Book One in the Hot Scots Series
Good-girl Erica Teague is out on bail, charged with a crime her ex-lover committed. Desperate to experience one wild night of sizzling sex before her trial and certain conviction, Erica heads to a notorious underground club, where a case of mistaken identity lands her in the arms of a hot Scot with a secret past.
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I swigged my brandy. A flash of fruity sweetness raced over my tongue, chased by a tangy burn. Why was I waiting for a man who didn’t have the courtesy to call and cancel? Enough of this. I leaped off the stool onto my five-inch heels and tottered, mirroring my stool’s motion. What the hell had I been thinking, wearing stilettos for the first time in my life?
Strong hands grasped my upper arms. “Easy there.”
I craned my neck to behold my would-be savior. My heart thudded.
A giant of a man peered down into my eyes, his body towering several inches above me. Whoa, mama. The heels elevated my five-four to five-ten, which must’ve made him well over six feet tall. Thick muscles in his impossibly broad shoulders flexed as he maintained his hold on me. The lights glistened on his short, dark hair, casting it in unearthly hues. The sensation of his fingers on my skin and the proximity of his body flooded me with heat and my mouth watered at the sight of acres of hard, defined muscles straining his skintight black T-shirt. His powerful thighs vanished under a kilt, its plaid woven in pastel shades of green and blue with orange lines threaded through them. The blue in the fabric echoed his pale eyes, which studied me with electrifying interest. Black combat boots covered his feet but somehow, combined with his angular features, they lent him a rugged appeal.
I raked my gaze over his body, drinking in every inch of him, until our gazes intersected.
Recognition lit his face. “It’s you. Erica.”
“And it’s you.” Who the hell was he? The guy seemed to know me but—Ohhhh. This must be Cliff. I shook off his hands, whipped out my phone, and tapped the clock on its screen, tipping it so he could see. “It’s eight thirty-nine.”
His full lips quirked. “Quite the timekeeper, eh?”
That deep voice, spiced with an enticing Scottish brogue, flowed over the words like warm molasses. Forget his yummy accent. You’re a wild woman and wild women don’t wait around for late-comers. I shook off his hands. “I’ve been here for thirty-nine minutes. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Not really.” His attentive gaze browsed over me. “Except your bum’s oot the windae.”
He was speaking gibberish. Great, I’d arranged a sex date with a lunatic.
“Buckled, are you?”
I spread my arms. “Do you see any buckles or belts on this dress?”
He chuckled—with no derision, simply amusement. “I meant are you drunk, lass?”
“Me?” I snorted, waving a dismissive hand. “No. Never.”
Besides, I’d had just one sip of brandy.
He leaned in to stare straight into my eyes. His glacial blue irises sparkled in the light glinting off them. I caught a whiff of his rich, dark cologne and underneath, an earthy spice all his own. My senses came alive at the exotic scent of him, and the flecks of darker blue in those striking eyes mesmerized me. I swallowed. Hard.