Men in Kilts, Page 2

  “Good evening. I was told you’re the American author on my panel. I’m Daniel Johannson.” He held out his hand, a pleasant smile on his lips. I wanted to smack him. How dare he interrupt my lovely conversation with Iain? Who cared about a stupid panel when there was serious ground to be made up with the dishy Scot?

  “Kathie Williams,” I dutifully replied, and even more dutifully slapped a smile on my face as I shook his hand. He edged around in front of me, more or less pushing Iain to the side. What a rotter! “This is Iain,” I added, and took a step nearer to him.

  “Evening.” The man greeted Iain with another smile. “I don’t recognize you. I take it you’re not an author?”

  “No, I’m not,” Iain said, giving me a long look. “As you’ve business to talk, I’ll be on my way. It was a pleasure to meet you, Kathie.”

  “Likewise,” I said, my heart dropping to my loafers as he glanced quickly around the party, then shrugged slightly and left the room. “Well, hell!”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing,” I answered, my eyes on the door in case Iain changed his mind and came back. He didn’t though, and I was hard put to maintain polite conversation with Daniel since I resented him heartily for interrupting my little tête-à-tête with a much more interesting man, but I did refrain from snapping his head off much in the manner of a peeved praying mantis, a fact which surely must merit me some sort of cosmic brownie points.

  He discussed the upcoming panel, then introduced me to some of the other authors, but despite having come all the way around the world just to meet my British peers, I didn’t enjoy myself. The evening had lost its warm glow.

  “You’re an adult, Kathie,” I lectured myself later, when I was in my hotel room finishing the task of unpacking. “You didn’t spend all that time and money saving for this trip just to moon over a man you’ve known for all of an hour.

  Cease your pouting and get over this infatuation!”

  The lecture didn’t do me any good; they seldom do. For some reason I was unable to explain even to myself, meeting the Scot had rocked my world back on its heels. I didn’t quite understand what had happened, but I knew it was something momentous.

  Love at first sight strikes some people like that—daft, that is.

  I didn’t stop thinking about Iain that night—not when I was talking with other authors at the party, not when I was taking a shower later and wondering if he liked faux-auburn-haired women of medium height and no outstanding physical attributes—nor did I stop thinking about him when I lay in bed and listened to the sounds of the hotel settling into sleep.

  I thought about him the next day as I went from panel to panel and listened to mystery authors and fans talk.

  I thought about him when I went out to dinner that night with Daniel and his group of cronies, only partially paying attention to the publishing gossip and mystery talk, my mind more consumed with wondering whether I hadn’t imagined the whole hormone-stirring episode with a nonexistent Scot.

  I thought about him every time I spied a tall, dark-haired man.

  It’s disgusting, I e-mailed my best friend Cait the second day of the conference. I feel like a schoolgirl with her first crush. I just can’t stop looking for him. I can’t stop wishing I could talk with him again. I keep trying to figure out what it is about him, what makes him so intriguing, why he’s having this effect on me, but all that sort of analysis does is end up in smutty fantasies. I CAN’T THINK OF

  ANYTHING ELSE BUT THE DISHY SCOT !

  Cait responded almost immediately with a request for full details, and her approval to go ahead and give in to my lust.

  Just exactly how dishy is DISHY? she wrote. What’s he look like? Was he wearing a kilt? What did he have on under his kilt, and don’t tell me you didn‘t look, I would have looked for you. Stop angsting over your lust, it’s not like you ’ve gotten any in the last decade. So go ahead! Live a little! If you fancy this guy, jump him! You did bring raincoats with you, didn’t you? I TOLD you to bring raincoats !

  Condoms were the least of my worries. I argued with myself a lot that day, repeatedly pointing out to my saner self that I was a mature adult, I had been married before, I had fallen in love and fallen out of love. I had engaged in mild infatuations in the past, and they always ended up the same. I told myself to stop mooning about and get on with my life.

  I think I had more conversations with myself that day than I did with anyone else. I didn’t enjoy either. I didn’t enjoy much of anything, and that made me even angrier.

  “Oh, Kathie,” one of my newly made acquaintances called after me the next morning as a panel ended and everyone was filing from the room. “We’re going out to dinner tonight, and we thought as you were at a loose end you might want to come with us.”

  “Not unless you’ve got a Scot named Iain in your pocket,” I mumbled softly, then thanked the woman and declined.

  “Honest to Pete, I am the grand champion of idiots!” I chastised myself a few minutes later in the ladies’ room where I was trying to make myself look presentable for my upcoming panel, always a challenge when you are battling with waist-length hair that never heeds the desire for it to stay confined. It wasn’t my hair that bothered me as I stared at my reflection, it was the sour look of discontent that, try as I might, I just could not erase. “I am wasting my precious few days of vacation by walking around all grouchy and unhappy because the object of my temporary and doomed-from-the-start fascination is not to be found. What a boob! What a maroon! What a… what a pitiful and hopelessly smitten person I am.”

  Chastisements seldom do much to buoy the spirit, and this instance was no exception. I swallowed my misery and obediently followed the moderator into the panel room, prepared to discuss, to the best of my abilities, writing a mystery series. My fellow panelists were all well-known, respected members of the profession. They were intelligent and witty and had things of great import to share with the audience.

  I, on the other hand, sat at the end of the long speakers’ table and said little. I responded to questions when they were asked of me, and tried to look intelligent, but I know I failed. I didn’t have anything to say. Not anything related to the subject of discussion, not anything the people in the audience wanted to hear. Not anything that would make sense.

  Instead, I sat like a lump and never once took my eyes off the man sitting in the back row. Iain had come to my panel. And he smiled.

  At me.

  Chapter Two

  As luck would have it, I had to do a book signing after my panel. We all did, all of the authors who were on the panels. It gave readers the chance to meet the authors, chat with them a bit, and have them sign a book or two.

  Imagine my horror when I found I couldn’t race from the panel and throw myself upon the sexy Scot lurking at the back of the room.

  Imagine my disgust with myself when that’s all I could think about on the way to the signing area.

  Imagine my delight when the aforementioned Scot showed up at the signing as well.

  “Well, I like to live dangerously—Janice doesn’t, but I do—so I will take a chance that you are as good as you say you are,” a middle-aged stocky woman in a powder blue jersey was saying when he arrived.

  She thrust a copy of my book under my nose. I peered around her solid form and smiled at Iain. He smiled back, melting me on the spot. The powder blue body in front of me rocked slightly so as to block my lovely view.

  “Oh, yes, of course, thank you,” I said to the woman, who, with her twin in a matching jersey, had been my sole visitors to the signing table.

  “We’re from Devonshire, Janice and I are. Janice works at Oxfam,” the bulky woman said chattily. I smiled at Janice. She tittered in response.

  “I’m a secretary, but we both read quite a bit. Mysteries, mostly, but Janice likes to read those women’s books.” She leaned down to whisper in my ear. I glanced over her back and raised an eyebrow at Iain. He winked. I puddled.

  “You know, th
ose books with sex in them.”

  Now, that had my attention. “Sex?”

  Janice’s twin nodded. “Romances. Fellatio,” she added helpfully.

  My eyes almost popped out of my head. I glanced back at Iain again. He was looking at his watch.

  “I beg your pardon?” I managed to squeak out.

  “Felicia.” She pointed to the opened page of the book I was about to sign. “My name is Felicia.”

  “Oh,” I said, relieved that she wasn’t either propositioning me or reading what my mind was doing with images of Iain stretched out stark naked on a white sandy beach

  “Felicia. Of course. What was I thinking? Felicia isn’t at all similar to… er, yes, it’s a lovely name.”

  She nodded. Janice bumped her arm and dipped her head toward me in question. “That’s right, Janice thought we should ask you about our little problem.”

  I handed her the book and leaned sideways, trying to cover up my shift in position as a simple desire to lean on my elbow. I fluttered my lashes at Iain.

  He grinned and moved slightly to the side so he could nab a book from the stack in front of me.

  “Problem?” I asked, wishing the two of them would go pick on someone else, but a sale is a sale, and a reader is a reader, and it doesn’t pay to spurn either. “I will be happy to help if I can.”

  “We have an uncle—Uncle Beryl—who went to the States after the war, and we haven’t heard from him since. Thirty-five years it’s been now.”

  “Mafia,” muttered Janice darkly.

  “Yes,” Felicia agreed, bobbing her head. “It must be. All those gangsters in the Miami area—well, you just know they must have had a hand in his disappearance!”

  I blinked while they continued on with their conspiracy theory—which, I gathered from the various accusations thrown out by the terse-lipped Janice, involved Walt Disney, a myoptic alligator, and Anita Bryant.

  “We’re going to go to Florida one day to find out what ever happened to Uncle Beryl,” Felicia warned as I handed her the signed book. “Just as soon as Janice has the time off and my fungal condition clears up. Then we’ll know what’s what.”

  By the time I ran out of “oh, really” and “you don’t say” comments, I was blatantly engaged in visual flirting with Iain, and more than ready to pounce on him when the ladies left me for richer fields. Which they did. Finally .

  “Hello,” I said breathily, craning my head to look up at the vision of Scotliness as he strolled forward.

  “Morning,” he greeted me, handing me a copy of my book and flashing a smile that, if I hadn’t been sitting down, would have knocked me over flat. I craned my head even farther back and smiled in return, noting bemusedly that he had a long nose but it fit his face well. He smiled, I smiled, we smiled. My mind took a little vacation and spent some time wandering around a lovely country in which there was Iain, and there was me, and there was not a whole lot else.

  His smile grew a little tight. He waggled the book in front of me. “Are you going to sign the bleedin‘ thing, then, or just stare at me as if your wits have flown out the window?”

  What a sweet talker he was!

  “Oh. Sign it?” I stared at the book. Had I seen it before? Was it mine? I checked the author’s name. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t swear to it being me. I wasn’t in a state to swear to anything except to the deep, dark, wonderfully warm nature of Iain’s eyes and voice. “Um. Sign.” Iain’s smile widened and he leaned down until we were nose to nose. “A bit rattled, are you?”

  I breathed in his scent, part spicy aftershave, part Iain. A bit rattled? Oh, god, if he only knew!

  “If I’d to speak in front of such a large crowd, I’d be a bit daft as well.” He nodded sympathetically. His breath fanned out over my face as he spoke, sending goose bumps of sheer pleasure up and down my arms. I bit back the urge to clutch his head, and swallowed. Hard.

  “Sure, I’d be happy to sign it for you. Now, I know your first name is Iain, but I’ll need a little more information for the inscription. Such as your surname.” And phone number. And address. And whether or not you are dating anyone at the moment, and if you like fast women, especially fast American women.

  “It’s MacLaren.”

  I batted my lashes. “Such a Scottish name,” I said in a nauseating simper.

  His eyes sparkled at me. “Aye, weel, that’s because I’m a Scot.”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, then realized I was staring at him openmouthed in a fair imitation of complete imbecility. I signed the book for him, only just refraining from including a brazen proposition.

  “Your book, sir,” I said chirpily, handing it to him as he straightened back up to his full height. It was difficult to keep a smile on my face since it was fraying badly about the edges, but I held it in place and tried not to blatantly ogle him.

  He looked down at me, saying nothing. I stared back at him, a big old pile of mush, quivering on the inside, the voices in my head screaming at me to say something, anything before he walked away.

  “Would you be having plans for your supper tonight?” Tonight? Dinner? Me and him? As in a date ? I almost drooled.

  “Not a one,” I breathed, hopeful, oh so hopeful. Under the table, I crossed my fingers. I also crossed my toes. If I had thought he wouldn’t have noticed, I’d have crossed my eyes as well.

  “Would you care, then, to have it with me?”

  “Delighted to.” That husky voice reeking of sultriness really couldn’t have been mine answering, but it must have been, because the vision before me smiled, and asked me where I was staying. I told him.

  “Do you want to meet me here”—he waved a hand at the conference room—

  “or shall I knock you up at the hotel?”

  Honest to god, I didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “Well, there’s a panel I want to see on serial killers that ends at five thirty.” We’re a romantic bunch, mystery writers. “But what say we try the hotel at sevenish?”

  He made a date to meet me in the hotel lobby, and with an impish grin that melted my shoelaces, left.

  He’s asked me out! I screamed into an e-mail to Cait as soon as I made it back to the hotel and my room. For dinner! Tonight! What should I wear — sexy or sophisticated?

  An hour later I emerged from a steamy, lavender-scented bathroom to check my e-mail.

  Sophisticated, she e-mailed me back. No, wait, you don’t have much time… sexy, go with sexy. You got raincoats ?

  It’s only a first date, I replied before powering off my laptop. I’m not going to sleep with the man, I just want to flirt a little. Well, OK, a lot. But no sex, you know my rules !

  I decided to go with the sophisticated look after all, and pulled out a long, snug-fitting black velvet dress with a square neck that always made me feel romantic. I was downstairs a few minutes before Iain arrived—he was staying at a different hotel—but I spotted him the moment he set foot in the lobby. He took my breath away—actually took my breath away—when he caught sight of me standing by a group of chairs and smiled as he headed toward me. I clutched at the back of the chair nearest me in an attempt to help stiffen my knees, inadvertently yanking a handful of hair owned by the woman occupying the chair.

  “Sorry,” I apologized as I unclenched my fingers and patted the dislodged puff of hair back into place. “It’s my knees. It’s a problem I have around Scotsmen.” She must have been related to the woman who caught me talking to my drink two evenings before, because she gave me the very same fish-eyed stare. I ignored her and turned to greet my dream Scot.

  It was a lovely dinner. Iain took me to an Italian restaurant a few blocks from the hotel, and we had—well, we had something. I don’t remember what. To be truthful, I couldn’t actually swear we ate. I do know I fell head over heels in love with Iain that night, which made it difficult to hear his conversation, what with all the warning bells and whistles going off in my head.

  I ignored them, however. I figured everyone w
as entitled to a Katherine Hepburn Summertime type of romance, and if this was it for me, men, by heavens, I was going to jump into it with both feet. I was through mooning around and lecturing myself; I war going to have some fun before I had to head home, and I had hoped Iain was thinking along the same lines. I wasn’t sure he was, but figured it was better to be safe than sorry, so I blithely went about imagining a wonderfully steamy affair, and how exactly I was going to seduce him. I was busily plotting a way to innocently show up naked at his house in Scotland while he walked me back to my hotel. As we reached the lobby, I realized what I had done. I had spent the entire evening on autopilot, laughing I and joking with him, but only halfway paying attention due to the immediate problem that occupied most of my mind— seducing him. The following day was the last day of the conference and I had wasted the whole evening!

  “Here we are, then,” he said as he held the door to the lobby open for me.

  “Um, yes,” I replied, my brain suddenly turned to pudding. “My hotel. Uh-huh.”

  We entered the lobby with me panicking slightly as I tried to think of what I should do next. Should I ask him to the hotel’s bar for a nightcap? Should I suggest a walk around to aid digestion? Should I rip off all my clothing and throw myself at him? Or should I break out the hair shirt and spend the rest of the lonely evening yelling at myself for my stupidity?

  Iain paused when we reached the elevators. “You seemed a mite distracted this evening.”

  Oh, lord, he’d noticed. Thank god he wasn’t a mind reader. I’d die of embarrassment if he knew I’d spent the entire evening plotting his seduction. I blushed just thinking about that.

  “I’m thinking it could be you’re feeling the same thing I am.” What? I spun around and stared up at him, wondering if my mind had finally snapped under the strain of all that love and lust and adoration, but I wasn’t mistaken—there was a definite something in those lovely warm, brown eyes that wasn’t entirely innocent. My blush turned up a notch, spreading down my neck and heading for my chest. I tried to swallow. I couldn’t.