Chapter One
I sweep my gaze around the main bar of Pat O'Brien's one last time, half hoping and half dreading I'll find a woman with a body made for slaking my lust. A one-night stand in New Orleans will hardly become the highlight of my first visit to America. The idea of studying this country's legal system had aroused my intellectual passion a few days ago when I'd suggested it to my mate, who's a lawyer here in New Orleans, and the trip had been my excuse to escape from my life. But none of the women I've come across in the past week aroused my sexual passions. Maybe I've grown jaded about sex, the way I have about love. My third and final fling, thirteen months ago, had put me off one-night stands. Sex without names, without sharing a bed for more than an hour, has lost its appeal.
What do I need? Or want? Got no bloody clue, MacTaggart, do you?
Swigging the last of my whisky, I pull a face at the subpar quality of the drink. American single malts can't compare to the genuine Scottish variety. I set down my glass and stride out of the main bar into the carriageway between the sections of Pat O'Brien's. A small group of people rushes past me, their laughter a bit too loud and their smiles a bit too exuberant. Buckled, they are. If I'd gotten intoxicated, maybe I would enjoy this night more.
Not likely.
The group ambles off down the carriageway, and I glimpse the doorway on the other side. Soft lighting and soft piano music emanate from the adjoining section of this establishment. I consider walking into the piano bar, but I've lost my enthusiasm for…everything. My thoughts travel back to Scotland, to my home in the Highlands and my family there, brothers and sisters, parents and uncles, cousins too. A pang aches in my chest. I should go back to my hotel room and ring the pilot to inform him to get my jet ready so we can head home tonight.
I start to turn away from the door, but movement snares my attention.
A blonde woman perches on a wooden stool, her curvaceous body twisting and turning as she strives for the perfect posture for a self-portrait. She holds a mobile above her head at arm's length, rotating and tipping the device until she seems satisfied with the angle. A broad, brilliant smile lights up her stunning face.
Have I found an angel in disguise? No, I'm not that fortunate.
No room in my life for an angel, anyway. No room for any woman, for longer than a night.
The blonde snaps a picture, then stuffs the mobile in the back pocket of her jeans.
I stare at the angel, frozen in my fascination with that lush body bound in jeans and a short-sleeve shirt.
She bites her lower lip and glances around the bar. Satisfied with whatever she sees or doesn't see, the lass shoves a hand inside her shirt to root about in her bra.
My lips begin to kink into a slight smile, but I flatten it out. Tilting my head to the side, I absorb the sight of this beautiful woman and her bizarre task. She peeks inside her shirt, where her hand remains lodged inside her bra, and then whisks her hand free. She pats her chest and clasps her delicate hands around a tall, curved glass that holds red liquid. The bonnie lass gulps down a long draft of the beverage.
A wistful smile curls her delicate mouth.
I march into the piano bar, headed straight for her.
What force compels me to move, I have no idea. Something about this woman lures me to her, inexorably, inescapably. Her pensive expression a moment ago seems a contradiction to her usual demeanor—or rather, the way she'd behaved for all but two seconds of the time since I first saw her. The lass possesses an inner light that streams out of her in every smile and glance, in the way she moves and in her complete disregard for decorum.
I've become mired in a need to control my emotions, my expressions, my behavior. And all for what? I want what this woman exudes from every pore of her enticing body. I want freedom.
For one night only. Aye, one night.
Perhaps if I bury myself inside that lithe body, I might absorb a hint of her…essence.
Ridiculous. I should walk out the door and head home as I'd planned. I shouldn't keep striding toward this woman. And I absolutely should not speak to her.
She has closed her eyes, relishing her drink. Her lips part slightly, and her head slants back a wee bit, accentuating her slender neck.
Turn around, man. Leave now.
I stop behind the empty stool adjacent to hers. "May I take this seat?"
The lass jumps, snapping upright, her eyes wide and blinking furiously. She raises a hand as if to touch her hair, then clamps both palms around the glass.
She is…exquisite. Her shirt clings to her full breasts and highlights the curve of her waist, drawing my gaze lower to her hips and those shapely legs. I can't see her erse, since she's sitting down, but I know it will be as delectable as the rest of her. When I finally settle my gaze on her face, I freeze. She looks so young. Should I, a man approaching forty, proposition a bairn? What if she's underage?
Dimly, I notice the words printed on her shirt—ComicCon. Whatever that means, I don't give a shit.
As she admires my body with unabashed interest, my cock pulses.
I want her with a scorching lust, but I need to make certain. "How old are you?"
She tears her focus away from my lower body. Her lips tick up at the corners. "You must not get lucky very often if you ask women that question."