Page 112 of Screwged for Christmas

“You live in a fortress?” I stared at him.

“Technically, it’s a castle.” Malcolm glanced at me.

My eyes met his for a second. The heat I saw there surprised and confused me.

Okay, I hadn’t imagined that.

“I asked you to find me a hotel room, not take me to your lair.”

“Welshmen have lairs, my ancestral home is Lachlan Castle.”

“And mine is a walk-up in the Bronx.” It was like all the air had been pushed out of my lungs. The stalker, the jet lag, Malcolm, and now this fucking castle. I was utterly disoriented, and I didn’t do disoriented. I was a control freak.

“I know,” he said.

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“That’s really what you want to know right now?” He eased the car closer to the castle, which now loomed over us like a fucking fortress. Castle my ass.

“Does this place have a dungeon?”

Malcolm’s lips twitched in a smile. “I can arrange a private tour. Handcuffs and all.” He drove past the circular drive that led up to stone steps to a massive wooden front door.

I was utterly confused as he pulled the car around the back. The tires crunched on the gravel drive.

A young man trotted out to meet us from a carriage house. He wore the cap and jacket that Fergus had been wearing.

Malcolm unrolled his window.

“Evening, Your Grace.” The young man’s mouth opened at the sight of me in the passenger seat. He paled under his freckles. “Excuse me, Sir. I didn’t know…”

“Evening, Jaime.” Malcolm’s tone was easy. “Don’t worry. Just see to the car. I’ll get the lady inside.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to the bags.”

“I don’t have any bags. I won’t be staying.” I was pleased to have found my voice, no matter that it cracked at the end.

Dammit. I wasn’t a piece of luggage they could discuss transferring.

Malcolm put the car in park. I reached around to pull my backpack off the back seat when my door was opened.

“What?” I pursued my lips at him, hoping to hide how the sight of him looming next to me with his now partially wet white shirt open at the neck. I could see his nipples and remembered how his chest felt flattened against me.

Malcolm lifted one leg up on the running board of the vehicle. effectively blocking my exit. His kilt rode higher and exposed the skin above his black boots. My gaze devoured a bare calf, knee, and lower thigh.

The answer all women want to know what within my grasp. A flick of my wrist and I would finally know what a man wore under one of those things.

Another thought hit. At the thought of exploring all that delicious landscape with my tongue, my mouth watered.

Malcolm’s fingers tipped my chin up to meet his gaze. His dark brown eyes bore into me. “My house. My rules.” He dropped his hand to help me out the vehicle.

Heat radiated from his touch, sweeping over every part of my body like a flash fire.

My spine stiffened.

“Fine. Whatever.” I pulled my arm from his grasp and I headed for the back door of the fucking castle. “For the record, Your Grace is kind of an asshole.” I tossed over my shoulder.

Malcolm’s dark laugh echoed behind me.

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