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Men In Kilts
Katie MacAlister
Excerpt
Chapter One The e-mail came while I was trying to figure out
how
to connect my hair-dryer adapter.
OK, so you've been in England for what…seven
hours, now? my friend Cait wrote. Have you met any
men yet? How come you haven't written to me? You're a
writer, for Pete's sake, so write! Tell me everything!
Every single detail!
I just got here, I wrote back, giving up on the
adapter. I'm tired, the only man I met was a street
person who hit me up for a pound by promising to write my
name in urine on the sidewalk, and I'll tell you more when
I have something to tell.
Two minutes later there was another e-mail waiting.
Was the street guy cute? Did you watch him write your
name? Did he spell it correctly?
Not cute, I replied. No, I didn't stay, and
boy, will I be glad when you start dating again!
I turned off my laptop, changed into my party wear,
looked longingly at the bed, and with a tired sigh,
grabbed
my purse and headed down to where the action was.
"Katie Wilson? Here's your bag. There's a cocktail
party this evening," the Murder in Manchester registration
woman told me as she shoved a book bag in my hands before
tossing me a printed program. "You have to buy your own
drinks, but everyone will be there. You're an author,
correct?"
"Yes," I agreed, still stunned with jetlag. It was
a
ten hour flight from Seattle to London, and I had to catch
a train to Manchester from Heathrow, leaving me more than
a
bit comatose after…my mind balked at trying to figure out
how long I was past due sleep. "Yes. Author. Katie.
Drinks."
"Then you'll want to be at the party. Everyone will
be there," she repeated, and leaned sideways to see the
person behind me. "Next!"
I clutched my book bag full of books, promotional
materials, and conference related items and shuffled off
to
find a spot to sit and let the fact that I was in England
soak in. I found a deep, comfy chair in a corner of the
hotel lobby and parked myself there, intending on browsing
through the mystery conference material to familiarize
myself with the events of the weekend. After struggling
for
half an hour to keep my eyelids propped open, I decided
that a few minutes resting my eyes were in order before I
had to go dazzle everyone at the cocktail party. Surely, I
thought as I snuggled back into the chair, I wouldn't
actually sleep. Not in a busy lobby. Not in a strange
country. I'd just rest and recharge my batteries for the
party.
I woke up to the feeling of someone stuffing a
tissue under my cheek.
"Oh, you're awake. I'm sorry if I woke you, but you
were sleeping so soundly and that blouse looks as if it's
made of silk…"
I blinked at the short, elegantly spoken white-
haired lady who was bending over me.
"Uh…"
She fluttered the tissue at me and stared pointedly
at my shoulder. I looked. There was a huge saucer sized
damp mark.
"Oh, great, I drooled on myself!"
"That's why I was trying to tuck this under your
chin. I do hate to see such a lovely blouse ruined. The
embroidery on it is quite exquisite. You're
American?"
I took the proffered tissue and tried to mop up the
big drool mark. "How humiliating! I save up for years to
come halfway around the world on a dream trip only to
slobber on myself in public on my first day here. Yes, I'm
American. Thank you for the tissue, but I think it's too
late. I can't go to the cocktail party with a big old
slobber mark on my shoulder!"
"No, indeed," the white-haired woman agreed. "Such
a
shame, too. The detail on the embroidery is lovely.
Beaded,
as well."
"It was made just for tonight," I mourned with
her.
"You'll probably want to hurry if you intend on
having time to meet people at the party," she suggested as
she started off toward the elevators. "I just came from
there and I don't believe it is scheduled to last much
longer."
"Hell!" I swore as I glanced down at my watch. I
had
slept three hours! With my mouth open! Drooling! Where
everyone could see me! I slunk out of the lobby and
escaped
to my room, did a quick change from my lovely beaded, hand-
embroidered silk blouse into a plain black one, ignored
the
wrinkles in my pleated wool skirt, and dashed back
downstairs to the party.
"Deep breath," I told myself as I stood in the
doorway and assessed the situation. "Probably no one saw
you sleeping. Probably no one will recognize you at all.
Probably no one will talk to you and you'll spend a long,
lonely weekend by yourself, an outcast, a pariah, a public
drooler."
I girded my mental loins and stepped into the room,
dodging scattered tables and smiling hopefully at the
groups of people clutching drinks as they laughed and
chatted amiably, all the while searching desperately for
other lost souls like myself who didn't know anyone there.
I searched in vain, but my family code has always been
that
appearance is everything, so I slapped a confident I'm
not scared to death of being half-way around the world in
a
room full of people I don't know and can barely
understand,
oh no I'm not smile on my face and marched over to the
bar to ask for something without alcohol. I'm not at my
best when I drink. I flush and get silly and very, very
sleepy, which is not at all the sort of impression one
wishes to make at a gathering of one's peers.
As I turned away from the bar I noticed a man next
to the door leaning up against the wall watching the
crowd.
"Aha," I muttered to my tonic and lime, "someone
else who doesn't know everyone here. A very large someone,
too, with a marvelous white woolly sweater."
A woman nearby glanced over her shoulder at me
standing in front of the bar talking to no one.
"I'm writing dialogue," I told her. "Mentally. And…
er…out loud, of course. I'm a writer. We do that."
She pursed her lips in a pained expression of
disbelief, and made sure not to make eye contact with me
for the rest of the evening. I shrugged and turned back to
give the old once over to the guy standing against the
wall.
He really was a sight to make the mouth water—a
big,
burly sight in a lovely sweater and dark brown corduroy
pants, but what intrigued me was the expression he wore:
this was plainly a man who was not having fun. He looked
bored to tears and kind of lonely standing there holding
up
the wall all by himself. I decided it was my duty to
further Anglo-American relations by helping him, so I
wandered over in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner,
flashed him a I'm not flirting with you, just being
friendly, all in the furtherance of goodwill between
nations, and not at all because you are an extremely dishy
man smile, and parked myself next to him.
We stood that way for about five minutes, just
watching the crowd, me sipping on my tonic and lime, he
occasionally peering morosely into a pint of beer.
"Tch!" he said finally, making that curious noise
of
derision that only the Scots seem to make, and drained the
last of his beer. "You read mysteries then, do you?" he
asked me without turning his head.
I almost melted on the spot. I had lucked out and
how! A Scot. A real live, woolly sweater wearing, brogue-
thick-enough-you-could-trot-a-horse-on-it, Scot. Right
next
to me! My knees went a bit weak.
I love Scotsmen. I love everything about them—I
love
the way they talk, I love the way they dress, I love that
wonderful little noise they make in the back of their
throat, and I love the way they smell. Yes, it's true,
they
have a smell all their own, and it's glorious. To me,
Scottish men smell like the outdoors, with an overtone of
bagpipe and an amusing little hint of something wild and
craggy and utterly indefinable.
There I was, half way around the world, friendless,
alone in a room full of people who, judging by the
enthusiasm they greeted one another, all knew each other
on
a level approaching that of biblical, and standing next to
me was a Scot.
Oh, be still my heart.
"Yes, I do read mysteries," I answered with what I
hoped was an insouciant smile, wishing all the while I
could just jump him and be through with it. "But I also
write."
"Ah, do you now? And what would you be
writing?"
The man's voice rumbled, positively rumbled. My
knees went even weaker. I clutched the wall in a desperate
attempt to keep from slipping to the floor.
"Um." My mind went blank. What was the name of the
book? Come to think of it, what was my name? "I
write mysteries. My last book was The Death of
Artemis."
I watched closely to see if he recognized it. He
didn't. I sighed. "I take it you read mysteries as well?"
I
asked politely.
"Aye."
My knees slipped a bit further. He actually said
aye. How on earth could I resist a man who said
aye as casually as I would say potato? I
couldn't. I melted even more. It was a bit confusing, this
instantaneous overwhelming attraction, but who was I to
question fate? I pushed him to the top of my fantasy men
list, and smiled encouragingly.
"Aye, I read a fair bit."
"Ah." No one ever claimed I was the queen of
conversation. "Who do you read?"
That's a legitimate question at a mystery
convention. Everyone swaps favorite authors, garners
recommendations of new authors to read, and takes notes on
who to avoid. The Scot listed a few familiar names, but
most were new to me. I asked him about the ones I didn't
know, and he told me what they wrote, who was good, and
who
was great. Most were Scottish writers, but there were a
few
Brits in the bunch, and one American (not, I was
disappointed to note, me).
"I'm Katie," I said, holding out my hand, extremely
pleased I remembered my own name in the face of such
distraction as unbidden, overwhelming lust.
"Iain," he replied, taking my hand in his. His
fingers were warm and strong around mine, and I let him
hold my hand while I gazed at him with a smile that I
hoped
indicated polite interest, but feared came out as a smut-
riddled leer.
"Iain," I said, trying not to dwell overmuch on the
pleasure I was receiving from the feel of my hand in
his. "That's a nice name. I take it you're from
Scotland?"
"Aye, I've a sheep farm in the Highlands."
"Ah." My wellspring of conversation dried up as I
stared at his big hand holding mine. A few scars stood out
white against the tanned darkness of his skin, giving his
hand character and depth I didn't think possible in a mere
extremity. Reluctantly, or so it seemed to my bemused
self,
he released my hand, leaving me to transfer my stare to
his
face.
"So," I said, rallying the few wits I had left, "is
this your first mystery conference?" I almost cringed at
the inanity of my question, but was simply unable to
summon
anything resembling intelligent speech when he was looking
at me with those lovely dark eyes.
"Aye, my sons gave me this." He waved his beer
around to encompass the room. "As a birthday present
because I read so many mysteries."
Sons. Where there were sons, there were usually
mothers.
"How very thoughtful of your sons," I said,
glancing
covertly at his left hand. There was no ring, but that
could mean anything and nothing.
"They're good lads," he agreed, taking a pull on
his
beer.
"Indeed. And your wife is…?" I peered around as if
hoping to discover her, which was, of course, the last
thing I truly wanted.
"I've no wife," he said, the lines around his eyes
crinkling slightly as he smiled.
I smiled back. "Too subtle?"
"No, I prefer a woman who can say what it is she
has
on her mind."
I turned my smile into a little resigned
moue. "That
won't be a problem with me. So, tell me all about
Scotland.
I've always wanted to go there."
We had a nice conversation, or rather, he had a
nice
conversation; I was alternately palpitating and twitching
whenever he spoke. His voice was very deep, rumbling
around
in the big chest housed in that lovely sweater, finally
spilling out with an accent you could almost taste.
Despite
the fact that my hormones kicked in upon hearing that
voice, it was his eyes that were my doom, ensnaring me,
trapping me, making me a slave to their mysterious depths.
Iain had lovely eyes, lyrical eyes, wise, deep, dark eyes.
Warm, sultry brown eyes you wanted to teeter on the brink
of, then fall into. Dark, dark eyes with lovely little
gold
and black flecks. I loved watching his eyes when he spoke,
enjoyed how his laugh lines crinkled up whenever he
smiled,
and spent several minutes imagining all of the ways I'd
like to kiss around those eyes. Amongst other locations.
I won't say there were little heart shaped bubbles
popping over my head at that point, but it was a close
thing.
"How are you enjoying England, then?" he
asked.
"Eyes," I breathed, drowning in his.
"Aye, you've a lovely pair."
"Hmm?" I blinked and tried to yank my attention
from
fantasies that featured the dishy Scot, two feathers, and
a
small jar of pitted olives.
"Your eyes. They're lovely."
"So are yours," I replied, blushing madly, and
quickly steered the conversation away from my unseemly
instant physical attraction to him. We chatted for about
an
hour, Iain talking books, me murmuring agreements, saying
whatever it took to keep him talking. I positively
wallowed
in the glory of his voice rolling around me, deep and dark
and full of Scottish mystery. Occasionally he'd throw me
completely, his accent just too new to my ears. I'd back
him up and have him repeat whatever it was I didn't
understand.
"The lads at the Twa Brithers—"
"What?" I interrupted him.
"Twa Brithers."
"Come again?"
"Twa…Brithers."
"Let's break that down, shall we? Twa as
in…?"
"Twa." He held up two fingers.
"Oh, two. Silly me!" I gave him a fatuous (and
infatuated) grin. He smiled back, chuckling his sexy
chuckle as he repeated the second word again until it
penetrated the thick fog of lust circling my head. "OK,
you
were down at the Two Brothers…is that a pub?"
"Aye," he nodded, and continued to tell me an
anecdote about a local author.
I listened to that lovely voice, my entire body
humming in response to him, but it wasn't just his accent
that sent shivers down my spine, it was the cadence in his
voice and the way his body moved when he spoke. He
described the opening scene of a book to me, throwing his
whole body into the telling. Now, you might think that
would be an impressive undertaking for a man six feet six
inches tall. It was—but at the same time it wasn't. He
wasn't clumsy in the least. All that walking around the
fields and hefting sheep had obviously given the man
muscles. Even at his age—mid forties, I was guessing—he
was
exceptionally fit. And he moved—well, he moved,
with
an innate sense of grace lacking in most men.
At that point, the lust began to clear and
something
far more profound settled in. I was in serious trouble,
but
I didn't know it.
What I did know was that my conversation
with
the delicious Scot had to end at some point. The evening
would draw to a close, we would part, I would talk to
others, and life would go on. Only I didn't want it to
end,
didn't want to talk to anyone else, and didn't want to
move
on and forget him. I was in the process of being bemused,
and it's just not that easy to pull out of a partial
bemusement and switch your attention to someone else.
Regardless, I smiled brightly as Iain returned from the
bar
with another pint for himself and a cup of coffee for
me.
"You're sure you'd not like a glass of wine?" he
asked as I clutched the coffee to me.
"No, no, coffee is fine, coffee is good. I need the
caffeine. I'm a bit jet laggy still."
He nodded and took a sip of his beer, those deep,
dark, sexy eyes of his twinkling with a devilish glint
that
made me want to do wicked, wicked things to him. With my
tongue.
"Aye, I saw you earlier. You looked a wee bit
fashed
then."
"You saw me earlier?" How could I have possibly
have
missed this delicious large hunk of man? It wasn't
possible! I shook my head. He nodded back.
"'Twas in the lobby. You were sleeping."
Oh, no! Not the lobby! Not when I was…
"Sleeping very soundly," he added, eyeing my blouse
speculatively. Aaaaaack! He had seen! He had seen me
drooling all over myself! My unfettered lust for the dishy
Scot weakened significantly in the ensuing embarrassment.
As I was mentally cringing and about to explain
that
I normally don't sleep in public, let alone sleep with my
mouth open and vast cascades of saliva flowing free and
wild, a thin, balding man with a handlebar moustache
stopped next to me.
"Good evening. I was told you're the American
author
on my panel. I'm Daniel Johannson." He held out his hand,
a
pleasant smile on his lips. I wanted to smack him. How
dare
he interrupt my lovely conversation with Iain? Who cared
about a stupid panel when there was serious ground to be
made up with the dishy Scot?
"Katie Wilson," I dutifully replied, and even more
dutifully slapped a smile on my face as I shook his hand.
He edged around in front of me, more or less pushing Iain
to the side. What a rotter! "This is Iain," I added, and
took a step nearer to him.
"Evening," the man greeted Iain with another
smile. "I don't recognize you. I take it you're not an
author?"
"No, I'm not," Iain said, giving me a long
look. "As
you've business to talk, I'll be on my way. It was a
pleasure to meet you, Katie."
"Likewise," I said, my heart dropping to my loafers
as he glanced quickly around the party, then shrugged
slightly and left the room. "Well, hell!"
"Sorry?"
"Nothing," I answered, my eyes on the door in case
Iain changed his mind and came back. He didn't though, and
I was hard put to maintain polite conversation with Daniel
since I resented him heartily for interrupting my little
tête-à-tête with a much more interesting man, but I did
refrain from snapping his head off much in the manner of a
peeved praying mantis, a fact which surely must merit me
some sort of cosmic brownie points.
He discussed the upcoming panel, then introduced me
to some of the other authors, but despite having come all
the way around the world just to meet my British peers, I
didn't enjoy myself. The evening had lost its warm glow.
"You're an adult, Katie," I lectured myself later,
when I was in my hotel room finishing the task of
unpacking. "You didn't spend all that time and money
saving
for this trip just to moon over a man you've known for all
of an hour. Cease this pouting and get over this
infatuation!"
The lecture didn’t do me any good, they seldom do.
For some reason I was unable to explain even to myself,
meeting the Scot had rocked my world back on its heels. I
didn't quite understand what had happened, but I knew it
was something momentous.
Love at first sight strikes some people like that…
daft, that is.
I didn't stop thinking about Iain that night, not
when I was talking with other authors at the party, not
when I was taking a shower later and wondering if he liked
faux-auburn haired women of medium height and no
outstanding physical attributes, nor did I stop thinking
about him when I lay in bed and listened to the sounds of
the hotel settling into sleep.
I thought about him the next day as I went from
panel to panel and listened to mystery authors and fans
talk.
I thought about him when I went out to dinner that
night with Daniel and his group of cronies, only partially
paying attention to the publishing gossip and mystery
talk,
my mind more consumed with wondering whether I hadn't
imagined the whole, hormone-stirring episode with a non-
existent Scot.
I thought about him every time I spied a tall, dark
haired man.
It's disgusting, I e-mailed my best friend
Cait the second day of the conference. I feel like a
schoolgirl with her first crush. I just can't stop looking
for him. I can't stop wishing I could talk with him again.
I keep trying to figure out what it is about him, what
makes him so intriguing, why he's having this affect on
me,
but all that sort of analysis does is end up in smutty
fantasies. I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE BUT THE DISHY
SCOT!
Cait responded almost immediately with a request
for full details, and her approval to go ahead and give in
to my lust.
Just exactly how dishy is DISHY? she wrote.
What's he look like? Was he wearing a kilt? What did he
have on under his kilt, and don't tell me you didn't look,
I would have looked for you. Stop angsting over your lust,
it's not like you've gotten any in the last decade. So go
ahead! Live a little! If you fancy this guy, jump him! You
did bring raincoats with you, didn't you? I TOLD you to
bring raincoats!
Condoms were the least of my worries. I argued with
myself a lot that day, repeatedly pointing out to my saner
self that I was a mature adult, I had been married before,
I had fallen in love and fallen out of love. I had engaged
in mild infatuations in the past, and they always ended up
the same. I told myself to stop mooning about and get on
with my life.
I think I had more conversations with myself that
day than I did with anyone else. I didn't enjoy either. I
didn't enjoy much of anything, and that made me even
angrier.
"Oh, Katie," one of my newly made acquaintances
called after me the next morning as a panel ended and
everyone was filing from the room. "We're going out to
dinner tonight, and we thought as you were at a loose end
you might want to come with us."
"Not unless you've got a Scot named Iain in your
pocket," I mumbled softly, then thanked the woman and
declined.
"Honest to Pete, I am the grand champion of
idiots!"
I chastised myself a few minutes later in the ladies' room
where I was trying to make myself look presentable for my
upcoming panel, always a challenge when you are cursed
with
waist-length hair that never heeds the desire for it to
stay confined. It wasn't my hair that bothered me as I
stared at my reflection, it was the sour look of
discontent
that try as I might, I just could not erase. "I am wasting
my precious few days of vacation by walking around all
grouchy and unhappy because the object of my temporary and
doomed-from-the-start fascination is not to be found. What
a boob! What a maroon! What a…what a pitiful and
hopelessly
smitten person I am."
Chastisements seldom do much to buoy the spirit,
and
this instance was no exception. I swallowed my misery and
obediently followed the moderator into the panel room,
prepared to discuss writing a mystery series to the best
of
my abilities. My fellow panelists were all well-known,
respected members of the profession. They were intelligent
and witty and had things of great import to share with the
audience.
I, on the other hand, sat at the end of the long
speaker's table and said little. I responded to questions
when they were asked of me, and tried to look
intelligent, but I know I failed. I didn't have anything
to
say. Not anything related to the subject of discussion,
not
anything the people in the audience wanted to hear. Not
anything that would make sense.
Instead, I sat like a lump and never once took my
eyes off the man sitting in the back row. Iain had come to
my panel. And he smiled.
At me.
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