The Pleasure Master Page 2

  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.

  Then what? Amnesia? Could she have lost her memory, wandered to a different place?

  Stop shaking. You’re New York tough. New Yorkers are survivors. This time when she pushed at him, he let her go. Scrambling away from the man on the ground, she reached her purse and yanked out her cell phone.

  Breathlessly, she pushed 911, then waited until a male voice answered.

  “Please, I need help.” Her teeth chattered. With cold or fear? Probably both. “My nam
e is Kathy Bartlett and I—”

  The voice interrupted.

  “No, I’m not hurt. I don’t know about the imminent danger part. I’m—”

  Interruption.

  “Where am I? Somewhere in Braveheart, I think.”

  The voice wasn’t amused.

  “Okay, okay, I’m . . .” She turned to the man, who still sat leaning against the rock. “Where am I?”

  He wasn’t smiling. A frown creased his forehead as he stared at her phone. “Ye’re betwixt Cromarty and Dornoch Firths.”

  “Firth? What the heck is a firth? Firth doesn’t sound like a New York name.” He didn’t sound like a New York man. She fought to control the nauseous fear trembling in the pit of her stomach and faithfully repeated what he’d said.

  “What do you mean there’re no streets with those names? Sure there are. I bet you could find dozens of Cromarty and Dornoch streets. I bet there’re two named after Dominic Cromarty and Christine Dornoch.”

  The voice had no sense of humor.

  “Fine, so I’m not hurt, so I’m not in imminent danger, but . . . Why do I have to call my local authorities?” She glared at the man on the ground, then glared at her cell phone.

  “Emergencies? You think this isn’t an emergency? You’d better . . .” Damn! He’d hung up. Carefully, she returned the phone to her purse, afraid she’d drop it from her shaking fingers. Save the power until you figure out the right person to call.

  She was in deep doo-doo, but she’d calmly and logically reason things out. Hah! She was so scared that any minute the fright fairy would swoop down and crown her Queen of Queasy Stomachs.

  She turned back to the man, then gasped when she found he now stood beside her. Sitting, he’d looked formidable. Standing, he was downright intimidating. Towering above her with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun, if there’d been a sun, and dressed in clothing that looked way too authentic for Kathy’s taste, he practically oozed raw primitive power.

  She wanted to step back. Step back, turn, and run for her life. But where? And she didn’t doubt he’d catch her before she’d taken five steps. Clenching her shaking hands into fists, she glared at him. “Don’t touch me or I’ll—”

  “Or ye’ll what, lass?” He smiled. “Cover my manhood wi’ a potion that will deny the pleasure of a woman’s body to me forever?” He walked over and picked up her can of mousse. Handling it carefully, he returned it to her.

  Without comment, she put it in her purse.

  “Be ye a witch?” He didn’t smile when he asked.

  An incredible explanation was jumping up and down just outside the door to her thoughts, shouting to get her attention. She couldn’t make it go away, but she didn’t have to answer the door.

  Just stick with the facts. Two hulking giants run screaming from mousse attack. General landscape in no way resembles Times Square on Christmas Eve. Conclusion. Primitive area inhabited by big scary primitive men. Hmm.

  Think. If she was in a primitive area, then she’d better squash this witch thing. Being burned at the stake was not on her list of fun things to do on a Saturday night. No, she definitely couldn’t be a witch. “I’m . . . I’m a princess. That’s right, I’m a princess, and I’m lost.”

  “A princess?” He looked puzzled.

  She relaxed slightly. He didn’t seem so threatening when he was puzzled. “Yes. I’m . . . the hair princess.”

  “Hare?” A smile once again tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Ye rule a kingdom of rabbits?”

  If she hadn’t been so confused, so terrified, she might have laughed, but who could laugh with her teeth chattering and her mind racing for an explanation. Any explanation. “No, hair.” She reached up and fingered a strand of his incredible hair, then jerked her hand back at the instant connection between them. “I’m Kathy, the Princess of Hair.” A coma? Did people hallucinate when they were in a coma? “And I need to get back to New York.”

  He frowned. “I’ve ne’er heard of this New York.”

  Oh, God, please. “The United States?”

  He shook his head, and her gaze involuntarily followed the way his hair shifted like heavy silk across his shoulders. “I dinna know these places. Who is the king of yer land?”

  The explanation, so fantastic, so impossible, was now pounding on the door, tapping at the windows. “Uh . . . Clairol. My father, King Clairol, rules our kingdom.”

  He exhaled sharply, and his breath misted against her cheek—warm, compelling. “Yer father would do well to keep his daughter safe beside him. ’Tis a dangerous land ye’ve come to.”

  New York or wherever, men’s attitudes didn’t change. She took a mini-break from mental handwringing to strike a blow for women everywhere. “Women can take care of themselves. I can take care of myself.” Right.

  His gaze turned thoughtful, assessing. “Aye. I’ve seen proof of that. Henry would find ye amusing.”

  “Henry?” She glanced around her again. Hills, grass, a small grove of trees, the smell of the sea. No, she’d never been here before.

  “Surely even in yer kingdom ye’ve heard of King Henry.”

  The explanation gave up on polite knocking and tapping. With a roar of frustration, it kicked down her door, then stood with hands on hips, confronting her with its horrific magnitude, its realness. “What . . . year is it?” Strange, but her lips felt frozen, unwilling to form the question.

  “The year of our Lord, fifteen hundred forty-two.” His answer seemed distracted, his gaze suddenly fixed on something behind her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would keep her mind, her soul, from shattering into a million shards of panic. No! How? Why? No, she wouldn’t accept his words. Time travel was impossible.

  Please let her open her eyes and find herself back on the side of I-95, smelling the wonderful smells of home—exhaust fumes and pollution. She’d never, never, never complain again about over-booking, clients who wanted green hair like the Grinch, or sexy cars that broke down.

  She opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. Feeling suddenly disconnected from the strangeness around her—probably a defense mechanism of her mind—she turned to see what her companion found so interesting.

  A large cat sat watching them. Mostly white, it had red on its head and tail. Auburn. Denise Lane, third Thursday of every month. Kathy had told her all women deserved to be redheads at least once in their lives.

  The man moved up beside her, and they watched silently as the cat stood, then hobbled toward them.

  “That cat only has three legs.” She was switching into automatic poor-kitty mode when the man put his hand on her arm. She drew in her breath at the contact.

  “’Tis Malin. Ye must pretend ye dinna notice. He willna accept yer pity.” He bent down and ran his hand the length of the cat’s back. The cat sat down regally at the man’s side, disdaining to glance her way.

  “Malin?”

  “Aye. The name means wee strong warrior. ’Tis a fitting name.”

  Kathy lifted her gaze to the man’s face. There was dark intensity in his stare and an unnamed emotion that seemed to ripple between them, pulling her into its undertow even as she fought it.

  Nope, she wouldn’t get sidetracked because she had really important issues to think about, like . . . Even though I really, really don’t believe in time travel, well, if I have time traveled—and, of course, I don’t believe I have—please, someone send me home.

  “Run this King Henry and 1542 stuff past me again. Slowly.” She wet her lips nervously as he watched her with unwavering gray eyes. “Oh, and have you spoken with your shrink lately, maybe missed your medication?”

  If only it were that simple. But what about the two kilted brothers she’d terrified with a can of mousse? What about their Scottish burr, and what about the primitive untouched land around her? What about if you have a screaming fit of hysterics?

  It was as though she hadn’t spoken. Without comment, he grabbed her hand, scooped up her bag of toys, purse,
and backpack, then started dragging her away.

  Bag of toys, purse, backpack. Something important. Remember. “Whoa. You can’t just pull me along behind you. That’s . . . kidnapping, a criminal offense. Besides, I don’t go off with strange men.” She jerked ineffectually at his grasp.

  Pausing, he looked back at her. “If ye’re truly lost, then all men would be strange to ye.”

  True. “Yeah, but some men are stranger than others.”

  He finally seemed to relax. The beginning of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and turned up the corners of that incredible mouth. “Ye dinna understand, lass. Ye have no choice in the matter. Ye’re coming wi’ me.” He shrugged, and despite the plaid thrown across his shoulders, she could see the ripple of muscles. “Besides, where else would ye go?”

  Stark raving mad? No, she thought she’d already taken that trip.

  He must have taken her silence for assent, because he resumed dragging her away.

  “Wait. You forgot Malin. Aren’t you going to carry him?” She glanced at the cat, who stared malevolently back at her. Definitely not carry-on luggage.

  “Malin is a warrior. Ye dinna carry a warrior. He would be insulted.” The man continued walking.

  God forbid she insult Malin. “Peter. We can’t leave Peter here.”

  Peter. Now she realized what had bothered her when he’d picked up her other things. She’d been holding the bag, backpack, and purse when it happened. She hadn’t been holding Peter. So why was Peter here? Why not her sexy red car with the balloon payment due in two months? Two months. Which reminded her, if she didn’t show up in court on February 14, her slimy, cheating ex-husband would win his stupid mental anguish case.

  Once again the man paused. He cast her a long-suffering look. “Peter?”

  “He’s one of my toys. I have to get him.” She pointed.