Spoken For (4 page)

“Next time,” he says, his warm breath teasing my ear, “I’ll put you over my knee and do it properly.”

The promise sends a rush of thick, hot desire to melt my core. My damn panties are wet again. My knees buckle and I tip forward, my cheek squashed to his shoulder.

His palm on my backside stops massaging and simply stays there, keeping me pressed to him. Every fibre of my being is aware of his breath by my ear, not the slightest bit ragged.

The hand on my backside, firm and sure.

The beating of his heart against mine.

The warm strength of the shoulder my cheek rests again.

Roman Rocchi is my addiction. Everything about the man thrills me. The excitement. The uncertainty. The unexpected. I don’t know where to draw the line, how much is too much. I’ll take it all and come back for more.

If he takes me right now, right here on the boardroom table, I’ll scream with desire and not give a damn who hears.

He doesn’t.

He brings both his hands to my hips and moves me out of his way so he can retrieve his jacket from the back of the chair.

I prop my trembling body up on the boardroom table, arms crossed tightly, barely managing shallow breaths.

“I suggest you pack warmly for Scotland, Ms. Lynch,” he says as he shrugs his jacket on and walks past me on the way out. “The weather’s turning and I’ve heard predictions of snow.”

7

MY STOMACH IS hard with knots by the time the plane touches down in Inverness. Roman didn’t fly with us. I haven’t seen him in weeks, not since he offered me wardrobe advice and left me in the boardroom with a tingling ass.

Celia handled our itineraries, but apparently Roman made his own arrangements. Unless we’ve assumed incorrectly. When he said he’d arranged for
us
to visit Kleighnorm, maybe he wasn’t including himself in that
us
.

I’m an assertive person and I don’t think I’d stand for being jerked about in a relationship. Not that I have hard facts to go on here. I’ve slept with one boy and three men in my life. Three men, as in exactly three times. I’ve had one boyfriend, and that was in high school.

But I don’t think I would stand for it, and I don’t think that is what Roman’s doing. I think he’s playing an intoxicating, sophisticated game.

He’ll be here.

Of course, that’s the only part I’m sure of. Whatever else may or may not happen has had me in a constant flip between thrilling dread and bone-melting flushes for weeks.

A warm hand folds over my vice-like grip on the narrow armrest.

Tones of amusement inflect Liam’s voice at my ear. “You can let go now, Kee. We landed five minutes ago.”

I give him a weak smile. We both know I’m not the least bit afraid of flying or landing. Liam’s between girlfriends again, which means he’s been around enough to notice my distraction of late.

He won’t push, though.

He never does.

When he came back, he never once asked why I’d cut him off cold. I told him eventually. I told him everything.

And I’d tell him now, too, but what is there to say?
I don’t know if I want my boss to fuck me or spank me. Oh, and yes, I’m a nervous wreck because there’s a good chance he’ll just ignore me and do neither.

Somehow, I don’t think Liam would understand.

Hell, I don’t understand.

The seatbelt lights go off and we’re herded from the plane in an orderly fashion. I pull my winter coat closer at my throat. There’s a frosty bite in the wind sweeping in from Moray Firth and straight onto the runway. The temperatures have plummeted in the last week and this far north, the air is icy.

Across the Firth, snowy peaked mountain ranges dominate as far as the eye can see. Above, the sky brews a petulant, dark grey to shadow the dramatic landscape in a sight that takes my breath away.

While we’re walking, I grab my phone from my messenger bag and snap a handful of photos to send to Simone. She was in such a snit at being left behind, I can’t help the tease. She caught a bad cold and then, the day before yesterday, developed an inner ear infection and was cautioned against flying.

She still dragged herself into the office, determined to not miss out on our adventure, but Celia threw the book of company liability at her. Simone’s furious that the trip wasn’t postponed.
“I’m the Marketing Concepts person. What’s the point of anyone going without me?”

I heartily agree with her, of course, as I take another photo for luck and hit the send button. Not that I’m a total bitch. When we get back, I’ll buy her a drink at Finnegans and we’ll share a good laugh about it.

Once we’ve passed through the domestic arrivals baggage reclaims, we’re greeted by a black-suited man holding a placard that reads,
Diamond Designs.
Our designated driver, I presume.

8

A LONG BRIDGE takes us across the Moray Firth and then we’re winding up and around into the rugged mountains, deep into the heart of the snowy-capped highlands.

I’m shuffled up to Liam on the backseat. The heating in the car is turned to max, but the stark cold scenery outside demands a little inner warmth. His arm drapes behind me and my cheek is pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, my gaze mesmerised outside the window.

I don’t know how long we travel, I think I might have dozed off for a while, but we straighten into our own space when the road loops around a peak and descends, giving me a bird’s eye view of Kleighnorm nestled in the valley below.

The estate house is a blunt U-shape, the two wings folding in a shallow courtyard. Set apart from the main residence, the distillery is housed in three timbered structures half-buried in the velvety pine forest that stretches into the lower slope of the mountain backdrop.

The homestead and grounds would swallow the entire village I grew up in just outside Dublin, and yet it is much smaller than I’d envisaged from the photos we’ve been working with. Maybe it’s not even the aspects from which the photoshoot was done. I think my mind just saw a south and west wing and jumped to its own conclusions.

Black wrought-iron gates swing open as we approach, and the driveway circles around a moss-stained fountain to deposit us at the base of wide, stone steps.

I climb from the car, my eyes widening on the intricate detail carved into the front façade. Gargoyles guard each side of the door, clawed hands reaching over the massive arched, double-door entrance. The walls are dark grey, porous stone that has clearly absorbed centuries of elemental nature.

A feeling of absolute awe envelops me and now I know why Roman paused the project and insisted we start over. The generations of tradition seeped into this imposing building are tangible, a taste on my tongue, a rich scent that coats my veins.

Connor Kleighnorm may have tripled production for this international venture, but Kleighnorm Whiskey will never be a commercial product. This is exclusive, elusive, a luxurious secret to be savoured and rarely shared.

The door opens and a grizzly bear of a man comes out to greet us. He’s built broad and sturdy, at least six-foot-five, and he wears a smile that dances in his eyes. His hair is a shock of white that flies around his face and covers his jaw in a full beard. His coat flaps open on the breeze and I swear that’s only a t-shirt he has on underneath.

Connor Kleighnorm, we soon learn as introductions are made.

“I’ll be thanking you to call me Connor,” he insists as he helps us transfer our luggage and leads the way inside. “No call to stand on formality out here.
Sweet Mary
, it’s bitter today and expected to get worse before the day is out.”

His voice drones on, a pleasant background to the anxious thoughts crowding my head as Roman Rocchi takes front and centre on my mind. I can almost hear his deep baritone ask, “
Do we have a problem, Ms. Lynch?”
and hot shivers tremble down my spine to melt into the pit of my stomach.

I try reminding myself that this trip is supposed to be about business.

Ha!

So was the boardroom.

So was the summons to his office.

Look where that ended.

I know, with every tingling fibre of my being, that Roman pulled me onto the Kleighnorm account, brought me here, for an entirely personal reason. What he’ll do with me,
to me,
now that he has me exactly where he wants me, is another matter altogether.

“Maggie,” Connor bellows, the echo of his voice resounding in the double-volume hallway. “Maggie, where are you, woman… Ah, Maggie…” He lowers his voice as a tiny woman bustles around the corner. “Our guests have arrived.”

“So I see, Connor,” Maggie says in a no-nonsense voice to match her bustle.

She’s reed-thin, barely reaches my shoulder and can’t be much younger than Connor, whom I’ve placed close to seventy. Which is why, despite his solid frame, I decline his offer and roll my own suitcase along the flagstone floor after Maggie.

“Once you’ve settled,” Connor calls out, “you’ll find us in the library.”

“We won’t be long,” Liam assures him.

We’re each shown to our own suite in the guest wing. Along the way, Maggie informs us that she’s the housekeeper and we mustn’t hesitate to ask for anything we need. Just inside the door of my room, there’s a silk-corded bell to tug that will, apparently, bring someone running.

I slap Liam’s hand away as he reaches for it. “Seriously?”

A wide grin cracks his jaw. “Just testing.”

“Go play in your own room,” I order, shooing him out.

Alone, I take a long moment to gawk at my accommodation.

The high ceiling frescoed with cherubs and forest sprites.

The four-poster bed.

A seating arrangement in one corner comprising of a brocade upholstered sofa and armchair around a table carved from chunky wood.

A fireplace, unlit, although the room is warm, centrally heated by a radiator that runs the full length of the room. I suspect Kleighnorm’s heating bill for one month would put a nice dent in my student loan.

I shrug my coat off, but don’t change clothes. I’m snug in my jeans, long-sleeve tee and cardigan. If Roman wants to slide his fingers anywhere, I plan to make him work for it.

The en-suite bathroom has a claw-foot tub and a full-length, stand-alone cheval mirror. As tempting as a hot bath is, the man waiting below tempts me more. I freshen quickly, and then I’m out in the passage, rapping on Liam’s door.

No answer.

Opening the door, I hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom.

“It’s the middle of the day,” I call out, shaking my head on a smile.

Liam’s muffled voice calls back, “You told me to play.”

“I’ll see you downstairs,” I tell him, backing out the room and closing the door behind me.

My hands are clammy as I make my way along the passage and down the stairs.

Butterflies ripple my pulse.

I have no idea what comes next, but I do know it will be intense.

Although my body has developed dark cravings for the gorgeous Roman Rocchi, that’s not to say the man doesn’t infuriate me. He’s certain to provoke me with his particular brand of outlandish…and then he’ll make the flare of instant rage totally worth my while.

I should be worried. I’m not even blushing at my scandalous predictions.

The rumble of male laughter draws me in the right direction, through doors thrown wide open directly off the entrance hall. The library is clearly a man’s domain, furnished in padded leather and worn down through the ages. The walls are panelled oak and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

A roaring fire crackles from a giant hearth and that’s where my searching gaze finds Roman. Standing before the flickering flames in full-blown elegant disgrace.

His jacket has been discarded, but he’s wearing tailored charcoal trousers. The top button of his crisp white shirt is undone, his deep blue silk tie tugged slightly loose. His jaw dips as he shoves a hand through his hair, grazes my desire with a look that sinks into me, and hits me with a smile.

An honest to God smile.

“Ms. Lynch,” he greets in gravelly accented tones. “I trust you had a good flight?”

My toes curl from the impact of that beautiful smile and the undisputed warmth in his voice.

“Uneventful,” I manage to murmur.

“
Ms. Lynch
, eh?” Connor snorts gruffly.

My gaze drags from Roman to see Connor push up from a chair beside the fireplace and make his way over.

“The only good thing about this blasted winter is that night comes early,” he says, hitching a shaggy brow on me. “So what’s your preference, my dear? Wine or something a wee bit stronger?”

“Oh… I, um…” But the only reason I’m hesitating is because Roman doesn’t have a glass. “White wine would be lovely, thank you.”

Connor links his arm in mine, walking me to the drinks cabinet built into the panelled wall on the other side of the room.

“You’ll be forgiving my lad over there,” he says, not nearly soft enough for Roman not to hear. “He has a way of acting closer to my age than yours.”

Unable to resist, I lean in to whisper, “How old is he?”

“Twenty-six in January.”

My eyes round in disbelief. How on earth does one pack that much arrogance and confidence, tinted cynicism, into twenty-six years?

Connor chortles. “Aye, exactly that.”

As the evening progresses, however, there’s little evidence of that arrogance or cynicism. Roman doesn’t say much. He seems content to let Connor and Liam dominate the conversation at the supper table.

Liam comes from a large family and is the youngest of six siblings. He’s never short of tales to tell and soon has Connor guffawing at some of the hair-brained schemes that colour his younger days.

Roman’s gaze touches me again and again and his gorgeous mouth curves into a smile every so often.

His subdued mood and sensual charm filters into me, a slow burn that turns my blood languid and melts the edges off the anxious sexual tension that has been building for weeks.

I’m not sure what to do with this new version of Roman Rocchi, but I like it. I like it a lot.

“My Jeanie would have loved that,” Connor says at the end of one of Liam’s stories, chuckling. “Always did want to fill this house with young ‘uns, never mind the antics and what all.”

“Jeanie?” I ask him. “Your wife?”

Connor nods, his chuckles sobering as his gaze settles on Roman. “We lost her six years ago now to cancer.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Aye, she was a special lady, that she was.” A shadow crosses Connor’s face, then it passes and he moves the conversation on.

But I’m stuck on that look shared between Connor and Roman. And what he’d said.
We lost her…
There’s absolutely no resemblance between the two men, but I suppose that doesn’t mean they can’t be related.

I’m intrigued.

Everything about Roman intrigues me.

The question sits on the tip of my tongue, but I’ll never ask. Even with the way this evening is going, the idea of me and Roman ever being
that
comfortable is preposterous.

And yet again, he surprises me with the overwhelming unexpected

We’ve withdrawn to the library after dinner, where Roman pours himself his first drink of the night. A Kleighnorm labelled single malt whiskey.

While Liam and Connor set up a chessboard, I amble across to the double set of French doors leading onto a small portico. The curtains are partially parted on one side and I see the sky has cleared into a million glittering stars.

Roman comes up behind me, reaching around to unlatch and push the door open. “After you, Ms. Lynch.”

The heat of his body folded around my back shimmers over my skin and sends me skittering forward into the blackened night. The air outside is frigid, until Roman flicks a switch and the soft glow of infrared heating bulbs wrap us.

The door clicks closed and when I turn, I catch Liam shooting me a quizzical look over the chessboard. I shrug and step out of sight behind a curtain.

Roman leans back against the wrought-iron railing in front of me, the crystal glass cradled in both hands, his hooded gaze on me.

“You’re dying with curiosity,” he drawls in that husky baritone. “Come on, Ms. Lynch, spit it out.”

I should have known. Roman could never relax
that
much, beyond the ability to observe and notice every little detail.

And I wasn’t going to probe. Now that he’s given me permission, though… “How are you related to the Kleighnorms?”

He blinks, and the expression on his face tells me this was not the probe he’d been expecting. “I’m not.”

“Okay, it’s just that when Connor spoke about his wife… It doesn’t matter.”
What exactly did he think I was curious about?
“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s not a state secret, Ms. Lynch.” He sips from his glass, watching me over the rim. “I lost my family when I was young. My parents and my elder sister.”

“Oh, Roman…”

“I was seven,” he cuts in smoothly. “It was a long time ago. The executors of my father’s estate decided it would be best to place me in permanent boarding at Bishops.”

At the age of seven?
My heart goes out to him, but this time I swallow the words that sound too much like pity.

“Jean and my mother were close friends and Connor petitioned, unsuccessfully, for custodial guardianship,” he continues. “They were, however, granted visiting privileges and from then on, I spent my holidays and half terms here at Kleighnorm.”

“You’re not related,” I say softly. “But he is family.”

Roman throws back the remaining inch of amber whiskey and brings his glass down. “The last of what I have left.”