Heart of the Highland Wolf (Heart of the Wolf #7)

Heart of the Highland Wolf (Heart of the Wolf #7) Page 7

Julia hesitated to respond. He took that as a yes, even though she was still considering whether to say no or not. But because of the cool cottage, her wet jeans, and the ice pack on her ankle, she couldn’t hide that she was cold. “No, it won’t be…”

He’d already headed for one of the rooms by the time she finished her sentence.

“…necessary.”

But as soon as he walked in, he knew it wasn’t her room. The blue bags sitting beside the bed didn’t have her scent on them. Maria’s, yes. He left the room, gave Julia a small smile as her rounded eyes watched him, and said, “Looks like the man brought your luggage, but yours must be in the other room.”

Then he entered the other. Two tapestry bags sat next to the bed. He imagined her sleeping naked in the full-sized bed, the window looking out on the woods in the direction of Argent Castle. If not for the forest and the distance, he could see the cottage from one of the castle towers.

He hastily grabbed a mohair wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed and stalked back to the living area. He attempted a smile to reassure her, when he meant to interrogate her further. To put aside his foolish notion of sharing any intimacy with the little wolf.

Gently, he covered her lap with the blanket and then crouched beside her, making an effort to question her from a less intimidating height. He looked into her green eyes flecked with gold, saw the tension and unknown mysteries in them, and asked, “If I questioned Harold Washburn about a Miss Julia Jones who works for him, what would he say?”

Julia’s traitorous heart was pounding as if she were running for her life while Ian crouched beside her. He had to have heard it and guessed she was afraid to tell the truth. Even though he attempted not to overawe her, the problem was that the man was inherently intimidating. From his darkened eyes to his husky voice, and the way his gaze shifted to the pocket of her shirt that contained his picture, she recognized both desire and a need for the truth in his expression.

What could she say? She was Julia Wildthorn, and a quick Internet search would expose her royally. Or she could say she was Julia MacPherson, and he’d know nothing about her—unless he knew something about the MacPhersons who had once inhabited Argent Castle. Either could be a disaster.

She could even say she was Iris North, the name she had given to Guthrie MacNeill when she was trying to learn if Argent Castle was a viable option for the film. Or any number of other names. She was a writer, after all. But he wouldn’t believe her if she gave another alias, and he couldn’t find further information on her to verify it.

Ian’s brows lifted a little when she didn’t respond quickly enough. She imagined that his pack and clan members probably never kept him waiting. And she’d already managed to keep him waiting several times.

Trying for nonchalant, she shrugged. “Knowing Harold, he probably won’t remember who I am.”

Ian seemed darkly amused. “I see.” His gaze slid down her in a suggestively languorous manner, which had the effect of sending another hot flash spiraling through her already heated body. Sure, on the outside, her skin was chilled, but inside, she was way too aware of him—of his masculine scent and of the way he observed her and touched her and held her gaze. His eyes focused on hers again. “You’re muddy and still shivering. I could prepare a hot bath for you.”

In surprise, her lips parted. His eyes focused on her mouth, and she quickly clamped it shut. She had never imagined a Scottish laird would prepare a woman’s bath. Or act this interested in a commoner—of the American variety.

With a sparkle in his devilishly dark eyes, he clapped his hands on his thighs and nodded. “Then it’s decided.”

Before she could object, he headed for the bathroom.

Oh… my… God. If Maria thought Julia was going to willingly butter him up, her friend had another thing coming. But Julia had never suspected that she wouldn’t have to do a thing to get there.

Even so, she knew this was a horrible mistake.

Giving in to circumstances that she had little control over, Julia closed her eyes and envisioned Laird Ian MacNeill—in the historical romance she would write—adding rose petals to her bathwater after the servants carried heated water to the wooden tub in the lady’s chamber adjoining the laird’s. At first, the laird had not been happy about having the lass forced on him due to a contract drawn up by his da and hers to unite the clans. But now, the notion seemed to intrigue him somewhat.

Before she could envision more of the details for her story in her mind’s eye, the sofa gave a little shudder, and her eyes popped open. Ian sat next to her on the couch, his arms folded, watching her. The sofa all of a sudden seemed way too small for the two of them as his leg brushed hers in a heated caress.

“A warm bath will do you a world of good, lass. But I wondered what you’ll be doing during the filming.”

She loved his brogue. She could soak it up all day long as she listened to the way he rolled his r’s and twisted his tongue around in ways she couldn’t even imagine, her gaze focused on his sensuous mouth all the while.

He touched a piece of her hair tickling her cheek and moved it behind her ear. “Lass?”

“You asked?”

He chuckled. “Either you’re too tired to think straight, having been through too much in the last several hours, or…” He smiled, and the intimation was that she was too wrapped up in him to think clearly. “Water should be ready.” He rose from the sofa, and without waiting for her to say she could walk, he scooped her up and headed for the bathroom.

She didn’t need blankets or hot baths or anything of the sort to heat her up. His body did the trick—his hot, hard body pressing against hers, his arm securely around her waist, his hand resting beneath her breast, his other arm cupped under her legs. She was feeling incredibly warm.

“It’s jet lag,” she finally said, looking up at him, her head tilted back, her hair tumbling backward. “You’re right. I’m exhausted, and I’m not thinking clearly.” It had nothing to do with Ian being an incredibly hunky Highlander. Or that she was imagining the virile warrior wearing a kilt and a sword as he carried her into the bathroom instead of the wet clinging trousers that showed just how hot and sexy and intrigued he was with her.

He hesitated to set her down on the floor or the edge of the bathtub, staring into her eyes as if she had mesmerized him and momentarily made him forget his mission. But then he did the unexpected and set her on the marble sink countertop. She thought he meant to offer to help her further with undressing and intended to quickly decline his generous offer. Instead, he leaned his face down to meet hers and kissed her! Full on the mouth with a sensuous, hot-blooded kiss that would have knocked her stockings off if she’d still been wearing them.

She didn’t even object or pull away like she should have done. What would the Scotsman think of American women if she didn’t? But she couldn’t, not when his lips were caressing hers in such a sexually charged way, warm and soft and needy and in control. Very much in control. She loved the feel of his mouth on hers, the desire sparking between them, the heat that chased away the chill.

Enjoying the feel of his masculine lips on hers, she wanted more. She wrapped her hands around his neck and parted her lips just enough to give a hint that she wanted him to deepen the kiss, but not too much to make it seem she was desperate for more. Even if she was.

His mouth smiled against hers as his eyes grew smokier with desire. And then he obliged. His hands shifted to her hair, stroking and grasping handfuls as he poked his tongue between her lips, drew her body closer to his, and then pressed deeply into her mouth with his tongue.

She gave as good as she got, shifting her hands from around his neck to his hips and pulling him in even closer, settling him against the heat between her legs. Felt his rigid erection against her. Rolled her tongue around his in a lover’s intimate dance.

But he suddenly went very still and then groaned, pulling his mouth from hers. He wanted more. She could tell from the way his body was still pressed against hers, the way he was fighting with himself to let go, and damn if she didn’t want him to keep kissing her. A wolf had never kissed her before, and she wondered if it was just Ian or if all wolves were this hot.

He gazed into her eyes, his own filled with lust, his body hard and ready for more, but he cleared his throat and said, “Welcome to Scotland, lass.”

That’s when she heard the car doors slam outside. He must have heard his brother and Maria drive up while she’d been concentrating too much on the kiss and everything else.

Then he moved her to the edge of the bathtub and said, “I’ll leave you to your bath, unless you need any further help.” He smiled and gave her the sexiest wink that a man had ever given her, and in that instant, heat suffused every pore all over again.

Before he moved away from her, she heard Duncan speaking loudly at the front door, alerting Ian, she figured, that he and Maria had returned in case Ian was too busy to hear them. Duncan probably didn’t wish to incur Ian’s wrath in the event the laird wasn’t through with his “business” with Julia.

Ian shut the bathroom door as the front door opened.

A moment of silence followed, and Julia could imagine Duncan and Maria quickly drawing their own conclusions as to what had occurred between Ian and her in the bathroom.

Maria finally broke the silence. “Thanks so much for helping us out. We’ll repay you as soon as we can get some—”

“No need,” Ian said, dismissing her comment. “We’ll be expecting you and your staff later.” He was officious and curt, to the point, and then the front door shut, leaving Julia and Maria alone.

Julia wondered then if he felt he’d made a terrible mistake in kissing her, like she was feeling. Not that she didn’t like it or hadn’t wanted it to last a whole hell of a lot longer, but what had she been thinking? This was not the way to conduct her covert missions.

She rose gingerly from the edge of the tub, tested her foot on the tile floor, which felt fine, and then hurried to strip and plunge into the bath for a quick cleanup.