Highland Fling. Jennifer LabrecqueЧитать онлайн книгу.
shoulder and headed toward the door.
“Hold on.” Torri reached into her locker, pulled out a handful of condoms and stuffed them into Kate’s purse. “Friends don’t let friends head into the weekend unprotected.”
She and her underling exchanged a glance that clearly stated Torri was hot, Kate was not and that she’d need a handful of condoms was a stretch. An even bigger stretch was that she and Torri were friends.
“Thanks.” Kate opened the door.
“Sure. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Torri offered a brittle laugh. “And that leaves it wide open.”
Maybe it was the end of a grueling twelve-hour shift, maybe it was the caffeine surge from the espresso, or maybe it was because she was no longer a sixteen year old wallflower suffering from the digs the “popular” girls had thrown at her, but she gave in to the impulse she’d squelched more than once.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with unmarried men.” She smiled and let the door close behind her.
God that felt good. She bypassed the parking garage. Friday rush hour was still alive and near gridlock even at this late hour. Atlanta was a great city, but the traffic was abysmal. She could hoof it or forget about making it there before it closed.
She was only slightly winded twenty minutes later when she mounted the leaf-strewn marble steps and flashed her membership card at the blazer-clad attendant.
“You know we close in fifteen minutes,” she said.
“Yes. Thanks.”
She hurried along the winding, stairless ramp that lead to the different levels of the museum, too impatient to wait on the ridiculously slow elevator. Besides, she could use the exercise. With its switchback ramp, the building reminded her of a giant chambered nautilus.
Her heart thudded and it was more than the exertion of the climb. She felt as nervous as if she were meeting a real date.
Here it was. Third floor, one left turn and she was at the special traveling exhibit, Sex through the Ages. Virtually deserted. Only one couple, holding hands and talking in low tones, wandered in the opposite direction.
Excitement hummed through her like a low current of energy. It had been this way since the first time she’d stepped into the room a month ago. It had been a Friday night, much like this evening, but instead of closing in fifteen minutes, the museum had been open late. It had been one of the Friday Evenings of Jazz the museum hosted to launch a new exhibit. A jazz quartet had played in the open rotunda and a cash bar served martinis.
Half a martini into the evening, she’d wandered through the display of dildos throughout history and another display covering the transition of tempting undergarments through the ages. Kate wasn’t sure the thong counted as real progress.
She’d just wandered out of that room and into another, not certain of the theme there, a saxophone’s husky notes floating through the night air around her. And that’s when she’d first felt it. A raw sexual energy had pulsed deep inside, a need that blossomed in her womb and radiated through her.
The scent of a man, unfettered by any of the myriad male colognes on the market, but with just a hint of something indefinable, had teased her nose and a purely instinctual response had quivered through her. She’d felt his breath feather over her skin, felt his heat near her, felt his lust and his hunger.
She’d never felt such energy from anyone else. And never been quite so aroused without a look or a touch.
She’d turned, fully expecting to find a man right behind her. There’d been no one. Instead, there’d only been a painting. The painting. Mounted on the wall behind her.
She’d felt the same energy, an answering hum deep within her every time she’d visited the exhibit, which had been often. It was crazy. She wasn’t just a woman in charge of her own life, she was the assistant head of one of the busiest ER’s in the city. But it was as if her will had been sublimated and she couldn’t resist coming—even when she tried to stay away.
And it was the same now as it had been then, when she’d first seen him.
“Now that’s a man,” Kate Wexford sighed at the rendering of the rugged Scotsman towering over the ancient bed. A wicked scar, the one she’d daydreamed of earlier, bisected the sleek muscles in his bare back. With arms like small saplings, he eased his kilt, a red and blue plaid, down his hips, one knee braced on the bed’s platform, his legs thick and strong. Wild hair as dark as a starless night curled past the width of his massive shoulders. Not for the first time, she speculated that all parts were probably equally large.
In the background of the picture, a fire burned in the stone wall, burnishing his body with a golden glow, casting the woman on the bed in shadow, only her foot visible.
Kate berated herself for the heat that flooded her. What was wrong with her that she had the hots for a freaking picture? But it had beckoned her and brought her back with growing frequency. The man in the picture had increasingly intruded on her thoughts and even interrupted her focus at work. Kate knew she could be single-minded and determined, but she’d never been obsessive. But, clearly, that had changed with this picture, this man.
But not after tonight. The exhibit ended today. Tomorrow it would travel to another city. Irrationally, a deep mourning of bidding a lover farewell gripped her. Heat and yearning and no small measure of resentment flowed through her. She was being ridiculous and even more pathetic than Torri Campbell made her out to be—lusting after some dead guy in a painting who most likely had never been a real person anyway. And logical, sensible Kate didn’t do ridiculous or romantic.
That was more in keeping with her former college roomie, Jordan. Jordan, now back in grad school, lost herself for days in times long past and ancient cultures.
“It seems you’ve taken a liking to the MacTavish,” a voice behind her said.
Kate started and turned, annoyed at the interruption. She relaxed. It was only the older man she’d seen on several occasions. With his gray hair, kind blue eyes and frayed vest, he reminded her of an old-fashioned conductor who’d collected countless tickets for innumerable journeys. Nonetheless, he’d startled her.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the exhibit caretaker.” He nodded toward the starkly sensual portrait. “You come often. You seem to have taken a liking to the MacTavish.”
Busted. And although it was embarrassing the number of times she’d visited this portrait, she could hardly deny it when the old man had clearly noted her obsession.
She flushed at being caught out and nodded. So, her man had a name. Her curiosity outweighed her embarrassment. “Yes, I’m fairly taken with…what did you call him, the MacTavish? So, he’s real? Or, I mean, he was?”
The old man studied the portrait as if viewing an old friend. “Darach MacTavish. Once head of the clan MacTavish. One of the finest men to walk Scottish soil.”
Kate drew a deep breath, her heart pounding. He was real. Well, he had been real.
“Who painted the picture?” She’d often wondered.
“The artist is unknown.”
“Who’s the woman in the portrait?” Talk about total irrationality to resent the woman in the picture.
“That’s unknown as well. I do know Darach MacTavish died shortly after the picture was painted.”
His words knifed through her soul. What was wrong with her? She dealt with life and death on a daily basis and while she wasn’t inured, she handled it.
Kate persevered, driven by the knowledge that after tonight this man who’d so captured her imagination would be forever gone from her world. “What happened? How’d he die?”
“The Battle of Culloden.”
Kate looked at him blankly. The man in the painting