Page 19

Claire stretched, her breast aching, her middle cramping with need, her mind filled with images of Cam as she’d seen him that first night, naked and glorious … only this time they were making love. God, he was beautiful. She rolled, seeking his warmth, and instead felt cold sheets and sunshine.

Damn, she’d been dreaming again.

She opened one eye and looked at her clock.

Eleven! She bolted upright, listening for sounds of her housemate as she looked around the room. She never slept in and here she was lying abed, while the shop remained closed with only two weekends left before Christmas. She’d be bankrupt by month’s end.

In and out of the shower and dressed for the day in record time, Claire made her way to the kitchen where she found hot coffee in the pot, the paper looking read, but no Cam. Praying he wasn’t getting into more trouble, she headed downstairs with coffee in hand, only to hear female laughter as she opened the door to the store room. Thinking it might be Tracy and Mrs. Grouse, she walked through the doorway to her shop and came to a startled halt.

The place was buzzing with customers, most of which were female, many with Velvet Pumpkin gift bags looped over their arms. As she made her way to Tracy, who wasn’t supposed to be there, she caught sight of Mrs. Grouse sitting in the far right-hand corner at a small table for four, her head wrapped in a turban and a fringed shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Before her sat a giggling young woman of about twenty, a porcelain tea set between them.

More women stood in line at the counter where Tracy—obviously in the weeds—was taking their cash and bagging purchases as fast as her inexperienced hands could manage.

Claire slid behind the counter and took the gift wrap from Tracy’s shaking hands. “Good morning.”

“Oh, thank God. I was afraid you’d sleep the day away.”

“What’s going on?”

Her friend smiled at the customer before her as she handed the woman change, then nodded toward the door. “After you finish wrapping that silver crumb buster, look outside.”

Claire laughed. “It’s a silent butler.”

“Whatever.” Tracy took the flow blue platter from the woman now standing before her, removed the price tag from the back and handed the platter to Claire for wrapping. Taking it, Claire nearly sighed aloud. She loved the platter, had dusted it with loving hands for months.

The platter wrapped in a pound of pumpkin embossed tissue and caught with the Velvet Pumpkin’s gold and purple seal—extravagances she shouldn’t have made but did when she’d first opened the shop—she handed it to the woman. “It’s a lovely piece. I hope you enjoy it.”

The woman grinned from ear to ear. “It’s for my daughter-in-law. That handsome gentleman outside said she’d much prefer it over the crystal bowl I’d initially chosen, the platter being something she could use every holiday. Creates memories for the grandchildren, you know?”

Claire nodded. If anyone understood the importance of memories, it was Cam. And speaking of him …

“Tracy, can you handle this for a moment?” Only two more people waited in line, one holding four cinnamon bun candles, the other holding a small perfume bottle, neither of which required elaborate gift wrapping. “I’ll be right back.”

She went to the door and peered out. At the foot of the steps she saw Cam, his hair loose, dressed in his tartan, brass cuff and all, beaming at a gaggle of women who were looking up at him, their adoration obvious even at a distance. Behind him stood a huge wooden sign reading Free Fortune Reading by the Incomparable Madame Grouse.

Augh! Were they out of their minds? Mrs. Grouse was no more a fortuneteller than she was. She flung open the door and stomped down the steps. By the time she reached the bottom, she wished she’d grabbed her coat.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, she smiled at the women clustered around Cam, then hissed, “May I have a word, please.”

He looked down at her and beamed. “Ah, lass, ye’re awake finally.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his side. “Ladies, this is the Velvet Pumpkin’s proprietor, Miss MacGregor. Please go on in and make yeself at home. Madame Grouse will be with ye as soon as she can.”

Casting appreciative glances in Cam’s direction, the women ran up the steps.

When they were out of earshot, she asked, “What in hell is going on?”

“Ack, lass, ye’ll catch ye death. Best we talk inside.”

Claire shrugged off his arm. “You better start talking.”

Chuckling, he pressed a hand to her back and steered her toward the stairs. “ ’Tis simple really. Ye’re offering free readings in the spirit of the season. ’Tis the season for giving, after all.”

She gaped at him. “You don’t see any incongruity in that? For God sake, Cam, this whole thing is so … bogus. Mrs. Grouse can no more tell fortunes than you can.”

“Shh, love, I’ll explain more fully in a moment.” He pushed open the door and ushered her inside, only to have two women rush toward him.

The woman holding two walking sticks—one with a sterling silver handle and the other with a carved mahogany dog’s head—elbowed the woman holding two silver-plated ladles in an effort to get in front. “Mr. MacLeod, which do you think my husband will like best?” She held the canes out to him.

Cam examined both, then flashed his dimples. “The silver. For a man of simple but refined taste.”

“Oh, you’re so right. That’s Edgar to the ground. Thank you so much.”

As she rushed off, the woman with the ladles came forward. “Cameron, I can’t decide between the two for my sister. Which do you think will appeal to her more?”

Claire gaped. How the hell would he know?

Cam arched a brow, dimples flashing again. “ ’Twill depend.”

“On what?”

“Is she as lovely as ye with the same exquisite taste?” To Claire’s disgust, his gaze traveled over the woman from furry hat to black patent leather boots, before it rose again and he winked. “If so, then ye have nae choice but to go with the more elaborate of the two, mistress.”

The woman, pushing seventy if she was a day and fighting it every inch of the way, almost swooned as color flooded her already too rouged cheeks. “Thank you. You’ve been such a help.”

Cam took the woman’s right hand in his and brought it to his lips. “My goal in life, madam.”

Claire had all she could do to keep from guffawing.

When the woman turned away, Cam placed his hand on the small of Claire’s back and pushed her toward the back room.

“That was so, so …”

Words failed her.

“Aye, but she’ll buy both in order to have an excuse to come back on the pretext of returning one. And with any luck, she’ll bring her sister with her.”

Claire rolled her eyes. No one was that stupid. But she glanced at the counter and sure enough, there was the woman in line with two ladles in hand. Shaking her head in disbelief, Claire shifted her attention to Mrs. Grouse where she sat staring into a teacup. Oh my God, she was pretending to read tea leaves. Augh!

Cam closed the door between the shop and storeroom. Poor Claire. She looked about to explode.

Hands on hips, she glared at him. “Whose bright idea was this?”

Get huffy with him when he had only her best interests at heart, would she? Ha! He hadna been given his looks and charm for naught.

He closed the distance between them, forcing her to back up. As her hurdies hit the workbench, he murmured, “ ’Tis a clan effort if ye must ken. I came up with the fortunetelling and made the signs and Tracy jumped in to handle the sales since neither I nor Mrs. Grouse had any idea how ye handled yer taxes.”

“Cam, you’ve got sale signs everywhere but there’s nothing on sale! The candles were $12.00 apiece before the sale. They’re now four for $48.00. Read my lips. There’s no difference!”

He grinned as he leaned toward her, his hands settling on the bench to either side of her, effectively trapping her between his arms. “Brilliant, no?” He flexed at the knees, his hips coming into gentle contact with hers. “What say ye, lass?”

Claire’s breath caught as he’d hoped, she swallowed and blinked. “To what?”

He leaned in and brushed his lips ever so lightly over her neck just above her collar bone, something he’d been dreaming of doing for days. As her skin pebbled, he could almost see the chills dancing over her skin before he latched onto her neck, gently sucking, applying pressure with his teeth—the threat of a bite there but not. A groan escaped and her knees buckled.

To keep her upright, he slipped his hands beneath her jeans-clad hurdies, his hips pressing into hers. Lord, he loved when a woman suddenly went limp. Made blood rush to his groin, pushing the predator in him to the fore. But then he was leaving.

He released her neck and brushed his lips along her jaw. “Claire?”

“Hmm?”

“Are ye still angry with me?”

Eyes closed, Claire’s hands eased around his waist. “Okay.”

MacLeod, ye still have the touch. He kissed the tip of her nose, straightened and reluctantly stepped back. “We’d best return then or Tracy will have our hides.”

Claire blinked. “Huh?”

Regret making hollow his victory over her anger, he whispered more to himself than to her, “Ye’re a bonnie one to be sure, lass.” He took her hand in his. “Come.”

“I’d love to.”

* * *

One deep, heart-reaching kiss and she’d been ready to drop to the storeroom floor, her common sense, her pride, and her customers be damned.

Claire tossed the frying pan into the drawer, still not believing she could have behaved so, so … sluttily. Was that a word? If it wasn’t, it should be.

And hallelujah, she’d finally realized Cam had been deliberately using his body to befuddle her. Oh ya. Any time she became miffed with him about something, he’d close the distance between them and get that look in his eye, the one that made her toes curl and her knees weak, and made her all too aware of him as a man. Worse, he didn’t even have to kiss her. Just catching the scent of him turned her brain to mush. Oh, he knew what he was doing, all right. Augh!

And where was Mr. I-can-get-into-your-panties-whenever-I-want anyway? It was almost midnight.

She tossed the dish cloth onto the counter and strode into the living room where she plopped down on the couch and stared at the cash, checks, and receipts lying on the coffee table. A phenomenal three thousand and ninety-five dollars—what amounted to her mortgage payment and then some—all in one day and all thanks to one gorgeous Highlander and his way with the ladies. Lord, he could work a crowd. Watching him hit his stride had finally clued her into just how well he’d been manipulating her.

She huffed and picked up the receipts. She had three hundred dollars she couldn’t account for and she should be looking for the receipts, not worrying about Cam.

Instead, she looked at the clock again. Please God, don’t let him get into any more trouble. Her heart couldn’t take it.

Brrrrring!

Claire flew into the kitchen and snatched the phone from the cradle. “Cam?”

“No, it’s the other man in your life.”

“Oh. Hi, Victor. How’s California?”

“Warm and expensive. How’s everything in Bean Town?”

“Cold and expensive.” And a lot better if she knew where Cam was. “Why are you calling so late? Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s great except that I just realized I left my Palm Pilot on the front seat of the truck. Would you be kind enough to get it before somebody steals it? My life is in it.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Thanks. You’re the best. So, how’s everything going with your houseguest?”

“Fine. We had a great day.”

After a brief silence, Victor said, “Just be careful, sweetie.”

He knew her too well. “I will.”

After listening to his itinerary, Claire wished him luck, hung up, and returned to the living room, only to discover the truck keys weren’t where Victor had left them. “Crap.”

Had Mrs. Grouse moved them as she cleaned up after their impromptu party? Claire looked under the furniture and cushions hoping they’d simply fallen, then scoured her kitchen, and still not finding them, decided she might as well look in the truck. If the Palm Pilot wasn’t visible, then finding the keys could wait until morning when she could ask Mrs. Grouse where she’d hidden them.

Three minutes later, standing at the end of the street, her shoulders hunched against the wind, her hands deep in her pockets, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, Claire ground her teeth. No keys, no truck, and no Cam could mean only one thing.

I’m going to kill him. I swear to God I am.

His morning coffee in hand, Wesley Brindle glanced at his watch and deciding he had time, turned on the TV hoping to catch the traffic report before he charged out the door. He had a big day ahead of him. Today his client TeknoSystems would learn if they’d won their lawsuit against their competitor New Age. If they had, Wesley was looking at a half-million-dollar windfall.

“Officials at the Franklin Park Zoo,” the news anchor informed him as he took a mouthful of coffee, “have just released this security tape in hopes that someone in our viewing audience will recognize the perpetrator and call the Dorchester police.”

Coffee spewed as Wesley watched the grainy footage. Even head down, face hidden from the camera, there was no mistaking his client Cameron MacLeod running hell for leather down the Franklin Park driveway, a twelve-point, wild-eyed buck draped over his shoulders.