The Pleasure Master (5 page)

Abandoning his relaxed position, he sat up, then edged closer to her. “Ye want to know about a pleasure master.”

She gulped. He needed a T-shirt with “Danger—explosives” printed across his chest to warn innocent New York women. Okay, so New York women wouldn't need a sign to get this guy's message.
“Well, not really. I mean, you've probably got better things to do.”

“No.” He moved closer.

“All this pleasure master stuff can wait till tomorrow.” If she hadn't had the pillows bolstering her, she would have scuttled backwards like a frightened crab.

“No.” He moved closer still, close enough for her to feel his heat, to inhale the mingled scents of crisp misty morning and warm male flesh.

“Ye must be comfortable while I explain.”

He reached for her coat, and she sat unmoving, unable even to blink as he slipped it off her shoulders, then down her arms. She couldn't summon the will to pull her sweat-dampened silk blouse away from her body, even though she realized it outlined in detail her breasts, nipples, and heavy breathing. What was wrong with her?

“I know the secrets of what brings a woman pleasure.” He leaned closer toward her, and his ravenwing hair fell forward, a dark curtain of mystery.

Kathy believed him, and recognized that a change of subject was in order. “Personally, great hair brings me pleasure. It wouldn't take me a minute to get my scissors, snip off those dead ends, do a little shaping and . . .” She willed her hands to remain still, denying the urge to reach out and run her fingers through the tangled strands. “Well, maybe not right now.”

“Dead ends? Shaping? Ye make no sense at all, lass.” He didn't back off.

With an instinct she didn't question, she knew
that to touch would be to lose. But what else was there to lose? She'd already lost her sanity; that was the only explanation she could think of to explain her feelings.

“I show women the joy they may know from touching a man's body. . . .” Reaching out, he slid his finger across her lips. “And the unimagined pleasure they may feel when a man touches them.”

She jerked her head away. If she'd been an oyster, she would have snapped her shell shut on his finger. He was just like her ex, reaching for every pearl in the oyster bed, then happily trotting off to find more oysters. Well, this was one oyster who didn't intend to lose another pearl.

“I don't need anyone to teach me about joy, thank you very much.” There must be millions of women who lived happy, productive lives without experiencing the big O at the hands of some jerk.

Hmm. Hands. Ian Ross had a man's hands—large, capable. But capable of what? And his finger? She could still feel its pressure, its warmth.

“Ah, but I think ye do, lass.” He drew his bottom lip into his mouth as he studied her, and when he released it, her gaze was drawn to its damp sheen, its fullness. What would it be like to touch those lips with hers?

She had to get out of here. Find her way back to good old New York. Back to New Year's Eve in Times Square and yelling at the Knicks when they blew it in the fourth period. “Hey, joy is way over-rated. A few times a year is enough for me.” How about once in a lifetime? That'd be nice.

He frowned at her, and she noticed the small lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes. Eyes that gave away no secrets, that seemed like the hidden Adirondack mountain lakes she'd visited on childhood camping trips—deep, distant, and cool—even as his words spread warmth through her.

“'Tis sad. Ye need me badly.”

He smiled, and she forgot his eyes, their secrets. She'd seen good-looking men in her life, but none could smile like Ian Ross. His smile reached inside and touched every dark, confused part of her. And that scared the heck out of her New York soul.

“Look, mister. I was married to a man who knew all there was to know about women's joy. Lord knows, he practiced a lot. So don't tell me what I need. What I need is to try my cell phone again.”

He reached down and touched her hand, effectively stopping her from grabbing for the phone.

“Are ye saying ye were wed to a pleasure master? 'Tis impossible. A pleasure master canna wed and remain a pleasure master.”

“Yeah, well Peter likes the best of both worlds. He's a marine biologist and believes if the scientific approach works with plankton, then it should work with humans. He studied everything on human sexuality, then practiced on me. When his hypothesis didn't match his test results, he concluded I was incapable of having an orgasm and therefore unable to reach sexual nirvana.”
I was incapable of being a complete woman for him.

She cast Ian Ross a speculative glance. “You know, this whole conversation could be really freeing.
I usually wouldn't talk about stuff like this with a total stranger, but since you don't really exist, it's okay. I mean, talking to a brain-blip is no big deal.”

He frowned at her. “'Tis a strange tongue ye speak. What is an . . . orgasm?”

Hmm. “I'll explain later. Anyway, Peter was convinced that if he and his love gun couldn't bring me sensual ecstasy, then I was hopeless.” Her fear? Maybe Peter was right. She'd thought she loved him, so why couldn't . . .

“His love gun?”

“Later.” Kathy narrowed her gaze. “The end wasn't pretty. I came home from work one day to find Peter and his love gun testing Peter's hypothesis with my friend Joan Gates in our bed. Joan's orgasm results were a smashing success.” It had hurt, God how it had hurt. “
My
hypothesis is that Peter and octopuses are sibling species. And before you ask, that's marine biologist-speak for—they're closely related species.

“'Tis the way of many men, lass.”

“Tell me about it.” Did that sound casually unconcerned? There were some feelings she couldn't even share with a brain-blip.

She brightened. “Hey, a hair stylist comes prepared. I whipped out my butane curling iron, heated that sucker up, then told good old PMS his tomcatting days were over. He and Joan were so anxious to leave, they forgot all about their clothes when they ran out the front door. I locked the door behind them, then called the local paper to come get pictures.”

“Butane curling iron?”

“Later.” Afterward, she'd thrown herself onto the couch and cried—for the love that hadn't been love at all, and for all her shattered dreams. Then she'd dried her eyes, pulled out her wedding album, and cut her scumbag husband out of every picture. Then she'd cut him into tiny pieces and flushed him down the toilet. A symbolic gesture, but satisfying.

“If pigs could fly, my ex would be leading the hog flock south for the winter. Can you believe he's suing me for mental anguish? Can you
believe
it?”

Ian Ross was looking at her with a dazed expression on his face. “I canna believe many things.”

Kathy glared at him. “Well ditto here, mister.”

“What does the word ‘sue' mean?”

“Later.” She'd
never
let another womanizer into her life. If she ever decided to try again, she'd look for a virgin, a man who'd love her and wouldn't point out her shortcomings in bed, wouldn't blame
her
if she didn't have an orgasm. “Old PMS says I compromised his credibility with his colleagues, held him up to ridicule, and that I drove him to other women because I couldn't . . .”

“Have an orgasm.”

“Right. Anyway, the judge set the court date for February fourteenth. Valentine's Day, for heaven's sake. Is that the pits, or what? I'll be there if I have to crawl on my hands and knees.” He'd taken everything else from her; he wouldn't get her money.

“PMS? What is PMS? And dinna tell me ‘later.' ”

Kathy glanced away from Ian Ross, only to meet the malevolent stare of Malin, who'd planted himself
on top of Peter. Fitting. They both had three sturdy legs.

“'Tis an answer ye owe me, lass. What is PMS? And dinna tell me 'tis yer husband's name because I ken it stands for more.”

“Umm . . . well . . .” Now would be a great moment for her to be whisked back to New York.
Hint, hint.
Nothing. “PMS is . . . plumbing made simple.”

His gaze was disbelieving. “That doesna make sense.”

“Nothing makes sense.” She was pitiful. Connie Dare, the stylist who worked in the cubicle next to her at Pampered Life, wouldn't be sitting here feeling sorry for herself. Connie would have already called her lawyer and filed a lawsuit against someone for something. It was the now thing to do.

“Ye havena told me what an orgasm is.”

“An orgasm is . . . like . . .” It's like what she'd never had with her ex-husband. “Uh, it's like an . . . explosion.” Great imagery. She hoped he didn't want something more specific.

“Explosion?”

Arrgh!
“Explosion. Boom.” She made some vague motions in the general direction of her “boom” area.

“Aye.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The rat. He knew exactly what she was talking about.
Calm down. Any minute now you'll blink and be back in New York. Then you'll never see Ian Ross again.
It'd be great if she could take him
back with her. He was the most spectacular man she'd seen in years.

She stared into his eyes. Eyes that suddenly swirled with emotion, heat. That willed her to enter his world. That seemed to drain her own will to resist.

“Heed me, Kathy of Hair. A woman's need and fulfillment start
here.
” He placed only his index finger against her forehead, yet she felt the connection all the way to her toes.

“Not here.” He ran his finger down the side of her jaw, her neck, then stopped as he touched the tip of her nipple.

Could've fooled me.
She sucked in her breath at the sizzle of sensation that spread like honey on a hot day. Why couldn't she move away, break the connection? Why didn't she
want
to?

“Nor here.” He drew his finger between her breasts, down over her stomach, then laid his palm flat against her skirt, and her thighs clenched as though no material separated his flesh from hers, as though she could hold his touch warm between her legs.

She breathed in gasping pants, tried to battle past sensations so strong she felt like screaming, tried to remember . . .

“No!” With her last ragged shred of willpower, she rolled away from him.

He let her go.

“Pleasure Master, my foot. You're just like my ex. You're nothing but a womanizer with a fancy title. I bet you never met a woman you didn't love.”

He leaned back and stared at her. He seemed truly puzzled. “'Tis not about love, lass. 'Tis about joining wi' another for pleasure. I teach women how to take a man's body and enjoy the taking.”

“Huh.” She scrambled to her feet, needing to distance herself from him, from whatever strange feelings he seemed able to generate. “Sounds like the same old testing-in-the-name-of-science scam my ex-husband ran past any woman who'd climb into bed with him.”

She walked over to stand beside Peter and tried to ignore Malin's low growl. “But I dropped out of the scientific community a long time ago.” She directed a determined stare at Ian Ross. “You'll never get a chance to practice on me, Pleasure Master, because I'll never let you touch me again.”

He smiled. A smile of wicked temptation and sweet promise.

“I dinna need to
touch
ye, Kathy of Hair.”

Oh boy.

Ian watched her reaction—her unease with what he'd revealed about himself, with the things she'd told him about her life. Restlessly, she clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap. Her need to flee beat at him in waves of silent panic.

Once again, she reached down and pulled the strange object she'd spoken into out of her bag. “So now that we've kind of explored your job description, I guess it's time for me to get on home. I mean, it's Christmas. Everyone should be home on Christmas.” She gazed forlornly at the object in her hand.

Surprised, Ian realized his sympathy for her overrode his desire to hold the object in his hands, to hear what she heard when she spoke to it.

The women who came to him were challenges, and after he'd solved their problems, he thought no
more of them. Sympathy was a soft emotion, and the Pleasure Master could allow no soft emotions to interfere with his life.

She looked up at him, and he saw defeat in her eyes for the first time. “I . . . I don't know whom to call. What do I say? It's 1542 and I'm stuck in Scotland? Send a taxi?”

He didn't try to hold her. After her reaction to what he'd told her about himself, he didn't think she'd welcome his touch. “Ye seem verra upset wi' the year. What year would please ye?”

She ignored his question and moved over to stare at his hearth. “You know, I really think I want this to be a brain-blip. With a brain-blip I can go to a state-of-the-art facility where they'll do an MRI, locate the problem, and fix it. That way I can still be in—”

“God's teeth, woman, ye make no sense at all. What year do ye think ye're in?” What had she done to him? He
never
lost his temper with a woman. The lass looked as though she'd break into pieces if he touched her.

Emotion flooded her eyes. Shock, desperation, fear. “I'm pretty sure this is just a brain-blip. Probably too much stress in my life. And finding out that old PMS is suing me must've set everything off. Sort of like a panic attack. That means I'm still in 2001, and you don't exist.”

He didn't know which confused him more, her belief that she came from a future time or her assertion that he didn't exist.

Mayhap his earlier suspicions had been right.

Gordon Mackay had already gone to foolish lengths to capture him for Fiona, and this might be another such effort. Gordon knew Ian's curiosity was his weakness. What better way to lure him into a trap? But could Gordon even conceive of things as strange as the toy the woman carried with her, the object she spoke to, and the “mousse”?