Page 1 of Lochlan

CHAPTER1

AMERICAN WOMAN

LOCHLAN

“Hunk alert!” screams a female, accompanied by the clanging of a large, obnoxious cowbell. She's swaying dangerously on a stool next to the bar, holding the bell high above her head in one hand while egging her companions on with the other. She rings it again, the sound piercing the air like a scream. I can't figure out where the damn bell came from, but the sound is splitting my skull.

I'm in the doorway watching about thirty fit young women, some huddled in clusters, while others are standing on black leather couches and chairs, giving a cheering response to the bell ringer.

Their raucous behavior is disturbing in this newly designed space of tarnished metal and aged wood. We use this place for private parties because it's well away from the main MacTavish Cellars tasting room, which is packed to the rafters at the moment. I came back here to check on this group on my way to look over a shipment we received this morning in the barrel room. I realized something was wrong when I heard muffled shouting coming from the room.

The cowbell clangs again and I resist the urge to rush in and yank that thing away from her before I sustain permanent damage. The cowbell-wielding blonde sings out, “What do we want, sisters?” while motioning to the crowd to respond to her maniacal question. The women chant, “Hunk, hunk, hunk,” demanding a mob's satisfaction.

Shaun, my server, is wild-eyed and backed against the front of the bar, two stools away from the blonde, fearing for the safety of his manhood. I will kill him for letting this hen party get out of hand. I do a quick search of these brash women. Where the hell is Preston? They both should be working this party, and Preston should be showing Shaun the ropes. Why did he leave a newbie alone with a room full of women?

I slip behind the bar, unseen at the moment by the blonde, to restore order to this chaos. The chant is getting louder. Shaun's pleading gaze swings to me. I grab a bottle and glasses and lean toward him. “Find Preston and tell him to get his arse back in here. Get Geordie and Calum in here as well,” I say, trying to prevent my voice from carrying. He bobs his head before bolting away from the bar and through the crowd of women, their chants following him as he disappears through the doors.

I'm formulating how to deal with these female hooligans when I catch the attention of the bonny blonde with the cowbell. She's staring down at me with a predatory grin, the tip of her tongue moving over plump red lips. The lass keeps her gaze on me while she stoops to place the bell on the bar, then casually jumps off the stool. She raises a hand toward the women, still staring at me, and the chanting fades to a dull murmur. Her obedient cult followers slowly remove themselves from the furniture. They're talking among themselves but are keeping an eye on their leader. Blondie tosses her head back, sizing me up.

“You look like the real deal.” Her voice is sexy smoke and honey, unexpected for someone who looks like a sun-kissed beach girl. She drags her gaze down the length of my body. I'm not happy being judged as a piece of meat, but working here, you accept the attention. When she finishes her long scrutiny, her attention settles on my face.That's right, look me in the eyes,I telegraph back to her,I'm not intimidated by your antics.

Her smirk says she's enjoying her brash behavior. “A big strapping hottie like you and in a kilt to boot, but then again, all the men here are equally as hot and wearing kilts.”

I take her measure. She's pretty enough, with hair to her waist and a tall, athletic body, but she's not my type. “Aye lass, they call me Lochlan,” I say, laying on the Scottish brogue thicker and rougher to keep her interest. The customers seem to like this version; it goes on well with the females. If I can calm the ringleader, maybe I can prevent the rest of them from trashing the place. I lean on the bar, giving her the full ration of my devious smile that I use for emergencies such as this. “And what's a pretty lass like you called?”

She slides her elbows onto the bar, trying to get as close as she can without joining me on the other side, wiggling her spank-worthy bum a little. “My name's Poppy. Nice to meet you, Lochlan.” She chucks her chin toward the door. “Did you send out for reinforcements, because you're going to need it with these women.”

“I have, but I'll be enjoying myself with you beauties for as long as I can.” I grab a few more glasses, place them on the bar, and begin pouring. “Will all you fine lassies be wanting a taste of this excellent sauvignon blanc?” I announce.

Poppy swipes a glass, placing it to her lips. “I'd like a big taste of you instead,” she mumbles, drains the small portion of wine, then holds the glass out for more.

I top off her wine. “Let see how the tasting goes first, Miss Poppy. There are other lads here willing to accommodate your needs far better than I can.” She glances up at me and, St. Andrew's balls, she's a sight with those hooded green eyes offering herself, but it won't be me who'll be giving her a ride.

“I've heard you don't date the customers,” she says pointedly. “Is that a rule around here or haven't you found anyone you like to...?” She smiles, allowing her words to trail off from that why-don't-you-fuck-me innuendo.

I try to look unaffected by opening another bottle. “Is that what they say? Do people have nothing better to speculate?”

“That's what I read in theMetrolast month. They had a big spread about the MacTavish wines and Lochlan MacTavish.”

I said that to the reporter because it seems a fair number of women in Silicon Valley want to try it on with a Scotsman.

There's a thundering outside the door, and the chatter inside the room stops.

Preston, Geordie, Calum, and Shaun burst through the door, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking like the Highland Cavalry. They're all big men, filling up the space and receiving admiring glances from the ladies. Geordie's my cousin, and the biggest of the lot; his brawn makes him look more like a contestant at a caber toss than the MacTavish winemaker. I'm grateful these formidable men are providing the expected reaction from the women. I'll just need to roll their tongues back into these lassie's mouths before we serve them.

Poppy's observation was right; all the male servers must wear kilts. I nod to my brothers in arms, and they pass out the glasses. I come around the bar to stand on Poppy's stool, raising a glass. “Before we discuss the finer points of this godly nectar we are about to enjoy, I want to make a toast.” The men return to formation near the door. “These words are usually reserved for the drinking of our fine scotch whiskey, but the MacTavish wines are a worthy rival.” Expectant faces look back at me. I rack my brain for some words to mark the occasion. I don't have a sweet fuck of what I'm going to say, then I'm granted inspiration.

I raise my glass higher, turning my attention to the females. “Here's to the sweet charms of the lassies before me.” The women do a great sigh, enough to melt an icy heart in winter. I glance at the males. “Here's to the faithful friends among us.” The men grant me the noble respect of their solemn nods. “Let us drink to our loves that are tender and true and may they be everlasting. Air do shlàinte, which means your good health. Now when someone raises a glass to your health, this is what you reply: slàinte agad-sa, meaning health at yourself in the Gaelic.” I say it again slower, for them to repeat. The women reply, helped by the men. “Take a sip,” I encourage. “Now you're all proper Scots.” The females cheer, encouraged by the men for their enthusiastic participation. The quick exercise in wine appreciation has civilized the mob, allowing the men to circulate and charm the women to distraction.

“I'll be leaving you fair lassies in the capable hands of the MacTavish men,” I announce.

There's a collective moan as I leave my perch and set my glass on the counter. I give a slight bow to acknowledge their appreciation, then skirt the bar and swipe the cowbell off the counter as Poppy tries to catch my hand, but I'm too quick. To her obvious dismay, she counters with her sexy red-lipped pout; the sight stirs me and tugs at my boaby. I need to leave before I drag her out of this room and give her what she's been wanting. “Now, Miss Poppy,” I warn. She swipes at the bell again, but I've got it well out of her reach. “You don't need your wee bell; Geordie will see you have it on your way out.”

“Which one is Geordie?” She searches the room with fake innocence.

I point out the big, red-bearded man with the wide grin.

Her eyes grow to an enormous size. “Ooooh,” she mouths, and I take my leave.

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