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"I never thought that." I glance down at the floor, wondering how to convince her I'm not the way I might've seemed to be last night. Well, all right, I am that way sometimes. But I've never been as forward with any other lass as I was with Calli. Honesty seems like the best option, so I look up at her with a sheepish expression. "I don't normally take so many liberties with a woman."
She stares at me. "You don't?"
"No."
Bagpipe music emanates from my trousers.
Calli points at my pocket. "I hope that's your phone."
"It is."
Mouth tight, growling a sigh, I extricate the mobile from my pocket, upside down, and try to flip it over. I lose my hold on it, and the device flies through the air to crash-land on her lap.
Calli picks it up, though I'm sure it was a reflex and not nosiness. She seems to glance at the screen, then her mouth crimps and she tosses the mobile at me.
I catch it in both hands, turning it so I can see what's on the screen. It's a text message from my sister Jamie.Have you found your quarry, Don Juan? Expect details about American fling.
I let out a long groan.Mhac na galla. No wonder Calli seems annoyed. She doesn't know my baby sister is as sarcastic as my brothers and loves to torment me—affectionately. I love my siblings, but they often inspire me to curse in my thoughts. "Son of a bitch" is what I most often think when they harass me, but I usually go for the Gaelic version,mhac na galla.
Planting both feet on the floor, Calli tugs her dress as if she's making sure it covers all of her. "So, Don Juan, am I right in assuming I'm your quarry? The hapless American you tried to lure into a fling?"
"It's not like that." I sink back in my chair, shoving the mobile into my pocket. "My brothers and sisters have a strange sense of humor. They call me Don Juan because I like women, but I don't use them, and I'm not out shagging a different woman every night."
"Shagging? What a funny word for sex."
I struggle to keep from smirking and succeed, though just barely. "I could've said 'fucking.' Would that be more acceptable?"
"Normal people call it having sex."
Smiling, I chuckle softly. "I've never been accused of being normal. But why does the word fuck fash you?"
"Why does it what me?"
"Fash." My lips tighten, and I bluster out a sigh. Lachlan had warned me about this problem, but I assumed he was having me on. But no, it's true that Americans are confused by Scottish words. "Sorry. Fash means bother. Why does 'fuck' upset you?"
"I—The word doesn't offend me, but could you please stop saying it?"
"Dance with me and I will." I offer her my hand, palm up. "Otherwise, I'll have to remind you about our time in the club."
"Blackmail, hm?"
"Anything to get you in my arms again." I stand, still offering my hand. "Please, Calli. One dance. I promise to behave. Mostly."
She considers my hand, which is callused and rough from the construction work I do for a living. I'm not ashamed of having a job that involves hard labor, but some women have complained about my rough hands. Calli doesn't seem bothered by that, though she does seem curious.
"One dance," she says, slipping her delicate palm into mine.
I close my fingers around her hand, loving how warm and soft hers is.
"Aye, one dance," I say while I lead her toward the dance floor. Cannae resist flashing her a mischievous smile over my shoulder. "But I will make the most of the single dance I have with you."
Hand in hand, we wend our way through the couples twirling across the floor in time with a sedate instrumental played by a small string ensemble. Calli bumps into Tara, shoulder to shoulder, as the wee elf dances with her new husband. The newlyweds both grin at me and Calli, and Tara winks at her cousin. Calli gives Tara a sarcastic scowl, probably because her elfin cousin had orchestrated my reunion with her.
None of that matters now. Once we find an open spot, I raise our joined hands, snake my other arm around her side to spread my palm over the small of her back, and tug her close. Despite her high heels that make her a few inches taller than she would be in her bare feet, I still tower over the lass.
Finally, I have Calli Douglas in my arms.
While we sway our hips and shuffle our feet, I marvel at how lucky I am. On my first night in America, I met the perfect woman, a lass who's beautiful and well-spoken, sexy and sweet. All right, maybe she ran away from me last night, and I know virtually nothing about her. But I'm dead certain, in a way I can't explain, that Calli is the right woman for me.
