Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots by Caro LaFever Page A

away from him. The implicit trust settled in him like a long-lost mate.
    Something shivered up his spine.
    There was something wrong here, something threatening to him, yet Cam had never been very good at walking away from threats. His hand drifted farther into her short hair, sifting through her details: making note of each curl of her ear, the exquisite grain of her skin, the way her lashes ended with a touch of honeyed gold.
    The mouse didn’t move, didn’t swing her gaze from his or jump from his grasp. Instead, she lay pliantly, her hands curled into his chest, her legs splayed across his one thigh and the bed.
    His heartbeat stuttered, before beating fast once more.
    Touching her skin was like brushing warm alabaster, so fine, so pure. He skimmed his fingers over the arch of her brow and down across her subtle cheekbones.
    And then, to her mouth.
    The mouth that had been so average until a minute ago.
    Her lips didn’t pucker or protest. Again, her passive acceptance of him made the blood in his body roar and roil for more and more and more.
    “I had one of my attacks.” Her mouth moved under his fingers and a line of sweat popped out on the length of his spine at the feeling of her lips on his skin. “It’s nothing.”
    “Attacks?” Cam dragged his hand away from her face before latching his eyes onto hers.
    He’d thought they were mere mist, a normal grey color any Scotsman would recognize and not find astonishing in any way.
    But he’d been wrong. Very wrong.
    They were mystery. They were mystical. Her eyes drew him in and he felt himself falling into the depths, falling into a deep, dark story he’d never imagined existed.
    “I have panic attacks sometimes.”
    Her words shocked him into straightening, pulling back from the something he’d known was potentially deadly. “Really?” he managed to choke out.
    “Yes.” She finally cut the connection that drew him in. Glancing away, she inspected the mess that was his bedroom. The loss of her gaze made him realize where they were.
    In his bedroom.
    With an abrupt movement, he pushed her out of his arms, holding onto her only until she’d steadied on her feet. “You’re all right?”
    “I’ve recovered.” A flush rose up her neck, coloring her porcelain skin. She swept her plain hands down the simple green jumper she wore and then stuck them into her jean pockets. “The attacks come and go quickly.”
    He didn’t stand because he didn’t want to get near her again. Her crisis had apparently been averted, so it was time to get back to the inquisition. “Since you’re fine now, ye can answer my question.”
    The mouse sucked in a breath and for a moment his own held in his throat, but then she let out a hesitant sigh. “I was only looking around.”
    He knew immediately—she lied. The way she looked at everything except him, the way the muscles of her face tightened, the way her hands fisted in her pockets. With a shock, he realized he was even angrier at this point than he’d been before.
    “You’re not a very good liar, Ms. Douglas.” He placed his elbows on the mattress, lying in a negligent sprawl, trying to cover the anger in a layer of blasé detachment. “I’d advise ye not to try it anymore. Especially with me.”
    That average mouth of hers fell open and her gaze met his. What he saw in them didn’t make sense. It was as if he’d hit on something far deeper than his casual comment deserved.
    The something wrong he’d sensed before leapt back into his awareness, crouching in the depth of his mind, just out of reach. Leaning forward and clasping his hands before him, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Come on then. Tell me the truth.”
    A sharp knock on the door startled both of them. The mouse jumped and swung around. Cam found himself bemused because the noise had jerked him out of this scene in the same way a sudden interruption during his dictation always jerked him out of a story.
    He never liked that.
    He didn’t like it