Chapter Two
Angus
Behave yourself, you Scottish barbarian, and keep your kilt firmly in place. This one’s too sweet and innocent for the likes of you. Leave her be, and keep it professional.
Not for the first time, I scowled at the hastily scrawled note my assistant had handed me when she brought in Isla Blizzard for her interview. Nell Evans had been with me since the very day I founded AS Architects, and with her graying hair, kind eyes, and no-nonsense attitude, she reminded me more than a little of my mother, whom I hadn’t seen in many long years. Nell acted as my conscience as frequently as she did my assistant.
This was extremely useful—since I apparently was born without a conscience—but it could be deeply annoying as well.
I noticed the way she’d underscored professional three times to make her point, and sighed. Nell knew me too well, damn it. I could have virtually any burd I wanted, and in point of fact, I’d been with many of the most beautiful women in the world—models, actresses, and singers, among others. Yet I generally tried to keep things on a professional footing with the women who worked under me (so to speak). Office romances, or even quickies on a desk, were fraught with more drama than they were worth. I’d long ago recognized that getting mixed up with one’s employees was the sort of foolish thing only a numpty would do.
But this young woman—well, even on first acquaintance, there was something special about this one.
Despite her high heels, the top of Ilsa’s head came barely up to my chin. She was a wee slip of a thing, small and slender as a deer, and despite her name, there was no hint of chilliness in her demeanor. Her hair was a glossy black, piled neatly on top of her head, but a few tendrils had escaped to wave around her bonnie face. Her lips were full and lush, and she seemed to smile easily. Her eyes were a mossy shade of green, fringed with impossibly thick lashes, and her body… well…
She wore a navy suit of cheap fabric and a high-cut silk blouse, which meant she was dressed about as sexily as a nun. But even so, I couldn’t quite prevent my gaze from dropping to her diddies.
Her breasts, that is. They weren’t large—there was nothing large about this young woman—but something about the way they filled out the unremarkable navy fabric made my tadger swell a bit in my slacks.
She’d taken my outstretched hand in a warm, firm grip, her mouth curved into a friendly smile as she gazed up at me, and despite myself, I’d been impressed by her self-possession. Most women were either intimidated by me or tried to fling themselves at me. This one seemed coolly unimpressed by my fearsome reputation, nor did she seem to care a lick for my braw face. The only hint she gave of nervousness was the rapid-fire pace of her words.
“I started sketching buildings when I was six years old,” she was saying now. She was seated beside me, earnestly showing me her portfolio on her iPad. It was filled with the usual renderings of elevations, floor plans, and site plans, all rendered competently with the help of AutoCAD, the computer-aided design program that every architect on the planet used nowadays. She was good, that was clear. “I loved to ride around the countryside with my parents and look at the old farmhouses. Then I’d hide in the hayloft and sketch them when I was supposed to be feeding the horses.”
That caught my attention. “The hayloft?”
“I grew up on a farm.” She smiled again, crinkling her green eyes. “That’s something we have in common, you know. We both grew up near Kilmarnock.”
I blinked. Despite long years spent deliberately grinding the thickest parts of my Scottish accent away and learning to speak American, I found myself falling easily back into my native Ayrshire accent. “Lassie, that’s a load o’ pish. Ye’ve never set foot outside this country, have ye?”
“No. I was born in Kilmarnock, Virginia.”
I snorted. Typical Americans—borrowing town names rather than making up their own. “I must admit, I dinnae know there was such a place.”
“It’s a very small spot on the map. I guess it’s named after your hometown.”
“No doubt. And you worked on a farm there?” I couldn’t quite imagine this fragile, dainty creature doing hard labor, but she nodded.
“A horse farm. About a hundred acres along Indian Creek. My family still lives there. We board horses, offer lessons. Breed some of our own, too.”
“So as a wee bairn you spent your time scribbling pictures… to get out of shoveling horse shite? Aye, there’s a misspent youth indeed.”
She burst out laughing. She had a merry laugh, and for some reason the happy, musical sound made my cock twitch in my trousers. “I suppose that’s about the size of it. I always loved drawing more than anything else in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I loved our farm, and I adore riding horses, but… well, farm life just wasn’t for me.”
“So you came to New York,” I said, shifting back into my carefully cultivated American (or at least less Scottish) accent. “But you’re only twenty-two. A B.Arch. is a five-year degree.”
“I graduated from high school a year early, and went to NYIT at seventeen.”
So she was smart as well as artistic. I felt a strange kinship with this young lady, who’d broken away from her family so young, knowing precisely what she wanted out of life, and had headed bravely off to somewhere completely new, somewhere exciting. In an odd way she reminded me of myself, or rather the boy I used to be, long ago.
She went on. “I love New York. It’s so exciting. So busy. There’s always something going on, something new to see. So many buildings to look at and sketch. But…” She sighed, and a note of wistfulness crept into her voice, echoing a gentle sorrow I sometimes felt deep in my own heart. “I suppose I miss home, too. I miss my parents and my brothers. And I love the country too. In its way, it’s just as beautiful as the city. The air is fresh there, the sun is brighter, and you have space to move without running into someone.”
For some reason, the image of my father’s country estate in Ayrshire—constructed of rough-hewn gray stone, stately and proud, standing tall amidst green fields and mist-shrouded hills—ran through my mind. She’d love it, I thought, but dismissed the thought almost as quickly as I’d had it.
This girl was never going to see my familial estate, for Chrissake. I hadn’t been home in years or taken a single one of the many beautiful women I’d dated home for my parents’ approval. I certainly wasn’t about to take this wee slip of a lass back to meet them. The mere thought was ludicrous.
I looked down at the screen she held, seeing the rendering of a restaurant’s façade. Very professional, it was, but I wanted to see something more. Something other than one of the typical computer-generated pictures that all decent architects had in their portfolio. Something that had her soul in it.
“Why don’t you show me one of your drawings, Miss Blizzard? A real sketch, something done with pencil and paper.”
“Oh.” She frowned at the screen like she hadn’t expected that, and seemed to hesitate for a moment as if considering what to show me. At last, she sorted rapidly through her pictures and pulled up a beautifully done elevation of a spectacular modern house.
“Is this a building you saw somewhere, or one you designed?” I inquired.
“This is my dream house,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ve spent years thinking about it, imagining it, trying to make it perfect. One day I’d like to build it, and live in it.”
I studied it for a long moment. It seemed to be mostly made of glass, and I imagined that she had designed it to be built along the creek she’d mentioned back home, to provide optimal views of the water. It was the sort of house that somehow managed to appear homey and a showplace, all at once. It would, I thought, make a wonderful vacation home.
I studied it a few moments longer, admiring the little details she’d worked in, from the wood-carven door to the boldly curving front steps, and at last upgraded her work in my mind from ‘very good’ to ‘brilliant’.
When I looked up, her green eyes were on me, wide and hopeful and a trifle anxious. I realized I’d been quiet for several minutes, and that she was worried about my reaction.
“Nice work,” I said.
Her face lit up like I’d handed her the American Architecture Prize. She was so open, so transparent, her every thought written clearly on her face. Her obvious pleasure transformed her from merely pretty to breathtakingly lovely. She was so very unlike the usual women I got involved with, who were prone to sporting an attitude of cynical world-weariness and practiced ennui.
It occurred to me that being intimate with Isla would be unusually exciting, simply because watching her responses to my every touch would be a delight.
Besides that, those beautiful lips were made for kissing. And for other activities as well.
Behave yourself.
I remembered the note Nell had scrawled for me and sighed. It was, I knew, good advice, and I needed to keep my (metaphorical) kilt in place. Even if I wanted Isla enough to break my rule about sleeping with employees, she was the sort of starry-eyed young woman who would expect romance, love, and that was the one thing I couldn’t give anyone. Not since—
Well, suffice it to say that love wasn’t something I was capable of. Not anymore.
At any rate, I couldn’t bring myself take advantage of a young woman this sweet and pure, no matter how sinful her mouth was, no matter how much fun it might be to slowly strip her innocence from her and teach her the pleasures of the flesh. She deserved better than that. And yet… and yet…
Despite my resolve, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the lushness of her mouth, the fullness of her pink lips. It took my mind to dark and filthy places.
What are you willing to do to get this job? I imagined asking her.
In my fantasy, her mouth curved into a wicked, knowing smile. Anything you want, she replied, and slid out of her chair, dropping to her knees in front of me.
Above us, the muted New York sunshine streamed in through the skylight in the ceiling, casting glimmering lights in her black hair. Her graceful, artistic hands moved with quick competence as she unfastened my trousers. My cock sprang free, already hard and aching, longing for the brush of her lips.
You’ll have to be better than all the others, I told her.
Believe me, she murmured, shooting me that sultry smile. I am.
I imagined her little pink tongue slipping out between those lush lips, stroking the head of my cock, delicately licking away the glistening drop of precum that trembled there, making me groan with pleasure.
I thought of my hands dropping to her thick, black hair, yanking it out of its prim confines until it tumbled around her shoulders in wild disarray. My fingers would dig into the dark depths of it, pulling her closer, until she drew the head of my cock between her lips and sucked gently but firmly, letting me slide deeper and deeper into her.
She’d let me possess her, let me fuck the hot depths of her mouth, moving harder, faster, until at last—
That’s enough, I gritted out in my fantasy and yanked her away. My cock was throbbing, hot and hard, but I needed more, needed to be inside of her. I caught her up in my arms, swept the papers and blueprints onto the floor with one impatient motion, and dropped her on my enormous desk. She smiled up at me, innocent yet knowing.
Am I performing to your satisfaction, sir?
I imagined myself rucking the cheap fabric of the navy skirt up around her waist and yanking her panties off, tossing them aside carelessly. Then I leaned down, inhaling the sweet and spicy fragrance of her body. She was wet already, wet for me, and I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I had to taste her.
At the first stroke of my tongue over her swollen clit, she cried out, begging for more, begging for me to fill her. Her skin was wet with sweat, and her pussy was dripping, throbbing with need. Another stroke of my tongue brought her so near to climax that her thighs trembled.
Please, Mr. Scott. I need you.
In my fantasy, I leaned over her on the desk, my cock so swollen it spilled precum all over the tempered glass. Golden sunshine lit her from the skylight above, making her damp skin gleam. Her black hair fell around her face in a wild tumble, and her eyes fluttered shut, the thick lashes lying against her pale skin like fans, as I entered her for the very first time.
In my fantasy, she wasn’t a virgin, but she was very definitely inexperienced, having only had farm boys with fumbling hands and too-quick triggers, and none of them had ever brought her to orgasm. She was tight, almost unbearably so, and I took her slowly, sinking into her with careful, gentle thrusts, while she cried out and whimpered, her nails raking my back.
Inch by inch, I slid into her, gasping for breath, till at last, I found myself balls-deep within her, sheathed in her slick, hot pussy. She begged for more, and unable to help myself I began moving harder, faster, fucking her until she wailed with pleasure, until my cock pulsed with each violent thrust.
At last, I couldn’t take it any longer, couldn’t hold back, and I—
“Are you all right, Mr. Scott?”
I blinked myself out of my daydream and realized my fingers were clutching the arm of my chair so hard it was a wonder the chrome hadn’t dented beneath the pressure. I remembered Nell’s warning with a bit of trepidation, and looked up at Ilsa, a little worried that she’d guessed at my decidedly improper thoughts. But her eyes were as sweet and clear as ever.
“Fine,” I answered gruffly. I realized the iPad was blocking her view of my crotch, which was probably just as well, as I was almost painfully hard. My breathing was rough and uneven, but she didn’t seem to be aware of it. She was looking at me with concern, not disgust or shock.
She really was an innocent.
I looked back down at the sketch of the house she’d done, dragging myself back to the task at hand and reaffirming my earlier opinion. She was good, really good. Perhaps even that rare thing, a genius.
At any rate, I felt that she’d likely be an asset to the company. I always tried to hire women when I could, since unfortunately only about one out of five architects in this country were female. It was a regrettable reality of the business, but one I endeavored to counter whenever I found talented women who wanted to work for my company. And here was, undeniably, a very talented woman.
“You’re hired,” I said.
Her eyes lit up, and despite the navy suit and the prim hair, she looked about sixteen. “Really?”
“Really.” I cleared my throat and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “You start on Monday.”
“Thank you!” For an instant, she looked like she might fling her arms around my neck, but she thought better of it. “Thank you very much,” she said, in a much more restrained tone. “I look forward to working here, Mr. Scott.”
“I look forward to it, too,” I said. I intended it as the customary meaningless courtesy, an inane pleasantry uttered at the end of every successful interview. And yet as the words left my mouth I realized they were the stark, absolute truth.
I was looking forward to having Isla Blizzard work for me far, far more than I should.