blackmail against his manhood at a future date. Thank God. But he did take her firmly by the waist and carry her up to one of the higher peaks of the crumbled towers, where exposure to predatory birds rendered the area not quite safe for creatures of a more serpentine nature. She kicked and laughed the whole way, enjoying his discomfiture. Enjoying his weakness, the brat.

He deposited her comfortably on a large rock and tried his best to glare her into submission, but even under the light of the still-waxing moon, he could see a glint of mischief in her soft, hazel eyes. She was like a mood ring that way. The mischief in her eyes sparked brown. Fury, he knew well, was a vibrant green. And passion was a warm, melting amber.

He liked that color best.

“I guess I know how to get you to leave camp now,” she said with a giggle, completely unaware of how easy it was for him to gauge her reactions. “I’ll charm the snakes with the flute I played in high school, calling them around me like the Pied Piper, and you’ll be on your way before I can even blink. What’s that saying? ‘Know thy enemy?’ How very perfect.”

Julian shuddered. His fear of snakes wasn’t something he advertised, and it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of. He could handle many things in life—he
had
handled so many things. Give him a physical challenge, a starving polar bear to go up against or a whole ditch to dig with a pitchfork, and he had no doubt he would come out victorious. But snakes were wily. They slid around, unseen and silent, preparing to sneak in and attack when you least expected it. They hit the most vulnerable part a man didn’t even know he had.

Even Achilles had a weakness.

“You wouldn’t,” he challenged.

Kate quirked an eyebrow. “No? Try me. Find a new venue and I vow to protect you from snakes for the rest of your life.”

The rest of his life. The words wrapped around him like a warm plaid.

But he fought the inviting lull of it. He wouldn’t let her win this way—easily, unfairly. It went against everything that made him who he was.

“You know, there’s a reason why being a real Scotsman—why the Highland Games—is about brute strength.” He sat across from her on a smaller rock, balancing himself by placing one leg up against the side of the turret.

“Oh?” She didn’t sound like she believed him.

“Yes. It’s because throughout history the English have always had better weapons and more money. They never fought honorably. In order to even the playing field, the Scottish had to get big and mean and strong, using the one resource they did have.”

“Which was really good genes?”

Julian gave a soft laugh. “No. Scotland. It was—and is—a harsh, barren place. Cold. Hard. It makes men out of boys, pushes a man’s boundaries so much further than he ever thought they could go. You have no idea how much more powerful that is than a musket or a line of red coats.”

“But it’s not 1750,” she pointed out gently. “And you’re not Scottish.”