Page 91 of Filthy Lovin Heroes

The man across the room dripped sex appeal and was dressed like some Scottie McHottie I conjured from my wildest fantasies. A crisp white shirt clung to every groove and dip of muscle with a tartan sash cut across said muscles that naturally drew my eyes to a kilt.

My eyebrows shot up. Merry Christmas to me!

Holy. Hot. Fuck.

“Your Grace.” Fergus whipped his cap off and bobbed his head as he jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. “We’re having a bit of dinner. The Miss was hungry.”

Poor Fergus. Malcolm had that effect on people.

Malcolm barely glanced at his servant, who was nervously twisting his cap in his hands. “Finish your dinner, Fergus.” He glared at me. “You and me. We’re leaving now.”

I drew my mouth into a tight frown. Holy Mother of God.

Part of me wanted to slap that arrogant asshole into the middle of next week. And the other part, even more appallingly, was turned on by his He-Man act. Was it something in the Scottish water that made me turn into a village maiden around the massive brooding Duke?

Alas, wet panties or not, the moment passed. Being born and raised in the Bronx, I was made of sterner stuff.

“Nice to see you too, Malcolm.” I turned back to my empty plate. “I’m not ready to go yet. You can’t just slam in here and order me around.”

A cruel smile played at the corner of Malcolm’s lovely mouth. “I just did.”

“Well, you are going to have to wait. I’m going to finish my beer.” This was the same beer that three minutes ago I had no intention of drinking.

Across from me, Fergus remained standing. His round face reddened in discomfort. I could feel the attention of the bar patrons shift from their game to our little drama. I felt terrible for Fergus caught in the middle of our power play.

I rolled my eyes at Malcolm as I stood up. “Thanks for the ride, Fergus. Please enjoy the rest of your dinner in peace.”

“Ma’am. Your Grace.” He bobbed again.

Malcolm had another thing coming if he thought I would be falling all over him. He marched me to door, pausing before he opened it. His hand on my upper elbow was overkill. And hot. I was in emotional whiplash. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to smack him or smother my body against him.

I reached for the door.

“Wait.” He pulled his tartan sash off, unfolding the thick plaid weave. It was much larger than I thought as he placed it around my shoulders. It was heavy and carried lingering hints of his aftershave. Inhaling that scent sent me back to a time when I stood close to him at work, then to the night he and I piled into my twin bed and he ravished my body.

My panties were soaked and I’d not even made it to the car.

I caught sight of us in the pub’s dark window reflection. Malcolm’s white shirt clung wetly to his chiseled form while his tartan swam on me. There was no missing the message—I was the property of the Duke.

He shouldered the door open, and we stepped outside. The biting wind blew in my face, carrying my breath away. I pulled the tartan tighter around me and Malcolm angled his body to shelter me.

His Range Rover had a black leather interior that smelled brand new. When we settled inside, I snuck a glance at him. Sitting in a fancy car wearing a kilt was a visual mishmash.

I was glad I hadn’t finished that pint. I had the strongest urge to giggle, which was not the tack to take. I had to make it clear to Malcolm that I was not some fainting fucking flower. Sure, I had a stalker who attacked me, but as long as I refused to think about it, I could pretend this was a well-deserved European vacation. I would return to New York in a few weeks, once the detective had apprehended the stalker.

One week I reminded myself. Not weeks.

But I could dream.

Between him cranking the heat, the seat warmers, and the tartan, I couldn’t really complain about the chill of Scotland in December. Though if I were cold, the anger radiating off Malcolm would have generated some heat.

I glanced over at him to see his furrowed brow.

His profile was gorgeous, of course. All rugged manliness and with a slightly scruffy beard. He wore his hair a bit longer now and my fingers itched to brush it away from his collar.

Get a grip.

He was obviously annoyed by my visit. I’d only asked him for help finding a room. He was the one who insisted on the rest. The inconvenience I had caused him was not my doing, but his.

---