Chapter Three

Sophie…

The snow falling outside gets heavier as I spread the tablecloth over the fifteen-foot-long dining table. This is one of my favorite rooms in the MacTavish mansion, mostly due to the fireplace along the wall facing the windows. It keeps this room toasty warm, because no matter how well this house is constructed it’s nearly two hundred years old, a massive Georgian-style stone and brick home and the cold spots are enough to give ya frostbite. The fireplace is big enough to roast an ox or two and given the age of the house, the whole ox thing has likely happened. The ceiling is high, with heavy oak crossbeams and yet another Christmas tree in the corner.

The linens are placed and I’m hefting two huge flower arrangements onto the table when a shadow outside the window distracts me.

“Shite!”

I juggle the glass bowl of roses and pine accents, groaning when some of the water slops onto the pristine tablecloth. Wiping my hands on my apron, I lean closer to the window, trying to spot whatever caught my attention. The snow is flying nearly sideways now, which guarantees we’re about to get a proper Scottish blizzard. The house will be buried in snow to the rafters by morning.

The snow on the ground reflects the light from the house and gardens and it should be easy to spot anything out of the ordinary, but the grounds outside are empty.

“I may not be in the MacTavish Mafia,”

I murmur, “but all that paranoia must be rubbin’ off on me.” The thought of a certain MacTavish rubbing on me surfaces and I groan, turning away from the window. “There’s no time for my filthy fantasies.”

Still… the idea of Michael slamming me up against the wall and kissing me senseless is making me uncomfortably warm in this scratchy black dress as I hurry back to help Ma.

Steam wreathes the massive kitchen, it’s filled with industrial-sized stainless-steel appliances, but it manages to keep its charm with the exposed stone wall on one side and plenty of skylights to let in the sun during the day. Racks of drying herbs hang over the stove and the heat from the burners release the fragrant bite of rosemary and sage.

“There ya are!”

Ma’s moving from the stove to the wall ovens and to the sink in a graceful ballet I’ve seen dozens of times. “Can ya go to the laundry room and pick up a pile of sheets to make up the extra beds? It looks like all the little cousins are spending the night, so please bring more towels and washcloths to all the bathrooms, and make sure there’s enough soap and toiletries.”

Cormac has four brothers and a sister. With their offspring and assorted spouses, that’s a mighty overwhelming group, even for a house of this size.

Bonnie, a third cousin to the MacTavish Clan and one of my best friends is “helping out”

tonight, eating cookie dough next to the pile of empty baking sheets.

She’s shoveling that cookie dough down like a raccoon in a dumpster.

“You’re gonna get sick from the raw dough,”

I warn, “and aren’t the bairns supposed to be cuttin’ the cookies out and decorating them?”

She pops another chunk in her mouth, giving me a wink. “You’re forgetting that I’m the haggis-eating champion in my family. A little cookie dough is nothing compared to consuming a stuffed intestine longer than my arm. Ya don’t scare me.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have to work tonight. Dinna the hospital always make the new nurses work holidays?”

Bonnie groans. “Oh, I have a twelve-hour shift tomorrow.”

I hand her another chunk of cookie dough. “Ya earned this, then. Where are all the guards? There’s usually half a dozen wanderin’ the kitchen when Ma is cooking.”

“We’re down to a skeleton crew for tonight,”

Ma says, seamlessly slipping a pan of Clootie dumplings into the oven as she pulls the roasted potatoes and turnips out. “They’re flyin’ drones for backup. Modern technology is quite the thing.”

“That’s smart,”

I agree, “though now Bonnie can’t flirt with those big, strong security guards.”

“Shut it before I waste this amazin’ cookie dough by throwing it at your head,”

Bonnie says. She’s sulking. I forgive her.

***

“Spendin’ my Christmas Eve draggin’ towels and sheets from one corner of the house to the other.”

I’m grumbling quietly as I haul another armload of laundry up three flights of stairs. “I gotta start taking Pilates again.”

“Let me help ya, aye?”

“Oh, Caitriona!”

Grand. Just grand. She heard me whining to myself.

“Dinna yae’ worry,”

she laughs, taking half my burden, “I’ll get the twins to make up all the beds. It’ll keep me from having to listen to them natter on about Father Christmas again.”

“At least your brother isn’t telling them stories about Krampus.”

“Aye, Mum put a stop to that when poor Maisie had nightmares for a week.”

She rolls her eyes. “The man has not a hint of softness. Except when it comes to ya.”

“What?”

I can feel the heat from my blush surging up my neck and onto my face. Damn my fair skin!

“Now, dinna yae’ start. Ya must know Michael has it bad for ya. Why do you think he’s stayin’ here tonight instead of at his penthouse in the West End?”

“I dinna know he had his own place,” I murmur.

“He’s twenty-five, ya dafty. Of course, he does.”

Caitriona nudges me with her shoulder. “He stays here in his suite when he knows you’re comin’ home from Uni so he has an excuse to bump into ya.”

Ma and I don’t live in the house, but we have a cottage out back. The thought that he makes up an excuse for close proximity sends another flush of heat to my face.

“I just thought ya should know.”

She studies my face, smirking. “Maybe this is finally the night ya two should do somethin’ about it.” She strolls down the hall, humming “Let It Snow.”

Distributing my burden to the endless series of bedrooms and bathrooms, I canna stop thinking about what she said. Caitriona’s a sweetheart, not a mean bone in her body so I know she’s not makin’ fun of me, but…

Michael’s the next Chieftain of the enormous and very powerful MacTavish Mafia. I’m the daughter of the housekeeper who helps out on holidays. There are pictures of him on gossip sites with models and rich girls. He can have anyone he wants.

An’ speak of the devil, I’m at the door to his suite, clutching my pillowcases and such. There’s no answer to my knock, so he must be with his Da, deciding which corporations to take over, or what criminal enterprise to topple.

I’ll just put the sheets and towels down and be on my way.

Michael’s suite is lavish, almost as big as his parent’s. The enormous bedroom boasts a king-sized sleigh bed and the dark, heavy furniture is lightened by the rich royal blue and red pillows and bed cover. Mala’s insistence on decorating the entire house even spread to here, with the fireplace mantle boasting a wreath and soft white lights. There’s a sitting room with two big couches, after setting the extra sheets there for his cousins, I just need to put away the towels and…

The door to the bathroom is open a bit and steam is sliding out in little tendrils.

Sweet baby Jesus, Michael’s taking a shower.

Which means he would be naked.

My feet carry me over before I can even think and I peek through the crack in the door.

Michael MacTavish is standing there, his back to me, naked as a jaybird.

You can take me now, Lord. I have lived a full life.

He’s beautiful in a way that is almost unearthly, his wide, sculpted shoulders and back are littered with scars and tattoos. There’s a magnificent image of a dragon with flared wings that reaches across his shoulder blades and something written in Celtic script down one thickly muscled thigh.

He has not been skippin’ leg day at the gym.

And then, there’s his arse. It’s perfectly taut and round and flexing as he shifts, sending water cascading down his back. It takes everything in me to not throw the towels in the air, race into the shower and sink my teeth into that perfectly sculpted muscle.

He shifts a bit and I stifle a scream, thinking he’s seen me, but he’s just moves on to washing his chest, white soap suds sliding down his six-pack and-

What is wrong with me?

I scuttle sideways like a crab, still clinging to my towels and racing awkwardly for the door. Did he see me? Please Lord, he dinna see me staring at him like a pervert! Slipping out the door to his suite, I manage to shut it soundlessly and scamper down the hallway like the hounds of hell are nipping at my heels. Which they should be. I am the worst sort of nonce.

Nonce - Scottish slang for pervert

Dafty - Scottish slang for silly or fool