Chapter One
I make my way into the club, down a darkened entryway, following a slender woman dressed in a tartan miniskirt. The plaid crisscrosses her breasts, leaving most of her skin exposed, but the sexy outfit can't rouse my interest. What the bloody hell had I been thinking? I've never liked clubs, and this one calls itself Dance Ardor, of all things. My dancing is of the foot-shuffling sort, not—
Bugger me.
As I step out of the hallway into the main part of the club, I catch sight of the couples on the dance floor. They writhe and thrust their hips, pasted to each other's bodies like cling film on a sausage, and make no attempt to disguise their lustful intentions, evidenced in their hungry gazes and pawing hands. One woman mashes her breasts to her partner's chest and throws her head back, arching her spine so her lover can latch his mouth onto her throat.
I halt at the perimeter, near one of many tables arranged in a semicircle around the dance floor. I'm too old for this shit. A forty-two-year-old Scotsman on the cusp of divorce has no business entering a place like this. It's for the young and unencumbered, not for me.
But the club's advert in a newspaper had caught my attention. "This Friday is Midsummer Kilt Night," the text declared, "step into a fantasy world for one night only."
Maybe I needed a fantasy, because I'd found myself drawn to this place.
The woman who preceded me into the club turns to glance back at me, her wide mouth curling into a sensual smile. She's painted her lips an odd purple shade that glistens like lacquer. The coruscating strobe lights streak shades of violet, crimson, and sapphire across her blonde hair, the tresses cut into one of those short and haphazard styles. A fashion-conscious lass? I hold back a groan, feeling not the slightest inclination to seduce this woman. A casual affair, for one night only, appealed to me until the moment I walked into this place.
The woman sashays up to me. "Hey, babe, wanna hook up?"
Bod a' chac.Are all American women so direct? I'm not sure I like that. Maybe it's my age showing, though forty-two had never seemed old to me until recently. Confronted with this young and attractive woman, I feel like a dirty old man for considering her offer for one bloody second. Half of one second, actually.
"Thank you," I say, "but I'm, ah…meeting someone."
It's bollocks, but I can't think of a better way to dismiss her without causing offense.
She sighs with all the disappointment of a woman whose erotic fantasies have been shattered. "Oh well, it figures a hot British guy is taken."
British? Technically, I suppose I am British—as in a resident of Great Britain—but every American I've met calls me Scottish. This lass seems unaware of the difference, or unable to differentiate a Scots brogue from an English accent.
Another reason this brash woman is not for me, even for a single night.
Her hips sway provocatively as she moves away from me.
I stand frozen in the spot where she left me, watching with tightening brows while the girl I rejected approaches another man. He wears a hip-hugging kilt with a sleeveless shirt that has ragged edges. The woman leans in close—to make another direct offer, no doubt. The man slips his arm around her waist and leads her past the bar toward the dance floor.
For a moment, I consider leaving the club. Spending the night alone in a house that belongs to my American friend, Gil Friedman, sounds better with each passing second. I force myself to scan the club with my gaze, though I hold out little hope I'll spy a woman worthy of my interest. Had I expected to find an intelligent, down-to-earth woman in an underground club?Bloody eejit ye are, Lachlan.
Yesterday, I'd spotted a lovely woman tending to her rose bushes in front of the house next door to Gil's, but I hadn't approached her. I want a casual fling, not a relationship. A woman like her, she'd want more. I shake my head at my own arrogance. How can I know a woman's nature based on the way she tends roses? Yet something about her—the way she snipped and trimmed the bushes with exquisite care, her focus entirely on them, her expression soft and almost wistful—made me want to know her.
I do know something about her, aside from her gardening skills. My neighbor for the next month is Erica Teague. Gil told me as much. I can't introduce myself to her, no matter how much the bonnie brunette intrigues me.
A scunner of a man bumps into me, his bleary gaze flashing to me, and mutters a slurred apology before shuffling off.
I frown, but then my gaze travels to the bar—and my pulse accelerates.
There she is. Erica Teague.
She perches on a high stool, her feet dangling above the floor. The thin, dangerously high heels she wears give her slender ankles an enticing curve. Her dress is the color of fresh cherries, ripe for the plucking. The hem must've ridden up when she climbed onto the stool because it reveals most of her thigh, all that creamy skin so appealing that I can't resist admiring the rest of her body. I let my attention wander over those womanly hips and her narrow waist, then higher still to the plunging neckline of her dress. It exposes the inner slopes of her breasts, which are as lush and creamy as the rest of her.
Lust grips me so hard I lose my breath. Erica is a decadent feast for the eyes. I burn to savor her body, from her dainty toes to her flat stomach, even her graceful eyebrows, and everywhere in between.
She lifts a brandy snifter and gulps down a mouthful. Her eyes drift half-closed for a heartbeat, then flutter open as her lips form a delicate smile of satisfaction. Her breasts heave as if she's pulled in a deep breath, completely sated.
Heat rushes through me, shortening my breaths.
Donnae stand here gawping, ye eejit. Get over there and speak to the lass.
I shouldn't. From Gil's description of Erica, she isn't the sort to sign on for a one-night fling, and besides, we'll be neighbors for the month.
My feet have a mind of their own and a different opinion of what I should do. They propel me across the club toward her. My pulse beats faster, harder, every thud of it pulsing through my veins.