Scottish Billionaire's Unwanted Baby Page 4

  “It’s about time you got laid!”

  The people at the nearest three tables turned to stare at us, and my cheeks reddened. “Shhh, Marnie. I don’t need to share this with all of New York, okay?”

  “Sorry,” she said in a stage whisper. “But how was it? Hot? Is he as gorgeous as he looks in the magazines? Is he incredible in bed? Tell me everything!”

  “It was…” Wonderful. Awesome. The most incredible experience of my lifetime. I didn’t feel totally comfortable sharing that with anyone yet though, not even my very best friend. “Mr. Scott is definitely gorgeous, Marnie. And so brilliant. And his accent…”

  “I bet it’s sexy.”

  “Oh, yeah, very. He tries really hard to speak American, most of the time, but he just can’t quite manage it. It’s kind of…” I thought about it for a long moment, and despite my best efforts to control my expressions, I felt the corners of my mouth curving upward. “Well, adorable.”

  Some of Marnie’s excitement seemed to fade, and she looked at me, wide-eyed. A little concerned, even. “You’re falling for him. Aren’t you?”

  “Of course not. I’m not stupid, you know. I’m just a junior-level architect, a mere peasant, and he—he’s Angus Scott. The Angus Scott. Last night was…” A night to dream about for the rest of my life. “Fun. But it’s not like anything will come of it.”

  She grinned evilly. “Sounds like something already came of it.”

  “Shush, Marn. Behave yourself for once. The point is that it isn’t going to happen again. Mr. Scott dates models and actresses and queens of society, and I’m just…”

  “Beautiful and sweet and innocent. Better than all those other women by a landslide. Why shouldn’t he want to keep you around?”

  I couldn’t help laughing at her instant loyal response. “You’re biased, Marn.”

  “True. But I have eyes, and I know you’re prettier than a lot of models. More real, too.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grateful for the kind words, though I don’t think I’m especially pretty. At least I wasn’t going to be asked to appear on the cover of Vogue any time soon. “But the thing is, it was just an impulse on his part. We had a little wine, and it seemed like he was a little upset, and, well, one thing led to another. But it’s obviously not going to happen again. So what should I do now? Pretend it didn’t happen, or go talk to Mr. Scott, get it out in the open between us, and make sure it doesn’t affect our professional relationship?”

  “There’s a third option, you know.”

  I frowned at her. “A third option?”

  “Sure. Why don’t you just continue mixing business and pleasure?” She winked at me. “I know I would.”

  I heaved another sigh. “I wish I could. But…”

  “Of course you can, Isla. Look…” Her voice lowered, becoming uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve always worked incredibly hard. You’ve spent so many years focused on your dreams that you never look around, never take the time to have a little fun. But now fate has thrown fun right at you. You’re not going to ignore it, are you? Isla, you have a chance to have a good time here. Take it.”

  I couldn’t deny that I’d like to make love to Angus Scott again. And again, and again, and again. Fun it had certainly been. And Marnie was right in that my life up till now had been, if not entirely dull, more centered around work than play. Indulging in a little playtime with Angus Scott didn’t sound like such a terrible idea, honestly.

  But there was this huge, insurmountable problem. Namely, that I was working for him, and I didn’t think it would be good for the long-term health of my career if my coworkers began whispering about my relationship with the founder of the company.

  Besides, I truly couldn’t imagine that a handsome, brilliant, sexy billionaire could possibly be looking for a continuing affair with a junior architect barely out of college. A single night of passion, yes. Weeks or months? Definitely not.

  The thought that I’d never have that again with him felt like a rock in my chest, but I shrugged, doing my best to look like I didn’t care that much. “I’ll think about it, Marnie.”

  But inwardly, I already knew what I had to do.

  I’d go speak to Mr. Scott on Monday and make sure that we both agreed this wouldn’t happen again.

  ***

  Angus

  I leaned back against the Italian marble walls of my shower, letting the water sluice over my body, and sighed in relief. I’d spent the morning at the office (Saturdays are rarely a day off for the owner of one of the largest architecture firms in the world), and I had discovered I was more than a little stiff. Not, I suspected, from sitting at an office, but rather from fucking Isla last night.

  But it had been worth it. So very worth it.

  My eyes drifted shut, and I remembered the way her creamy white skin had looked against the black leather of my couch… The way the silken ebony waterfall of her hair had draped down over the leather, cascading nearly to the floor… The sweet scent of her skin, mingling with the sharper tangs of leather and sweat.

  The soft, surprised sounds she’d made in my ear as she came, as if no one had ever truly shown her pleasure before.

  I realized I was hard again, just thinking about her.

  Not just sort of hard, either. I was so hard it hurt.

  I reached down and wrapped my hand around my cock, stroking lazily while I fantasized about how she’d felt—her arms around my shoulders, her legs around my hips, her fingers tangling in my hair. I thought about how good it felt to sink deep into her soft, wet body, and how perfectly we’d fit, like she was made for me.

  I remembered how she’d responded, so shyly eager, her hands running over my back, exploring my muscles like she’d never felt anything quite like me before. I remembered the soft whimpers she’d made as I sank into her for the first time.

  The water poured over me, and the muted sunshine of a New York autumn shone in through the huge windows of the bathroom, and my hand moved harder. Just thinking about her made me desperate to come, suffused with an urgent and driving need I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. My cock ached with the need for release, and when I forced my eyes open and looked down, I saw precum beading on the head and then slowly trickling down the swollen shaft. My balls drew up taut against my body, and I groaned, low and deep.

  I never make a sound when I’m having a chug—or jerking off, as Americans say. But the thought of Isla was doing something strange to my insides. I was filled with hunger, utterly consumed with it, and every movement of my hand made electricity spark through me.

  I want to fuck her again, I thought, and the very idea almost brought me to my knees with a shock of pleasure. I hadn’t fucked Isla with any intention besides a quick release of tension, something sweet and pleasant to wash away my sorrows, but to my surprise, I realized that I wanted her again. Her soft body and her silken hair and the sweet, wavering cry she made as she came, as I filled her with my seed—

  A long rumbling groan tore out of my chest as I jerked my cock, hard and fast, and came to the thought of Miss Isla Blizzard crying out beneath me. Cum spurted from me in long, incredibly pleasurable spasms, in a gut-wrenching climax that made me shudder.

  When it was over, I collapsed back against the wall, thighs trembling, chest heaving. If I hadn’t had the marble to lean against, I think I actually would’ve fallen to my knees. It was that intense.

  I breathed deeply for a few moments, getting control over myself and letting the steam revive me. Then I began rinsing the mess I’d made off the wall (there are some things a maid shouldn’t be asked to do, after all). In the midst of it, I paused, blinking, and remembered my thoughts about spilling my seed inside of her.

  Shit. Shit. I’d been so fucked up in the head yesterday that I’d forgotten to use a condom.

  I growled, annoyed with myself. I really had reverted to a stupid teenager yesterday, hadn’t I? I wondered if my stupidity could be blamed on the emotional toll Da’s death had taken… or i
f something about Isla had made me lose control of myself so completely.

  I decided not to worry about that particular question right now. I stepped back under the water, scrubbed myself quickly but thoroughly, and stepped out of the tub.

  My penthouse on West 57th had spectacular views in all directions, allowing me to see the Hudson and East Rivers, as well as an almost endless variety of buildings. But right now I was facing a long, beautiful vista of Central Park. The leaves were turning scarlet and amber—a brilliant sight to take your breath away. And yet despite the sprawling views of Manhattan spread out before me, a deep ache filled my chest as I thought of home.

  Braehaven was nothing at all like the city. There was nothing of chrome and steel and glass about it, nothing new or shiny or flashy. It seemed as old as the hills around it, the great stone walls speaking mutely of security and antiquity and unshakeable serenity. The old castle was one with the Scottish land.

  And so, perhaps, was I.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist, I stared moodily out over the city—Central Park and the tall buildings pressing close about it—and admitted to myself that I’d always meant to go back to Braehaven, sooner or later. Maybe not to live full-time, since it isn’t easy to run an enormous architecture firm from the hills of Scotland, but I couldn’t imagine myself having children and not spending at least some of our time there.

  Children. The images that word called up struck deep into my heart like a dirk. I’d always craved the warmth of family life, imagined myself with children and hearth and home, but once I’d walked away from Una, I never really thought I could have any of that. I hadn’t let myself even think about it in years.

  For the first time since Ma had told me about the terms of Da’s will, I let myself consider the possibility that he’d simply wanted what was best for me. Maybe, despite our long estrangement, he’d understood me better than I understood myself; had recognized that I still wanted a wife and children, on some level at least. Maybe, with the terms of his will, he’d done his best to compel me to accept that simple truth.

  But even if a family was something I longed for, deep down, there was no one in my life I could imagine spending my life with, whether in East Ayrshire or in New York City. No long-term lover, nor any woman I’d admired from afar for years. I wanted children, but when I envisioned them running across the emerald lawns of my ancestral home, or walking through the streets of New York with their little hands in mine… I couldn’t seem to envision a woman’s face to go with them.

  But I had to marry within six months, or I would lose Braehaven forever, and maybe my deepest, most cherished dreams as well.

  Absurd, I told myself. There’s no one I’d want to wed, no one at all.

  But then a face flashed through my mind. Sweet, innocent green eyes, and rippling black hair…

  Isla.

  It could work. She might be willing to accept a marriage (in name only, of course). I already knew that I admired her intellect and found her attractive. According to my mother, my father’s will stipulated that I had to remain married for two years—and I thought I could easily tolerate being with Isla for that amount of time. She might not be the sort of woman I ordinarily dated, but she was brilliant and beautiful and kind.

  The thought flashed through my mind that I might be able to happily tolerate spending far more than two years with her, but I ignored that idea, because it was foolish. I wasn’t looking for a long-term marriage here, after all.

  Despite myself, I imagined her pregnant with a baby, my baby. The thought of her body rounding out as she carried my child made something in my heart clench with a strange longing. But I pushed the thought away firmly. After all, the only thing I wanted, all I needed a wife for, was to save Braehaven.

  I would ask Isla to marry me, I decided. It made sense to do so. But it would simply be a cold-blooded, logical business arrangement. An emotionless partnership between two strangers.

  And absolutely nothing more.

  Chapter Six

  Isla

  On Monday morning, I girded myself for battle.

  I put on the most professional, unsexy suit I could find in my closet. It was black, with a jacket that buttoned over my breasts and a slim pencil skirt that reached all the way down to my knees, and I paired it with a steel-gray silk blouse that covered me right on up to my chin. I gathered my hair back in as stern a bun as I could manage, put on black flats rather than my usual heels, and studied myself in the gilt-framed mirror.

  I looked like a librarian, I decided with satisfaction. There was nothing whatsoever in my reflection to suggest I might be the sort of woman who’d seduce the boss, or allow herself to be seduced. I looked serious. Thoughtful.

  Sexless.

  When I walked into AS Architects, I paused at my desk just long enough to check my email, and found a message from Mr. Scott’s receptionist, Nell Evans, telling me to go to his office at nine.

  Ice shot down my spine. I was sure I wasn’t about to be fired—Mr. Scott might be a jerk much of the time, but he wasn’t the sort to sleep with a woman and then try to claim it was her fault—but I didn’t imagine he wanted to have sex with me again, either. As I’d told Marnie, I was pretty sure that night could be attributed to wine more than any real attraction between us.

  Well, I was attracted to Mr. Scott. I couldn’t deny that. But who wouldn’t be? But surely he wasn’t attracted to me. Not that way.

  At any rate, I wasn’t sure what Mr. Scott could want from me, first thing on a Monday morning, and that made my stomach squirm with nerves. It was already nine, though, so I sighed, got to my feet, and headed for the executive offices, squaring my shoulders and walking briskly. My coworkers glanced up and greeted me as I passed, which ordinarily might have seemed warm and friendly, but today it all felt far too much like a walk of shame for my comfort.

  I said hello to Ms. Evans, and she smiled at me. I couldn’t tell if it was a smile of simple friendliness… or pity.

  “Go right on in, dear.”

  I lifted my chin and knocked on the huge doors, and at the acknowledging rumble from within, I squared my shoulders and strode into the lion’s den.

  Mr. Scott stood by the windows again. This time he wasn’t staring glumly over the skyline. His gaze raked over me as I entered, and then he moved swiftly toward me.

  He reached behind me to lock the big doors, and then bent, capturing my lips with his.

  Startled though I was, I couldn’t help responding. I found my arms wrapping around his neck and my lips parting before I could mount any sort of resistance. Our tongues met in an intimate caress, and it was warm and sweet and wonderful.

  But then I felt his big hand moving against my breast, trying to unbutton my suit jacket, and I jerked away.

  “Stop it,” I said, trying to sound firm despite the fact that my voice was shaking. “We can’t… we can’t do this. Mr. Scott.”

  His lips curved into a smile. I hadn’t seen him smile very much, and the way it lit up his blue eyes almost took my breath away. I stared, gaping foolishly.

  “That’s not what you said the other night,” he said.

  I growled under my breath, because he was right, damn it. I hadn’t done a thing to stop him Friday night, and I hadn’t called him Mr. Scott then, either. I remembered whispering his name, his first name, as I clung to him, and shame hit me hard, heating my cheeks and freezing my heart in my chest. I lifted my chin and glared at him, trying for dignity—or as much dignity as a woman can project after a man’s tongue has just been in her mouth.

  “I think this discussion is over, Mr. Scott.”

  I turned to walk out of the office, but he caught me by the wrist, very gently.

  “Hang on, Isla. I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely remorseful—a tone that was at odds with his usual excessive confidence—and I turned back slowly, curious. “Would you please sit down? I’d like for us to talk.”

  I lifted an eyebrow, and he grinned ruefully.

&
nbsp; “Just to talk, Isla.”

  I thought about it a moment and then acquiesced. Because after all, I’d decided the two of us needed to talk too. I just hadn’t expected him to seem to want me again, and it had thrown me off.

  And confused me. Because, of course, he couldn’t really want me. Not Isla Blizzard, the simple farm girl from Kilmarnock, Virginia. It was impossible.

  “All right,” I said, and allowed him to lead me to the couch. He sat down, leaving a reasonable amount of space between us, and looked at me for a long moment.

  “I know you miss your home sometimes,” he said slowly, as if trying to feel his way into what he needed to say. “I remember you talking about your parents’ farm Friday night.”

  I remembered it too. I’d been too chatty—my usual reaction to alcohol—and I’d gone on and on about my Hanoverian mare Cassiopeia, better known as Cassie. When I was in high school, my parents had to sell her, due to their financial issues, and I’d cried for a week. But selling her had allowed me to go to college, and now Cassie was being ridden and trained by a skilled professional who might just make the U.S. Equestrian Team. So it hadn’t been a bad thing, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a twist of pain in my chest every time I thought about her. It didn’t stop me from missing her.

  And babbling about her, I recalled with a flush of embarrassment.

  “Yes,” I responded, with as much stiff dignity as I could muster up. “Sometimes I miss the farm.”

  “Me too.” He sighed, and looked away from me, toward the skyline. “New York is beautiful, but it’s nothing like Braehaven, nothing at all.”

  “Braehaven,” I echoed. “Your home?”

  “The castle where I grew up, aye.”

  I blinked. “You grew up in a castle?”

  “Well…” He offered me a self-deprecating shrug and a wry twist of his lips. “It’s called a castle. It still has towers dating from the Middle Ages, but most of it was actually built in the Regency era. Still, it’s quite a house.” He slipped into his native accent for a moment, pronouncing it hoose.