Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots by Caro LaFever Page B

stood silent in the face of her accusation.
    “Well?” Ceri stepped toward him, and abruptly stopped when she realized what she wore. Or didn’t wear. No bra. No panties. Nothing but her old cotton bathrobe.
    A flush ran through her, making her skin hot.
    She’d decided to take a long bath after the scene in the castle to wash away her disgust at how easily the villagers had fallen for the stranger’s friendly charms. Although she still held out some hope that Hugh Brooks might drag his partner back to London, she wasn’t foolish enough to think it was a done deal. Needing to soothe herself and figuring Lorne Ross would be busy with his friend and partner, she’d come out into the soft sunlight to dry her hair.
    She’d been wrong to let down her guard.
    “You need to leave.” Ceri crossed her arms in front of her. “Right now.”
    He moved from behind the tree into the sunlight.
    Shock zipped inside her at the full sight of him.
    He wasn’t a London dandy anymore. His red hair was ruthlessly pulled back as usual, yet fine strands had escaped to lay in curls along his forehead and cheek. He wore a cotton T-shirt, green with some kind of orange logo in the center. It was plastered to his body in sweaty patches. Below, he had on a pair of black, tight shorts.
    Very tight.
    She yanked her gaze back to his face. His gaze never wavered, and he still said nothing.
    He was so odd.
    But God. Those tight shorts. Even though she no longer looked, the image was burned in her brain. Lean hips. Long, long legs. Black nylon wrapped around surprisingly strong, taut thighs.
    Wrapped around his masculinity, too.
    He took another step toward her, and sunlight dappled onto his skin, making it glow like it had in the tower bedroom. For the first time, she noticed the soft trace of freckles dancing across his nose and cheeks, and along his hairline.
    “I run.” His gentle, dangerous voice slipped across to her, like a silky river of temptation. “I was just running by.”
    Shock zipped inside again. If she were naïve, she’d take his words as an olive branch. An explanation, instead of an insult or a threat.
    She hadn’t been naïve in years. “You stopped. You were listening.”
    He shifted and for the first time, she caught his scent. The salty smell of his clean sweat, and underlying it, a musk of the essential male. Not the ugly cologne smell he’d had on the first time she’d confronted him.
    Will had told her she had a nose. A nose for the oils and soaps and lotions that were part of their plans. She liked the sweet smells of lavender and vanilla. She liked the quiet, light fragrances which spoke of female and woman. But something about Lorne Ross’s scent caught her attention like no other smell had. Something forceful and compelling. She had the absurd desire to press her nose right into the crook of his neck and shoulder and breathe him in.
    She took a step back.
    He paused, a slight frown crossing his face. “Ye sing well. I stopped and listened. That’s all.”
    “I thought you might go. With your friend.”
    “Go?” His frown went fierce. “I’m not going anywhere. Ye are.”
    Just like that, she was on solid footing once more. Every thought of tight black shorts, red curls, and male scents whisked away, replaced with her intense dislike for this man. “You’ll be waiting—”
    “And listen here.” He took two quick steps and was right into her personal space. The action stunned her, because every time she’d seen Lorne Ross, he’d shied away from any close contact with another person.
    She’d noticed that.
    Along with too many other things.
    “Ye stay away from Doc, got it?” He loomed over her, and she took in the sudden awareness he was larger than she’d assumed. He was built like his father, but he had a good four inches on Will in height. “Do ye hear me?”
    Ceri braced herself, unwilling to let this man intimidate her. Everything inside her shivered with the impact he made, though.
    The