Lochlan Read online

  LOCHLAN

  The Scotsman’s Kilt

  PAX SINCLAIR

  Copyright © 2022 by Pax Sinclair

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  Print ISBN: 979-8-9853448-3-7

  Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9853448-2-0

  ASIN: B0B2FD2PGR

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  Characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Printed and bound in the United States of America

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  First printing June 2022

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  Published by Red Kettle Ink

  2010 El Camino Real #1151

  Santa Clara, CA 95050

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  www.paxsinclair.com

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  Book Cover by Uniquely Tailored

  www.uniquelytailored.com

  Created with Vellum

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank my wonderful beta team, Ash, Maureen, Lucie, and Jeanie.

  What can I say? You ladies are the best!

  CONTENTS

  1. American Woman

  2. Court of the Crimson Queen

  3. Seductress

  4. The Wee Witch

  5. Valhalla

  6. Intelligence Gathering

  7. Whiskey & Chocolate

  8. Scottish Charm & Efficiency

  9. Wicket Maiden

  10. Kilted

  11. Double Exposure

  12. Hello, Sweetheart

  13. Faustian Bargain

  14. The Butterfly Effect

  15. Swizzle Twizzle

  16. Walls of Jericho

  17. The Highland Clan

  18. The Consent Agenda

  19. MacTavish Weekend

  20. Bad, Bad Boy

  21. Into the Woods

  22. Wildside

  23. Change of Hearts

  24. Drive-by Love

  25. Red Bitches

  26. The Protégé

  27. Cafe Vincenzo

  28. The Visitor

  29. Leather Kilt & Spiked Collar

  30. Hidden Agenda

  31. Good Morning San Pacitas

  32. Come to the Queendom

  33. Employee Appreciation

  34. Need a Second to Breathe

  35. Revelations

  36. Beach Bunny

  37. Talk to Me, Baby

  38. Man Date

  39. Same Day Delivery

  40. Invocation of Saints

  41. Heart of Darkness

  42. Ante Meridiem

  43. Long Time Coming

  44. Down Mexico Way

  45. Reckless Heart

  46. Rough Trade

  Before You Go

  CHAPTER 1

  AMERICAN WOMAN

  LOCHLAN

  “Hunk alert!” screams a female, accompanied by the clanging of a large, obnoxious cowbell. She's swaying dangerously on a stool next to the bar, holding the bell high above her head in one hand while egging her companions on with the other. She rings it again, the sound piercing the air like a scream. I can't figure out where the damn bell came from, but the sound is splitting my skull.

  I'm in the doorway watching about thirty fit young women, some huddled in clusters, while others are standing on black leather couches and chairs, giving a cheering response to the bell ringer.

  Their raucous behavior is disturbing in this newly designed space of tarnished metal and aged wood. We use this place for private parties because it's well away from the main MacTavish Cellars tasting room, which is packed to the rafters at the moment. I came back here to check on this group on my way to look over a shipment we received this morning in the barrel room. I realized something was wrong when I heard muffled shouting coming from the room.

  The cowbell clangs again and I resist the urge to rush in and yank that thing away from her before I sustain permanent damage. The cowbell-wielding blonde sings out, “What do we want, sisters?” while motioning to the crowd to respond to her maniacal question. The women chant, “Hunk, hunk, hunk,” demanding a mob's satisfaction.

  Shaun, my server, is wild-eyed and backed against the front of the bar, two stools away from the blonde, fearing for the safety of his manhood. I will kill him for letting this hen party get out of hand. I do a quick search of these brash women. Where the hell is Preston? They both should be working this party, and Preston should be showing Shaun the ropes. Why did he leave a newbie alone with a room full of women?

  I slip behind the bar, unseen at the moment by the blonde, to restore order to this chaos. The chant is getting louder. Shaun's pleading gaze swings to me. I grab a bottle and glasses and lean toward him. “Find Preston and tell him to get his arse back in here. Get Geordie and Calum in here as well,” I say, trying to prevent my voice from carrying. He bobs his head before bolting away from the bar and through the crowd of women, their chants following him as he disappears through the doors.

  I'm formulating how to deal with these female hooligans when I catch the attention of the bonny blonde with the cowbell. She's staring down at me with a predatory grin, the tip of her tongue moving over plump red lips. The lass keeps her gaze on me while she stoops to place the bell on the bar, then casually jumps off the stool. She raises a hand toward the women, still staring at me, and the chanting fades to a dull murmur. Her obedient cult followers slowly remove themselves from the furniture. They're talking among themselves but are keeping an eye on their leader. Blondie tosses her head back, sizing me up.

  “You look like the real deal.” Her voice is sexy smoke and honey, unexpected for someone who looks like a sun-kissed beach girl. She drags her gaze down the length of my body. I'm not happy being judged as a piece of meat, but working here, you accept the attention. When she finishes her long scrutiny, her attention settles on my face. That's right, look me in the eyes, I telegraph back to her, I'm not intimidated by your antics.

  Her smirk says she's enjoying her brash behavior. “A big strapping hottie like you and in a kilt to boot, but then again, all the men here are equally as hot and wearing kilts.”

  I take her measure. She's pretty enough, with hair to her waist and a tall, athletic body, but she's not my type. “Aye lass, they call me Lochlan,” I say, laying on the Scottish brogue thicker and rougher to keep her interest. The customers seem to like this version; it goes on well with the females. If I can calm the ringleader, maybe I can prevent the rest of them from trashing the place. I lean on the bar, giving her the full ration of my devious smile that I use for emergencies such as this. “And what's a pretty lass like you called?”

  She slides her elbows onto the bar, trying to get as close as she can without joining me on the other side, wiggling her spank-worthy bum a little. “My name's Poppy. Nice to meet you, Lochlan.” She chucks her chin toward the door. “Did you send out for reinforcements, because you're going to need it with these women.”

  “I have, but I'll be enjoying myself with you beauties for as long as I can.” I grab a few more glasses, place them on the bar, and begin pouring. “Will all you fine lassies be wanting a taste of this excellent sauvignon blanc?” I announce.

  Poppy swipes a glass, placing it to her lips. “I'd like a big taste of you instead,” she mumbles, drains the small portion of wine, then holds the glass out for more.

  I top off her wine. “Let see how the tasting goes first, Miss Poppy. There are other lads here willing to accommodate your needs far bette
r than I can.” She glances up at me and, St. Andrew's balls, she's a sight with those hooded green eyes offering herself, but it won't be me who'll be giving her a ride.

  “I've heard you don't date the customers,” she says pointedly. “Is that a rule around here or haven't you found anyone you like to...?” She smiles, allowing her words to trail off from that why-don't-you-fuck-me innuendo.

  I try to look unaffected by opening another bottle. “Is that what they say? Do people have nothing better to speculate?”

  “That's what I read in the Metro last month. They had a big spread about the MacTavish wines and Lochlan MacTavish.”

  I said that to the reporter because it seems a fair number of women in Silicon Valley want to try it on with a Scotsman.

  There's a thundering outside the door, and the chatter inside the room stops.

  Preston, Geordie, Calum, and Shaun burst through the door, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking like the Highland Cavalry. They're all big men, filling up the space and receiving admiring glances from the ladies. Geordie's my cousin, and the biggest of the lot; his brawn makes him look more like a contestant at a caber toss than the MacTavish winemaker. I'm grateful these formidable men are providing the expected reaction from the women. I'll just need to roll their tongues back into these lassie's mouths before we serve them.

  Poppy's observation was right; all the male servers must wear kilts. I nod to my brothers in arms, and they pass out the glasses. I come around the bar to stand on Poppy's stool, raising a glass. “Before we discuss the finer points of this godly nectar we are about to enjoy, I want to make a toast.” The men return to formation near the door. “These words are usually reserved for the drinking of our fine scotch whiskey, but the MacTavish wines are a worthy rival.” Expectant faces look back at me. I rack my brain for some words to mark the occasion. I don't have a sweet fuck of what I'm going to say, then I'm granted inspiration.

  I raise my glass higher, turning my attention to the females. “Here's to the sweet charms of the lassies before me.” The women do a great sigh, enough to melt an icy heart in winter. I glance at the males. “Here's to the faithful friends among us.” The men grant me the noble respect of their solemn nods. “Let us drink to our loves that are tender and true and may they be everlasting. Air do shlàinte, which means your good health. Now when someone raises a glass to your health, this is what you reply: slàinte agad-sa, meaning health at yourself in the Gaelic.” I say it again slower, for them to repeat. The women reply, helped by the men. “Take a sip,” I encourage. “Now you're all proper Scots.” The females cheer, encouraged by the men for their enthusiastic participation. The quick exercise in wine appreciation has civilized the mob, allowing the men to circulate and charm the women to distraction.

  “I'll be leaving you fair lassies in the capable hands of the MacTavish men,” I announce.

  There's a collective moan as I leave my perch and set my glass on the counter. I give a slight bow to acknowledge their appreciation, then skirt the bar and swipe the cowbell off the counter as Poppy tries to catch my hand, but I'm too quick. To her obvious dismay, she counters with her sexy red-lipped pout; the sight stirs me and tugs at my boaby. I need to leave before I drag her out of this room and give her what she's been wanting. “Now, Miss Poppy,” I warn. She swipes at the bell again, but I've got it well out of her reach. “You don't need your wee bell; Geordie will see you have it on your way out.”

  “Which one is Geordie?” She searches the room with fake innocence.

  I point out the big, red-bearded man with the wide grin.

  Her eyes grow to an enormous size. “Ooooh,” she mouths, and I take my leave.

  Racks of wooden containers reach almost to the ceiling in the cool, dark barrel room. I walk between several racks, recalling the information on each lot until I find the right section. I want to do this before I go to my office at the far end of the building. The only thing waiting for me in that sterile place is a stack of paperwork and emails I've been avoiding. Here, in this magical place, is the beginning of liquid perfection.

  I move the ladder into place, climbing up the aluminum rungs, heading for the top barrel. I pull the wine thief from my hip, remove the cork, and insert the tool to extract a small portion of juice to judge its progress. Geordie enters while I'm climbing down with my prize.

  “Where did you get that load of shite?” he calls up to me. “Here's to the sweet charms of the lassies before me?” he mimics my over-the-top accent. “It took all my strength not to laugh my arse off,” he says, his booming voice echoing off the walls.

  “Come on,” I say, jumping off the last rung. “Let's talk in the office.”

  His eyes narrow at the full wine thief in my hand. “Is that from the cab we talked about last week?”

  “It is,” I say, and we walk to the office. I fill two glasses from the wine thief and hand him one. I shrug. “I read that toast off a packet of oats I was having for my breakfast yesterday.” I chuckle at the Scottish workingman character I've created for the customers. “I admit it was pretty bad, but it's what they expect, and they seemed to enjoy the show.” I observe the man who’s always up for some mischief, even when we were two bairns getting up to something in Edinburgh. We've been here three years, and we've all had to make adjustments. “You all played your parts like obedient soldiers. You're as guilty as me trying to placate those women.”

  Geordie chuckles.

  I lift my glass to judge the deep rich color, then inhale the fruit essence.

  “How did the party go after I left? Is Poppy the blushing bride to be?”

  Geordie shakes his head. “Now, that one was a handful. She tried to grab my bum twice; Poppy definitely needs a good pumping.”

  I tip my glass to him, not sorry I pointed the pretty Poppy in his direction. She's not his type either. He's too much of a romantic to fall in love with someone so brazen. “Nothing that you can't handle, cousin.”

  “These American women are racier than Scottish females,” he laments, and not for the first time. “Or did we just run with the wrong crowd back home?”

  I tip my glass up to the light, making more of an evaluation. “I think we're different to them, like exotic animals. You know, it's a well-known fact that men in kilts drive American women mad.” I look over the rim of my glass. “I blame Outlander for our good fortune.”

  Geordie rears back and lets out a roar of laughter. I'm laughing too at the absurdity. He coughs and swipes at his eyes. “No, that wasn't a bachelorette party. They're a volleyball club. Poppy's like their captain. Some of the women told me she's bound for the Olympics, she's that good.”

  We take a sip and evaluate for a bit. “She fancies you.” He looks up with a wry grin. “She kept asking questions. Wanted to know if you were coming back at the end to say goodbye.”

  I stiffen at the thought of Poppy invading my life. “I'm not interested,” I say flatly, bracing myself for what's coming.

  “You mean you're only interested if they're attached.”

  “I like women who don't want a commitment.”

  “Like that red hair stunner who's been in and out of here for the past month. The wine agent who wants you to sign with her company to distribute MacTavish wine in America?”

  “Amber's engaged; she just wants a bit of fun before she ties the knot. Technically, she's still single.”

  It took little convincing when I made the suggestion. We almost sealed the dirty deal in my office before we agreed it was a bad beginning. Pumping her on my desk with the portrait of my granda, Ian MacTavish, looking down his disapproving nose at me would take the piss right out of anyone. I plead my case to Geordie, although I know it's weak. “I was honest with her. We both understand it's temporary; I wouldn't do it otherwise.”

  Geordie grunts his disapproval.

  “Should I fire Shaun?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Geordie's brows shoot up. “Now why would you fire Shaun? Is he not sufficiently up on his win
e knowledge? Did he not know the difference between a claret and a Bordeaux?

  “There's no difference, ya walloper.”

  “Ah, so it is. Then it has to be that he let Poppy's party get out of hand. He's new; Preston didn't have time to tell him about our backup drills when we get in trouble.”

  “Why was he alone with them in the first place?”

  “Some of the female servers needed help pulling cases from storage. Preston said they had forty-five minutes before Poppy's club arrived. He left Shaun there to begin prep. I also spoke to Shaun to get his side of the story. He said they arrived early. They weren't happy when the room wasn't ready for their party.

  I finish the remaining wine. “Blend this with the Santa Barbara juice. That merlot should help mellow out the mid-palate.”

  Geordie places his glass down with quiet defiance, narrowing his eyes. “You know that decision comes from the winemaker, not the upstart manager.”

  I resist the urge to pull rank to enforce my instructions. “What do you think?” I challenge. Wine and spirits have been our family business for a few hundred years. If I've missed something, I want to know.