Scottish Billionaire's Unwanted Baby Read online

  When I looked up, her green eyes were on me, wide and hopeful and a trifle anxious. I realized I’d been quiet for several minutes, and that she was worried about my reaction.

  “Nice work,” I said.

  Her face lit up like I’d handed her the American Architecture Prize. She was so open, so transparent, her every thought written clearly on her face. Her obvious pleasure transformed her from merely pretty to breathtakingly lovely. She was so very unlike the usual women I got involved with, who were prone to sporting an attitude of cynical world-weariness and practiced ennui.

  It occurred to me that being intimate with Isla would be unusually exciting, simply because watching her responses to my every touch would be a delight.

  Besides that, those beautiful lips were made for kissing. And for other activities as well.

  Behave yourself.

  I remembered the note Nell had scrawled for me and sighed. It was, I knew, good advice, and I needed to keep my (metaphorical) kilt in place. Even if I wanted Isla enough to break my rule about sleeping with employees, she was the sort of starry-eyed young woman who would expect romance, love, and that was the one thing I couldn’t give anyone. Not since—

  Well, suffice it to say that love wasn’t something I was capable of. Not anymore.

  At any rate, I couldn’t bring myself take advantage of a young woman this sweet and pure, no matter how sinful her mouth was, no matter how much fun it might be to slowly strip her innocence from her and teach her the pleasures of the flesh. She deserved better than that. And yet… and yet…

  Despite my resolve, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the lushness of her mouth, the fullness of her pink lips. It took my mind to dark and filthy places.

  What are you willing to do to get this job? I imagined asking her.

  In my fantasy, her mouth curved into a wicked, knowing smile. Anything you want, she replied, and slid out of her chair, dropping to her knees in front of me.

  Above us, the muted New York sunshine streamed in through the skylight in the ceiling, casting glimmering lights in her black hair. Her graceful, artistic hands moved with quick competence as she unfastened my trousers. My cock sprang free, already hard and aching, longing for the brush of her lips.

  You’ll have to be better than all the others, I told her.

  Believe me, she murmured, shooting me that sultry smile. I am.

  I imagined her little pink tongue slipping out between those lush lips, stroking the head of my cock, delicately licking away the glistening drop of precum that trembled there, making me groan with pleasure.

  I thought of my hands dropping to her thick, black hair, yanking it out of its prim confines until it tumbled around her shoulders in wild disarray. My fingers would dig into the dark depths of it, pulling her closer, until she drew the head of my cock between her lips and sucked gently but firmly, letting me slide deeper and deeper into her.

  She’d let me possess her, let me fuck the hot depths of her mouth, moving harder, faster, until at last—

  That’s enough, I gritted out in my fantasy and yanked her away. My cock was throbbing, hot and hard, but I needed more, needed to be inside of her. I caught her up in my arms, swept the papers and blueprints onto the floor with one impatient motion, and dropped her on my enormous desk. She smiled up at me, innocent yet knowing.

  Am I performing to your satisfaction, sir?

  I imagined myself rucking the cheap fabric of the navy skirt up around her waist and yanking her panties off, tossing them aside carelessly. Then I leaned down, inhaling the sweet and spicy fragrance of her body. She was wet already, wet for me, and I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I had to taste her.

  At the first stroke of my tongue over her swollen clit, she cried out, begging for more, begging for me to fill her. Her skin was wet with sweat, and her pussy was dripping, throbbing with need. Another stroke of my tongue brought her so near to climax that her thighs trembled.

  Please, Mr. Scott. I need you.

  In my fantasy, I leaned over her on the desk, my cock so swollen it spilled precum all over the tempered glass. Golden sunshine lit her from the skylight above, making her damp skin gleam. Her black hair fell around her face in a wild tumble, and her eyes fluttered shut, the thick lashes lying against her pale skin like fans, as I entered her for the very first time.

  In my fantasy, she wasn’t a virgin, but she was very definitely inexperienced, having only had farm boys with fumbling hands and too-quick triggers, and none of them had ever brought her to orgasm. She was tight, almost unbearably so, and I took her slowly, sinking into her with careful, gentle thrusts, while she cried out and whimpered, her nails raking my back.

  Inch by inch, I slid into her, gasping for breath, till at last, I found myself balls-deep within her, sheathed in her slick, hot pussy. She begged for more, and unable to help myself I began moving harder, faster, fucking her until she wailed with pleasure, until my cock pulsed with each violent thrust.

  At last, I couldn’t take it any longer, couldn’t hold back, and I—

  “Are you all right, Mr. Scott?”

  I blinked myself out of my daydream and realized my fingers were clutching the arm of my chair so hard it was a wonder the chrome hadn’t dented beneath the pressure. I remembered Nell’s warning with a bit of trepidation, and looked up at Ilsa, a little worried that she’d guessed at my decidedly improper thoughts. But her eyes were as sweet and clear as ever.

  “Fine,” I answered gruffly. I realized the iPad was blocking her view of my crotch, which was probably just as well, as I was almost painfully hard. My breathing was rough and uneven, but she didn’t seem to be aware of it. She was looking at me with concern, not disgust or shock.

  She really was an innocent.

  I looked back down at the sketch of the house she’d done, dragging myself back to the task at hand and reaffirming my earlier opinion. She was good, really good. Perhaps even that rare thing, a genius.

  At any rate, I felt that she’d likely be an asset to the company. I always tried to hire women when I could, since unfortunately only about one out of five architects in this country were female. It was a regrettable reality of the business, but one I endeavored to counter whenever I found talented women who wanted to work for my company. And here was, undeniably, a very talented woman.

  “You’re hired,” I said.

  Her eyes lit up, and despite the navy suit and the prim hair, she looked about sixteen. “Really?”

  “Really.” I cleared my throat and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “You start on Monday.”

  “Thank you!” For an instant, she looked like she might fling her arms around my neck, but she thought better of it. “Thank you very much,” she said, in a much more restrained tone. “I look forward to working here, Mr. Scott.”

  “I look forward to it, too,” I said. I intended it as the customary meaningless courtesy, an inane pleasantry uttered at the end of every successful interview. And yet as the words left my mouth I realized they were the stark, absolute truth.

  I was looking forward to having Isla Blizzard work for me far, far more than I should.

  Chapter Three

  Isla

  “Look out, Isla. Old Scotty’s in a really bad mood.”

  Bryce Marshall cast the warning back over his shoulder as he scurried out of the employee break room, a cup of coffee clutched tightly in his hand. Bryce wasn’t as new to the company as I was, but he was still young enough that he could get away with calling Angus Scott “old.”

  Old was the last word I’d use to describe Mr. Scott, personally. Every time I passed him in the wide hallways of AS Architects, I was much more impressed by his looks than his age. Better words to describe him included hot, manly, sexy, totally in his prime…

  But regardless, the fact that Mr. Scott was in a bad mood wasn’t news. As far as I could tell, he was always in a bad mood. Not that I’d had a lot of interaction with him, luckily. I’d loved the last few weeks at AS Archi
tects. The work was challenging, the hours were insane, and the people were all creative and hard-working. It was just as much of a dream job as I’d imagined it would be.

  But Angus Scott was…

  Well, fortunately, I didn’t report to him. I pitied those who did though. I’d seen how he treated the employees who didn’t work hard enough to please him, the way he’d stalk toward them until they backed up against the nearest wall, then shouted at them until they subsided meekly into silence. When he got angry, his Scottish accent slowly thickened until his words were practically unintelligible. You didn’t have to understand his meaning to grasp that he was severely pissed off though.

  I picked up my coffee, sighing. I’d spent all morning going over someone else’s drawings, checking them for accuracy, and I’d hoped to sit at one of the tables in the break room and relax for a few moments while I got my morning dose of caffeine. But if Mr. Scott was on the warpath, I figured I’d better get back to work. Up until now, I’d avoided becoming the target of his wrath.

  I really wanted to keep it that way.

  But as I headed for the hallway, Angus Scott suddenly loomed in the doorway, blocking it.

  “You there, lassie,” he barked out. “Isla, isn’t it?”

  He looked as sexy as ever, wearing his usual flawless white shirt and plaid tie. The tie had been loosened around his neck, and the sleeves were casually rolled up, displaying his forearms. They looked incredibly strong, and I wanted to run my fingers over them, to feel the silky little hairs and the powerful, sculpted muscles beneath the skin…

  Down, Isla.

  This wasn’t the time for me to indulge in sexual fantasies about my boss. My boss who was in a really, really dangerous mood, judging from the look on his face. Bryce hadn’t been kidding. Angus Scott might be in a bad mood more often than not… but this looked like a really bad mood.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, and was proud to note my voice didn’t shake.

  He advanced on me, and I planted my three-inch heels firmly in the industrial carpeting and refused to budge. I’d seen him back too many people into walls in an attempt to cow them, and I wasn’t going to give an inch to him. I was pretty sure he wasn’t mad at me, anyway. I was only a junior architect and wasn’t working on anything important enough for him to be pissed at me personally. He was probably just looking for someone to take his rage out on.

  I looked him straight in the eye unflinchingly, and an odd expression crossed his face. It might have been respect. I hoped it was, anyway.

  “I just booted John Wright out the door,” he announced. Because he was still pissed, out sounded like oot. “He’s gone fer good.”

  My heart sank. John Wright had been my supervisor. I hadn’t loved working for him—he’d always seemed a little vague and unfocused, like he wasn’t quite sure what we were supposed to be doing much of the time—but the fact that directly after he’d been fired, Mr. Scott had come to find me, didn’t bode well. I wondered if something I’d done had gotten poor John in trouble. Had I screwed up?

  “I-I’m sorry to hear that,” I managed. Despite myself, my voice quavered a bit. If I got fired from a job at the crème de la crème of architect firms after only three weeks, I might as well go home to Kilmarnock. My career would be a smoking ruin.

  “It’s aboot bloody time, if ye ask me. Mon’s been a bowfin’ scunner to me fer months noo—” He must have seen my face, which I imagine said plainly What on earth are you trying to tell me? because he paused, drew a deep breath, and switched over to a more American dialect. “That is, he hasn’t been performing up to par for quite a while now. I suspected he had issues, and sure enough, I caught him shooting up in the bathroom today.”

  “Oh. I see.” That explained the lack of focus I’d noticed. “So you fired him.”

  “I did, right on the spot. But here’s the problem. Wright was working on the last bit of the Imperial project. You know the one I mean?”

  I nodded. AS Architects was designing a huge, multi-million-dollar apartment complex, to be built in the Flatiron District. Wright had been responsible for creating a café that would be the heart of the entire complex—the place where the occupants of the apartments could grab a coffee to start their day, or drop by after work, or simply hang out on weekends. It was to be grand and homey all at once, welcoming and friendly, yet built with the expensive materials and rich stylistic touches that suited the upper-class area.

  “I’ve heard people talking about it,” I answered. “I haven’t worked on it personally though.”

  “You are working on it as of now.”

  I blinked up at him, feeling as stunned as if he’d hit me in the head with a two by four. The opportunity to work on ASA’s biggest current project was much more than I would ever have hoped for. “What?”

  “You’re heading up the project. You’ll be finishing up the details and getting it ready to go by Friday.”

  “Me?” My voice squeaked despite my best efforts. Not only working on it but heading it? I wondered if I was hearing things. “But I’m not—I mean—I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. I’ve seen your work, Isla. Trust me. You can do this.”

  His baritone voice had fallen into a calmer, smoother register, flowing over my frayed nerves like honey and, for the first time, I saw what made him a great boss. He might have a hair-trigger temper, but he was also capable of projecting a kind of steady confidence that made me feel like I could single-handedly build a skyscraper to rival the Empire State Building.

  I drew in a long, deep breath, and then let it out again.

  “All right,” I said.

  ***

  The next five days flew by in a chaotically hectic blur. I hadn’t expected to be in charge of a project so soon after joining ASA, but I did need to accumulate a lot of hours as a project manager in order to eventually get my architecture license, so in the long run, this would help my career. Besides, it was great experience.

  Some of the people working on the project were a lot older than me, and most had a good deal more experience. I saw some annoyed looks cast in my direction, and even heard a bitter murmur or two: Scotty must’ve been looking at her legs instead of her résumé. But these people were professionals, and furtive whispers aside, they treated me with pleasant courtesy and respect. We worked together until midnight every night and staggered back into the office at six a.m.

  Late Friday afternoon, I approached the enormous wooden doors of Mr. Scott’s office, steeled myself, and knocked. I didn’t hear a reply, but that was hardly surprising, as the doors were thick and heavy. Tentatively, I pushed one of the doors open a crack.

  “Mr. Scott?”

  He was standing in front of the windows, staring out over the New York City skyline. His shoulders were tense, his fists clenched, his posture rigid, and my first thought was that he was angry. But as I looked more closely at his sharp-cut profile, I saw something almost like sorrow etched into the lines of his face.

  “Is this a bad time, Mr. Scott?”

  He seemed to come to himself with a jerk. He looked over at me, and his mouth curved into an unconvincing smile. “Isla. Good. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I have the café project for you to look over, sir.” I walked across the office, my iPad in one hand and the paper blueprints in the other—because even though we do most of our designing on CAD nowadays, we still do use paper as well.

  “Let’s take a look,” he said. There was something odd about his voice, something almost hollow, and it began to dawn on me that something was wrong. I didn’t know why, but it was clear that Angus Scott was having a very bad day.

  The two of us sat down on the black leather couch in his office, and his mood seemed to lift as he carefully looked over the project. By the time he’d finished examining the blueprints, his smile looked a little more sincere.

  “This is incredible work, Isla,” he said at last.

  “It wasn’t just me, sir. My whole team has been working d
ay and night on this.”

  “I know. But you did well, motivating them to work that hard. As young as you are, you’re a very good manager.”

  I felt my cheeks heating. There it was again—that tone that made me feel like I could easily throw together one of the Great Pyramids out of river stone and some bubblegum. Angus Scott was a hell of a motivator himself.

  Or maybe my cheeks were growing warm because we were seated close together, on his leather couch. His leg was next to mine, so close we were almost touching, and his hands—big, strong, competent hands—were only inches from mine. I smelt his scent—clean skin and some faint whisper of masculine soap, like a cool breeze through a pine forest—and it made me want to… to…

  Well, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to shove him over on the couch and straddle him.

  Down, Isla, I thought again. It was ridiculous to be having these thoughts about my unapproachable, distant, angry boss. Yes, he was impossibly (and unfairly) sexy, but he was also way, way out of my reach.

  I just haven’t been laid in too long, I decided. It wasn’t so much that Angus Scott was gorgeous; it was just that I needed someone, anyone, to have sex with. I was thirsty, that was all. Not thirsty for him, specifically. Any reasonably decent-looking guy would do.

  But I knew that I was kidding myself and that it was indeed Angus Scott I needed. No matter how foolish it might be, no matter how far out of my league he was… I wanted him. What woman wouldn’t?

  He looked at me for a long moment, his expression difficult to read. The sorrow I thought I’d seen earlier had vanished now, replaced by a glint in his blue eyes that was almost devil-may-care. The sort of reckless look that says what the fuck, I’ll worry about the consequences tomorrow.

  “You’ve done a great job on this, Isla,” he finally said. “I know how hard you’ve worked, and you deserve a night off. I have a bottle of Romanee-Conti a client gave me, and I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. Care to celebrate, and share it with me?”

  I gulped. I might be a small-town farm girl, but I wasn’t stupid. Drinking a bottle of wine with this gorgeous, sexy-smelling man would be dangerous. Very dangerous. I remembered the whispers I’d heard: He’s more interested in her legs than her résumé. Already, I knew, I was skating on extremely thin ice when it came to earning the respect of my colleagues. Drinking with the boss, even if it didn’t lead to anything more damning than a hangover, was likely to send my reputation in this company into a tailspin.