Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 (4 page)

It would be easy to do, to worship this man, placing herself at his feet and waiting for a benevolent smile. She shook herself. What was she thinking? A little dangerously dark stubble and a crooked smile, and she started weaving dreams out of thin air. But she was Kate Simmons. She did what she was told. She fell in love with fictional characters. She lived in a world of her own making because the real one simply couldn’t compare. Tearing her gaze away, she busied herself in looking around the other half of the park.

It was just as worthy of her adoration—possibly even more so. In front of them spread a huge open space in the shape of an oval, large enough to hold two or three football fields end to end. No one had made an attempt to fill the space with anything other than grass and the natural wildflowers—this time of year mostly lacy white yarrow and bright yellow blanket flowers—so the result was both simple and breathtaking. The bluff’s edge was fenced off by an expanse of rough wooden beams, and on the opposite side of the field sat a second parking lot bordered by a series of large boulders.

Julian was right. The real draw was the ruined mansion located on the far end of the field. She turned to him. “That’s where you played?”

He nodded.

Kate couldn’t imagine anything better. The foundation, once the base for a large castle-like building with twin spires on either end, was still fully intact. The top floors had long since crumbled, leaving jagged piles of heavy gray stones everywhere, some still a story high. She could see precipices and little caves, hiding spots for treasures or even a game of hide-and-seek.

Her own childhood hadn’t held any of this magic. Here, disarray reigned with a heavy hand, and Mother Nature obliged. Kate’s house, in comparison, had been an ordered box of beige carpets and soft pink walls. Throw pillows covered every horizontal surface, but they were not to be touched by little girl hands. Nothing in that house was to be touched by little girl hands, but playing outdoors had been equally out of the question, unless it was on the tree swing in the backyard and her father was on hand for the photo opportunity.

“It’s perfect,” Kate said, clasping her hands together. And it was. There was space enough for all the tents and walkways she envisioned. The JARRS ladies already had a string quartet booked for Friday and Saturday nights, and caterers had been instructed as to the exact menu planned: thinly sliced ham and plenty of sherry. During the day, they were going to have a few lectures from local history professors, a Jane Austen book reading and booths set up selling many of the gowns and accoutrements that made the Regency era so much fun. And it was all set for the weekend of August sixteenth—Georgette Heyer’s birthday. The grandmother of the Regency novel, and one of Kate’s favorite authors of all time.

“It is perfect,” Julian agreed softly.

Kate turned to find his eyes trained right on her backside. For a brief moment, she thought he was talking about her, and a warmth flooded her breasts and belly at the thought of being so objectified and appreciated by a man of his caliber.

But she was mistaken, as always. As soon as she turned around, Julian began walking toward the parking lot without a second glance.

“We should go back this way,” was all he said.

Kate nodded and caught up with him. Julian walked beside her, but there was a large gulf between them. Something had shifted, and he no longer felt compelled to offer her his arm or jump forward to save her from stumbling over a stone. Which she did. Twice.

“Well, hey there, you two,” Jada called as soon as they moved into view. She and Michael were seated on the hood of Kate’s car, a large indentation spreading out from under Michael’s body, which must have weighed well over two hundred pounds.

“What did you think of the lay of the land?” Jada waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“It’s exactly what we need,” Kate replied, ignoring Michael’s deep chortle. He jumped off the car, and Kate was glad to see the hood bounce up underneath him.

“It’s a state park, right, so it’s free to use?”

“Technically, yes. It’s a non-reservable public space, so everyone has access to it,” Julian said. “But no one else ever comes here.”

Michael waved his friend off. “It’s yours for the taking. The SHS does its annual event here every year, and some of the guys use it for practice, but we don’t own it. It’s a first come, first served sort of set up.”

“Katy-did,” Jada interrupted, her mouth pulled down at the corners, a clear signal she was bored with the conversation. “I went ahead and took the liberty of inviting these gentlemen to join us in partaking of a few libations this evening.”

“She means drinks,” Michael added helpfully.

“I don’t think…” Kate began, looking sideways at Julian. It was obvious what Jada was angling after, and Kate was well-versed in her role. Entertain the friend, keep him happy while Jada laid on the charm. Normally, it didn’t bother her to be typecast as the distraction, but she’d never attempted it with someone like Julian before.

“Sure,” Julian said with a shrug. He leaned back against the car and crossed his arms like it was a matter of supreme indifference whether they stayed there or got on a plane to Monaco.

“You boys wanna meet us at Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint in, say, an hour? They make a mean martini. Nice and dirty.” Jada growled for good effect.

The men exchanged a glance. This time, Kate had no problem reading Julian’s expression—Jada couldn’t have chosen a less appropriate location than a martini bar for a pair of men dressed in athletic gear and sporting hands the size of small boulders. These men were not James Bond. They were the Hulk. They probably guzzled barrels full of ale. Or grog.

“Fine,” Julian said, almost as though he were agreeing to a root canal. “We can meet you there.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” Kate said awkwardly, trying to ease the suddenly overwhelming pressure in her chest. She tried to make a quick escape to the car, but Julian stepped ahead of her. He pulled open the driver’s side door, offering her a small smile as she slid into the seat.

“Drive carefully,” he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I will,” she managed to say before he closed the door behind her.

“Holy shit, Kate.” Jada got into the seat next to her, rubbing her hands together like a villain from a silent film. “Did you see the way that man looked at you?”

She watched him move away. “You mean like I’m barely capable of walking on my own two feet?”

“Oh, Katy-did. You have no idea.” Jada leaned over and turned the ignition, since Kate’s hands were ineffectively immobile, sweaty palms sealed at ten and two. “Like he was going to take his hammer and clobber you before dragging you back to his cave.”

“What?”

“In a good way, honey.” Jada smiled and patted Kate’s leg reassuringly. “In the best possible way ever.”
 

Chapter Three

Cúchulainn’s Might

“Let’s not go yet. I need a few more throws.”

Julian reached down and picked up the rustic hammer he’d left on the ground. It could hardly be called a hammer, really. A long, roughly hewn pole of wood attached to metal ball nicked with use, it was the standard instrument for the hammer-throw event. He’d been using this particular one for years, and he loved the way it rested in his hand, the way it made him look and feel, an ancient warrior who knew his own strength every time he held it.

Four or five more throws should do it. Adrenaline—not the result of activity, for once—pounded through his body, making it difficult to clear his thoughts for longer than a few seconds at a time.

“Whatever you say, Jules. But don’t take too long—I need to grab a bite before we get all gussied up for the night. I swear, I’m so hungry I could eat a leg of the lamb of God. All four of ’em, actually.”

Julian didn’t doubt it. Michael could put away more food in one afternoon than a whole family could in a week—and almost all of it was protein. They’d once come across a rafter of wild turkeys out here on the practice field, and Michael had chased one of the damn animals around for a full hour, armed with his hammer and driven by grand visions of a turkey roast right on the edge of the parking lot. But wild turkeys proved a little smarter than their domesticated counterparts, and they’d ended up eating at a hospital cafeteria instead. Three broken toes from the misplaced blow, the doctor had said, and lucky for Michael it hadn’t been worse. The hammers weighed sixteen pounds each.

“Food later,” Julian commanded. His stomach was the least of his concerns right now. He strode across the field until they reached their throw point, flexing his free hand, the sore muscles sending a flood of feeling up his arm. The tension was familiar, comforting.

Michael was right behind him, dogging his footsteps and his thoughts. “I haven’t seen you act like this since you had a crush on that waitress at the steakhouse in Phoenix. You must really like this Kate girl, eh?”

Julian paused. “She seemed nice.”

She
did
seem nice, and Julian didn’t mean the way the curve of her ass shaped the pale orange fabric of what looked an awful lot like a nightgown, or the way her thighs were so cool to the touch when he’d stopped her from running right over the edge of the cliff.

At least, that wasn’t
all
he meant.

“You shouldn’t have encouraged them, though,” Julian added. “If they’re going to start showing up here on a regular basis or trying to use the park for themselves, it’s going to cut into our practice time. We can’t afford to be distracted right now, Mikey. The Games are in a month.”

“I’m not the one who agreed to drinks,” Michael pointed out, picking up his hammer. “Besides, that one was awfully small. You think she’d be able to do much in the way of interrupting? You could probably snap her in two.”

Maybe not snap but bend. In a variety of different positions.

“Not everything can be measured by size,” Julian muttered.

“That remains to be seen, my good fellow.” Michael winked. “My size has always been a good indication of my worth.”

Julian gave him an obliging laugh, but the sentiment behind it didn’t go very deep. There were a lot of things he needed to focus on right now, the hammer throw being one of them. A woman like that—high maintenance down to her very shoes—was exactly what he tried to avoid before one of the Highland Game events. Hell, she was the type of woman he avoided almost all the time. A man who followed the bagpipe like he did had no time for clinging. Dress, women or anything in between.

“One drink,” Julian vowed, more to himself than to Michael, whose attention had wandered to the curve of his own bicep. Julian had agreed to the evening without even thinking about it, a purely natural reaction to a beautiful woman flushed all over with nerves, embarrassment, pleasure—who knew for sure? All he cared was that it was some sort of emotion that stirred in his gut and piqued his interest. To have turned her down would have been tantamount to kicking a puppy.

He nodded firmly. Yes. A puppy or a little baby kitten. Julian was a lot of things, but he was never cruel to animals.

A few kids had gathered on the far end of the field, straddling their bicycles and looking at the pair of them with large, expectant eyes. They’d become regulars of a sort, neighborhood children who stopped by a few afternoons a week to see if any of the SHS members were out practicing. This time of year, the kids were almost guaranteed to find someone—Julian, Michael, any of the other guys who lived in the city—since the local chapter of the Scottish Highland Society used this space quite a bit. The kids were going to be surprised when they showed up in a few weeks to find the entire field transformed into a carnival of human might, athletes from all over the country gathered to dance and compete, whisky and good cheer flowing.

Although he’d seen almost every city’s version of the Scottish Highland Games, the Spokane one was Julian’s favorite annual event. It was where he’d first been introduced to the sport, the place he’d come every year with his mom and stepfather, a brawny Scotsman who taught Julian everything he knew about being an athlete.

“Throw it already!” one of the kids yelled.

Julian waved at them with a grin. “Okay, but stay very, very far back.”

He loved the way a child’s eyes opened in rapt wonder when he landed a good throw, like he was hurling the giant hammer of Thor. Like he might actually be the god of thunder. It was so easy to get lost in this sport. Crowds of people came, eager to watch something barbaric and rustic, something so time-honored he could almost imagine himself standing in Scotland a thousand years ago, fighting for the right to lead a clan of warriors to victory. Or on the beaches of Guam, where he’d been born, an ancient Chamorro warrior about to prove his might with the throw of a single spear.

He picked up the hammer. Rotating his shoulders and swinging his arms over and around his head allowed the hammer to pick up speed, each revolution pulling harder on his muscles until it was all he could do to maintain his grip. He focused his line of vision on a tall yellow weed a few hundred yards in the distance and released both the hammer and a roar that cut through the air.

A few screeches of delight from the nearby children indicated he’d put on a good show. Michael’s low whistle indicated he’d put a good distance on the hammer too.