The Pleasure Master (2 page)

Letting everything slide from her grasp, Kathy
held her head. Maybe if it would stop spinning she'd make a stab at opening her eyes.

“Ye must let us choose, Ian, if 'tis to be a true test. Do ye agree, Colin?”

What? What test? All they had to do was hook up her car and tow it to Mel's, where for the nominal fee of her firstborn child, she could get it back in running order.

“Aye. We will find one wi' a heart that canna be touched.”

Yep, that was Mel. Cash or credit card. No personal checks. Against her better judgment, she opened her eyes. She blinked.

Uh-oh. No busy highway, no sexy car. No
city.
Only stark green hills and the morning mist rising from a small stream. Morning? What had happened to the night? And
silence.
A silence so intense it terrified her.

Had she passed out? No, she'd fainted once when old PMS had decided that aromatherapy would loosen her up. He'd said the scent was discovered in an ancient Egyptian tomb. She believed him. It smelled like Essense of Mummy. Anyway, she didn't remember having any strange hallucinations then. She pulled her wool coat tightly around her, warding off the chill, an unspeakable fear tapping on her shoulder.

“I dinna know where we might find such a cold creature, Colin.”

Here. Here.
She'd never felt so cold in her life, and the brisk wind numbing her ears had nothing to do with it. Still on her knees, she turned toward
the welcome human voice. “Please, you've got to . . .” She stared.

Two male behinds stared back at her.
Bare
behinds. A
Playgirl
chorus line. She resisted the urge to rub her eyes. Two guys mooning her wouldn't be that strange in New York. . . . New York? Where in New York?

“Mayhap we will find one in England, Neil. English lasses can freeze a man's . . .”

England?
Suddenly, she realized what they were wearing. The wool thingees, belted at the waist, didn't quite reach their knees, and from what she could see, the question of boxers or briefs would never be a burning issue with these guys.

Kilts? She had to be dreaming. Nothing else made sense. Okay, dreams were symbolic, so she'd just figure this baby out. The empty landscape probably meant she needed some inner peace and tranquility, an escape from the frenzy her life had become. The bare buns? Easy. She thought of her ex as a butthead on a daily basis, so here he was in duplicate.

The rocks she knelt on dug into her knees through her long skirt, and she shifted uncomfortably. Funny, but she couldn't remember feeling anything physical in dreams before.

“Aye, Colin. But even though an English lass may have a cold nature, it matters not to a Ross. 'Tis hot enough she'll be in bed wi' . . .”

She shivered as the chilly wind whipped around her and lifted the kilts of the leaning men. . . . Wait a minute. There was another man sitting on the
ground, his back braced against a large boulder.

“Ye have reason to fear us, Ian. We will beat ye and take what we want.”

Beat?
Ohmigod, a mugging. At last, something familiar. She couldn't see enough of the man on the ground to know how badly he was injured, but she knew she had to do something to save him and probably herself because any second now the muggers were bound to notice her.

Her logical self reminded her this was a dream, so she didn't have to do anything.

Her logical self could take a hike. She needed a weapon.

Reaching inside her purse, she fumbled around for something she could use. Nothing. No handy little gun, no pepper spray. Rats.

Her can of mousse? Right. That would certainly scare the pants off . . . Okay, no pants to worry about. Maybe if she wrapped both hands around the can she could bluff them into believing she had a can of Mace. She drew a deep breath. She had to go for it.

Pulling the mousse from her purse, she shook it, then climbed shakily to her feet. Her whole world seemed out of kilter, but she could only focus on one thing right now: saving the man on the ground.

She tried to clear her throat, but her voice still came out in a wavery croak. “Get lost, scumbags, before I Mace you. The cops are on their way.”

As one, the two men straightened, then swung to face her. She gulped.
Large.
Very large. And hairy.
With dry split ends that would challenge even her expertise.

“A lass.” Translation: yum-yum.

Her heart pounded madly. The Three Little Pigs would've been laying bricks like crazy at the sound of that voice.

They moved toward her. Forget trying to hit them in the eyes. They were too tall. While she was jumping into the air trying to get one in the eyes, the other would tear her apart. She needed a lower target.

The wind whipped and swirled, lifting their kilts high enough to offer a more accessible body part. Without hesitation, she moussed each of their love guns with a defiant squirt. Hey, one patch of voluminous and shiny body hair was better than none.

Staring down in horror at the fluffy globs of mousse sticking to them, the men stumbled away from her.

Strange. Against all reason, Kathy had the feeling neither of them knew the mousse was harmless. Well, she recognized an advantage when she saw one. “Hmm. I wonder if they'll fall off now or later.”

With wild bellows, the kilted giants turned and fled.

She watched them disappear as she let the mousse slip from her fingers.

The man on the ground.
But by the time she turned back to him, the mist had closed in. A flowing sea of gray created shifting shapes of fear, twining
like skeletal fingers around the dark silhouettes of trees and shrubs. Kathy could almost believe the mist was alive—feel it breathing, waiting.

She swallowed past throat muscles that refused to work, fighting the terror of
knowing
she was the only person on earth.

“Come to me.”

His voice.
She could taste it. Hot chocolate, smooth brandy, and sex. She recognized it. All the forbidden things Mom had warned her against—going out in public without panties, talking to strangers who tempted you with pictures you'd never forget, touching yourself in the darkness of your room while you imagined unimaginable acts.

Crazy thoughts. Whatever this was, it was affecting her mental balance.

“Are you okay?” Her words echoed in the cold gray void, while her mind warned
she'd
never be okay again. She stumbled in the general direction of his voice.

Just as she was losing her battle with hysteria, she saw him.

He sat relaxed against the boulder, one leg bent at the knee, his head turned from her as if watching something only he could see.

Then, he looked at her. And as much as she wanted to forget the rest of the dream,
this
moment she'd remember. Always.

“Ye must need me badly, lass.” His husky murmur warmed the damp chill of the mist, made her remember needs she'd vowed not to think of again.

His face was harsh beauty and raw sensuality. Half hidden by a wild tangle of dark wind-blown hair, his eyes held secrets, his smile pure sin.

“Yer heart is cold and alone. Ye must think of all things warm, all that would make yer heart pound, all the feelings and scents that have brought ye pleasure. Live them now to bring ye peace.”

“No.” She rubbed her eyes with a shaking hand.
Come to me.
The image. A hot summer night. This man and her. Their naked bodies, sweat-sheened skin, and stark white cotton sheets tangled at the foot of a brass bed. Her bed. And the scent of honeysuckle drifting in the open window, moving the sheer curtains in a lazy rhythm. She could see the heat, touch the scent, taste the passion.

“I . . . I have to get back to my car.” She'd never been so frightened in her life. Where had the image come from? The last time she'd smelled honeysuckle had been on Grandpa's farm when she'd been about sixteen. And . . . the other things. They weren't connected to her life with Peter and his love gun. And they'd felt . . . real. Too real.

Wake up.
“I don't understand. Where . . . ? How . . . ? ” Her trembling legs couldn't support her as she sank to her knees in front of him. “Why honeysuckle, the brass bed?”

“Whate'er yer thoughts, they brought ye pleasure for the moment. Hold them tightly to ye.” Effortlessly, he reached out and pulled her onto his lap. “Let me warm ye.”

“Have you seen New York around here anywhere? I . . .” She was ice flung into his flame. The
helpless melting, the absorption, the sizzle and spark, the steam as the two met. She
felt
him, through her heavy coat, through the rough wool of his clothing. Sinew, muscle. His sharp exhalation hot against the side of her neck, his heat touching her everywhere.

“This isn't a dream, is it?” The intensity of a dream like this would have brought her to sweating, shaking, heart-pounding-awareness. Then what
was
happening? “Are you familiar with out-of-body experiences?”

“Out of body?” He wiped a tear from her cheek with his finger.

Crying? When had she started crying? She sniffed. She wouldn't resort to tears. Old PMS had taught her that criers were losers.

“'Twould be passing strange to want to be out of yer body when ye're wi' a bonny lass. 'Tis the body that makes it so wondrous.”

What about the heart? What about love?
“Sure. Stupid comment.” Who was she to dis the senses when they seemed to be the only things working right now?

Reaching down, she braced herself against his hip, fixed her attention on the checked pattern of the cloth. Her legs were wedged between his thighs, but she had no strength to move, could barely concentrate. . . . “All of you are wearing kilts. Just what New York needs, another street gang. Guess you don't need guns and knives. You just moon anyone you don't like. I bet grossed-out enemies
keel over by the hundreds at the fanny display put on by those two I chased away.”

She felt his deep exhalation. “'Tis the cold making you blather so.”

“Right.” She didn't even make sense to herself. Not a dream? Then
what?

When she finally managed to lift her gaze, she looked into eyes as gray as the mist surrounding them. A midnight tangle of hair framed a face meant for a dark god or fallen angel. And something so explosive it took her breath away passed between them.

She'd imagined it. Nothing explosive had
ever
passed between a man and her. After her failed marriage, that's the way she liked it, that's the way she meant to keep it.

“Are ye feeling a wee bit better?”

“No.” Too much. Her confused mind could make no sense of what she saw, felt. And so she focused on just one thing. His hair. She reached out with fingers as icy as the dread building in her soul, then slid her hand the length of his hair, past his shoulders to where dark strands spread across his chest.

Fascinated, she watched the rapid rise and fall of his broad chest, a rise and fall matching the beat of her heart.

With all her questions fighting for supremacy, she could only force one comment through her lips. “You have virgin hair.”

“I dinna think so. I havena had any virgin parts for a verra long time.”

She felt his deep chuckle shudder through her and raised her gaze once again to his face. The white flash of his wicked smile fixed her attention on his lips. It was a full lower lip, sensual, but somehow it did not soften the hard angles of his jaw and cheekbone.

His gaze slid the length of her body, and the caress was as real as though he'd touched her with his fingers, his mouth.

A dangerous man.
Perhaps the two she'd chased away were the ones who'd needed saving.

His smile turned wolfish. “Ye wouldna enjoy a man who hadna lain wi' a lass.”

Panic clattered around in her mind, frantically trying to get her attention. It finally succeeded. She tried to push away from him, but he simply closed his thighs on her legs. She might as well have been shackled in iron.

Even as she raised her fists to pound whatever part of him became available first, she sensed the uselessness of her effort. He wrapped his arms around her and held her still.

“Dinna be so quick to run.” His breath fanned against her cheek, heating her senses, her anger. “Ye must have been fair desperate to gain my advice. I've ne'er seen Colin and Neil bested before. But ye took unfair advantage of their fear for their manhoods. 'Twasn't needed. I would have asked my brothers to speak wi' me later.” He drew his finger along the line of her clenched jaw.

“Your
brothers?
” Jerking her head from his touch, she looked frantically around for help. She'd
kill for the sight of a golden arch or even a New York cabby offering her a friendly finger signal because she'd cut him off. “Those two are your brothers?”

“Aye. We were born together. Still we dinna resemble each other overmuch.”

“Born together . . . ? Oh, triplets.” Hard to believe. The other two were lumbering bears, while this man . . . this man was a dark jungle predator.

Where
was
she? Had she taken a wrong turn in Central Park and landed in Oz?

“Even though we were born together, I came first. They dinna want to accept me as the eldest.”

“Hey, I feel for them. Who came out first is important.” Horse pooky. She had
really
important things to worry about.

She drew in a deep breath to hold her panic in check. He hadn't hurt her, and already his faded red plaid was growing sort of familiar.
No.
She couldn't let anything in this nowhere land get familiar.

She shivered as the mist's damp fingers touched her with an unspoken promise that nothing in her life would ever be the same again.

Some women might still think they were dreaming. Not her. She recognized dreams. She'd certainly had enough nightmares after the collapse of her marriage. This wasn't a dream.