Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots by Caro LaFever

captured in a very short time, flipped over and flopped in front of his father. “I know enough to know he wants you, Cam, and no one else.”
    His name slipped from her before she could catch it and stuff it down her throat. The name had lain on her lips in the nighttime as she twisted in her bed. The name had lingered in her mind as she stomped across the moor with his son. His name had swirled inside her, as she yearned for him as much or more than Robbie did.
    “Cam, is it?” He leaned in, surrounding her with his heated scent. “We can finally dispense with the silly titles?”
    “No,” she said to the wooden door. “No.”
    “Hmm.”
    “I need to leave.” Pressing her hands on the door, she tried to force herself to push her body against his. To push him away. To push herself to go.
    “Do ye?” His other hand slipped along her waist, a soft wisp of a touch. “Maybe ye need something else entirely.”
    “No,” she said again.
    He stilled behind her before slowly easing back. His hands dropped to his sides. The loss of his warmth and his touch was a painful blessing.
    “I’ll not keep ye.” His voice came, no longer rich and redolent, but stiff and cold.
    Jen wrenched the door open and fled.

    * * *
    C am paced over to the whiskey and poured himself a double. Swallowing the smooth liquor in one gulp, he poured himself another.
    He wasn’t a drùiseach , dammit. He didn’t attempt to seduce every woman he met. Quite the opposite. Usually, they came to him. Plus, most of his life, he’d been too damn busy having fun and chasing a new adventure, to spend any time on a woman at all. He’d had his sexual adventures, too, yet they always paled in comparison to the adrenaline rushes he experienced in his work. Even his writing gave him more thrills than any woman ever had.
    Martine had known it too.
    “You’re off to get another kick, aren’t you ? ” She’d flash her black eyes at him as her French accent curdled every word. “You just can’t make yourself sit still.”
    No, and what was wrong with that? he’d often wondered. She’d married him for his money, money he earned dashing around the world and telling tall tales. Why the hell would she think he’d change something he loved?
    Loved far more than her.
    If he’d ever loved her at all.
    Any thoughts of his doomed marriage made him want to drink. He slugged down the second shot of malt. Slamming the empty glass on the antique scrolled side table, he prowled out of the library and down the cursed great hall. All of Martine was still plastered on every wall, every chair. In her manic state, she’d decorated this entire hideous monstrosity in less than two months. For those two months, he’d had some peace, he’d had some hope.
    But it had gone straight to hell after she’d finished the last room.
    Hiking up the grand staircase, he stopped at the second-floor landing. He glanced at the stairs running to the third floor. Did the mouse enjoy her little nest? The nest he’d been allowed to design alone out of all the other rooms. It had been his attempt to make his own stamp on this horrid house. He’d planned on using it as his study and getaway. Simple, solid wood furniture and plain, spartan drapes and bedding.
    A place he could hole up in when Martine went mad and started to yell.
    A place he could escape from his mother’s constant fretting about the boy.
    A place he could hide from his son.
    When he’d returned to Scotland six months ago, after spending seven years away, he’d decided it was foolish to hide. He had nothing to hide from anymore. So he’d abandoned his nest to the transcriber. To the mouse.
    Swinging away from the nibble of temptation, a temptation to stroll to her door and knock…and beg, he paced along the dark, dusty hallway leading to his bedroom.
    Halfway down, he stopped again.
    At his son’s bedroom door.
    He hadn’t been in the room since he’d delivered his lecture about crying. He rarely entered, he