Fairground Attraction Read online

  She managed and shoved them on her nose. All her suppositions were correct. A tall, dark, dangerous, sex-on-legs specimen of manhood was filling her doorway. A very pissed off one.

  The expression on his face would have frozen molten lava. Even more now, she wished she was wearing fuzzy slippers and a warm jumper. The look as well as the nip in the air didn’t make her feel comfortable in her thin, strappy vest and long, floaty skirt. Julia risked a brief glance downward and groaned inwardly. Just as she thought, her nipples had responded to the chilly atmosphere and pushed at the silky material covering them. Even though she was getting mighty sick of the guy, one of Miss McMurty’s expressions floated into her brain and she gave a stifled laugh. Sticking out like hat pegs, lovey. She crossed her arms over her chest and ignored the fact she was annoyed that her action looked defensive.

  “You think something I’ve said is funny?” he asked with a frown on his face. “I beg to differ. This is no laughing matter. Impersonating someone—or purporting not to know what I’m referring to—isn’t something to smirk about. You are not Julia Frayne. And neither are you pregnant.”

  Jules knew her jaw dropped, and she stood and stared at him, mouth open. At last, she found her voice.

  “Half correct,” she said, pleased her tone was almost as frosty as his. “I can assure you, I am most certainly the former, and have been for close to thirty years. Equally, I am certain I am not the latter.”

  For goodness sake, she thought in disgust, I sound like his clone with a stick up my ass. Very proper!

  “Prove it,” he said.

  The challenging tone made the hairs on the back of her neck stand upright, and Jules lost her temper. It was a rare occurrence, but when it happened, friends and relatives knew to duck. As her parents had often said, she lived up to the red-haired virago scenario when necessary.

  “Certainly. I’ll fetch my passport.” She slammed the door shut, obviously taking him by surprise, as he made no move to stop her. Damn it, I wish I’d trapped his balls in there. Or at least his toes. Arrogant ass.

  The doorbell rang almost immediately, seemingly invested with his impatience. Jules grinned to herself. She’d bet his finger was jammed on the buzzer, and it would stay there until she reopened the door. Let it, she had more things to worry about—like who the hell was he looking for? The bell began to ring in short staccato buzzes. Well, Mr. Whoever-you-are Reynard, you can bloody well wait, Buzz Colonel Bogey and whistle, and if you hurt your finger, well, tough. I’m putting my lenses in before I face you again. In addition, I’ll maybe just wave my passport through the window.

  It only took a few minutes for her to put in contact lenses, swipe the mascara brush over her pale eyelashes—she really must remember to book an appointment to get them re-dyed—retrieve her passport from a drawer and return to the front door. Nevertheless, in the short time she was away, the noise of the doorbell continued non-stop. At this rate, the battery will stop before he does, she mused, as she stopped in front of the mirror and checked just what her uninvited caller might see when he looked at her.

  Typically Celt, she thought ruefully as she eyed her red corkscrew curls, green eyes, pale skin that never tanned properly and the myriad of freckles sprinkled over her nose. Never was she going to be a page three girl—Thank goodness. But, as her mother used to say, “What you’ve got is all yours!” Her strappy vest was now covered with a long, fluffy jumper, and her feet had striped socks on. Not haute couture but warm and serviceable.

  Jules checked that her dad’s old, sturdy golf umbrella was tucked away in its usual place in the hallway—for poking her visitor, if need be—then slipped the chain on before she opened the door as far as the security measure allowed. A foot immediately inserted itself into the gap.

  “Congratulations,” Jules said sarcastically. “A bit slow last time, weren’t you? But be warned, Mr. Reynard, that’s as far as you’ll get. An expert fixed this chain. Now, if you look to the window on your right, I’ll show you my passport.”

  Jules could almost hear his teeth grinding. Too bad. She had no intention of handing her passport to a stranger. For any reason. She moved to the side of the door where a small window brought a little more natural light into her otherwise darkish hallway and pressed the photograph page of her passport to the glass. Her—what? Intruder? Unwanted visitor? —moved slightly, without taking his foot from the door opening and leaned toward the glass. After long seconds, he stood back with a bewildered expression. He blinked, and tiny lines radiated out from the corners of his eyes. Then he shook his head.

  “Ah…” He stopped speaking and shrugged.

  “Satisfied?” Try as she might, Jules couldn’t keep the satisfied note out of her voice. “I, Mr. Reynard, am I! Julia Frances Frayne. Spinster of this parish. Do you need anything else?”

  “Yes, actually. I want my wife. Julia Frayne.” His voice was no longer sharp. More bewildered. She could understand that. After all, it wasn’t a common set of names to be found together.

  Silence reigned on both sides of the door. Slowly, Jules moved to the gap between door and jamb. When she thought about it later, she couldn’t believe her stupidity. Her actions went so totally against all she knew was wise. Put it down to shock? Or the fact that somewhere, deep in her subconscious, she felt a spark of recognition? Whatever it was, it allowed her to behave in a manner alien to her normally more cautious nature. She ignored the inner voice that prodded her and said, The beach at midnight? Rio Canderas and the motorbike. That asshole at uni. Watch it. They were the exception to the rule, and none of them walked comfortably for at least a week after, but she now wondered if looking at a hunk rendered you stupid.

  “Move your foot,” she advised. “I need to close it slightly to get the chain off. The door, I mean, not your foot. Although that can be arranged, if you step out of line.”

  She saw his lips twitch, which, she allowed, was unexpected. Under the circumstances, she’d expect him to gnash his teeth and scowl.

  “Are you sure you can trust me not to be an ax murderer now, then?” he asked in a conversational manner.

  Jules almost laughed. “No,” she answered him, in the same tone. “But I have a very sharp heel on my shoe, which can and will cause grave damage if applied correctly.”

  He looked at her slipper covered feet then at her face before he raised one eyebrow.

  Jules reckoned her face was the color of her hair. How the hell could she have forgotten she was in her Piggy Wiggy slippers? “Yes, well, and a brother who taught me very well how to defend myself when necessary. My knee is known throughout the country for its stunning abilities. In more ways than one. So do I let you in? Can I trust your word you’ll behave?”

  He nodded. “Apart from when I seem to be scaring people with my menacing attitude, I can assure you I’m a normal, well-behaved guy. I give you my word I’ll behave. I’d say Scouts Honor, but I was never a boy scout. No, that’s not true, I went and I got kicked out for ogling the guides in their gym kit.”

  Jules smothered a giggle. “Guides didn’t wear gym kit.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “They didn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah, no wonder I got kicked out then. Must have been when they were changing for the annual panto.”

  That did it. She laughed and he chuckled along with her.

  “But I give you my word, on my oath, I will behave.”

  The tone and look seemed genuine, so Jules slipped the chain and stood back in invitation. She watched him closely as he nodded his thanks and stepped over the threshold. He looked, Jules thought, somewhat embarrassed. It didn’t make her any less wary though. She took her mobile out of her pocket and waved it at him.

  “The cops are on speed dial,” she said in an offhand manner.

  He nodded. “Good on you. Let’s hope you don’t press the button by mistake.”

  “There is that. Best not make me twitchy.” Not like that anyway.

  Never one to hold a
grudge for too long, except, she thought, against Alasdair, her brother, and his toy spider, Jules decided to defuse the situation. She put her mobile back into her pocket and held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Julia Frayne—Jules to my friends. Not your wife of the same name, but it’s been my name for all of my almost thirty years. And you are?”

  She watched as he looked around, his gaze appraising the small, narrow hall. The pale, ivory walls and the parquet flooring added as much light and sense of spaciousness as Jules had been able to conjure up, and the fragrance diffuser added a hint of roses and summer, which was echoed in the original pastel on one wall.

  He took a deep breath. In spite of obviously having been in a temper and anxious, the man laughed. “Gray Reynard. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure I can say pleased to meet you, but I can say thank you.”

  Jules raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

  “Not using your heel or the emasculating techniques your brother taught you, perhaps? Or just for letting me in, so I can try to explain.”

  “Oh, I’m all for explanations.”

  He rolled his eyes. So he did have a sense of humor. Jules led the way into her lounge. “Drink? I have a feeling we could probably do with one, even if it is”—she looked at the clock—“good grief, only eleven a.m. Ah, well, it’s Sunday, and the sun will be over the yardarm somewhere.”

  “Melbourne.”

  She blinked. What had Melbourne got to do with anything? “Sorry?”

  “The sun. Over the yardarm. Melbourne, Australia. It’s evening there.”

  “Oh, right.” Strange, but who was she to argue? She came up with some weird and wonderful explanations for things when necessary. Jules held up a bottle of Highland Park single malt whisky, its golden color glowing in the weak sunlight that spilled through the window. “Whisky?”

  “Why not? I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it.” He smiled and his face lit up.

  My God, Jules thought, as she took in the smile and the tanned, toned body, clad casually in jeans and what looked like a feather-soft, dark gray cashmere jumper, the same color as his eyes. He is magnificent.

  She poured two generous measures of the single malt. “Water?” At his nod, she left the room and returned a moment later with a jug of water. “Living in this part of Scotland, I don’t need to waste money on bottled water. Our water is so pure it’s a delight to drink.” My God! Do I sound pompous or what? A walking, talking, tourist ad. She handed him a glass and the jug. “Help yourself.”

  She watched with approval as he poured the recommended amount to make his drink as the experts decreed.

  “You like a good malt, then?” she asked.

  Gray took an experimental sip and nodded. “This really is the water of life.”

  “Right, then.” Take charge, Jules, she told herself as she took the jug and added water to her own glass. “Grab a seat, and let’s try to sort this rubbish out.”

  He did the raised eyebrow, ‘I bet your pardon’ look again, presumably at her summary of the situation, but he just looked at her as he sipped his whisky.

  Jules sat on her rather squashy, sit-and-you’ll-never-move-again settee, and waited to see what he would do. Somehow, she thought he wasn’t the sort of man to wallow in soft comfort. He looked more like a ladder-back, dining chair, sit up straight and concentrate person.

  How wrong could a girl be? He nodded slightly, a half smile on his lips, as he seemed to accept her unspoken challenge and settled next to her. Whew, testosterone, thy name is Gray Reynard! Get a grip, Jules, stop ogling the man, it’s tacky. She opened her mouth and hurried into speech.

  “So, let’s see if I’ve got this right. You’re married to a Julia Frayne. Who is pregnant and not me?”

  He frowned and nodded. Worry lines creased his forehead. “That’s about the size of it, yes.”

  “And you’ve lost her? How careless.” Jules was being flippant, but his attitude irritated her. Why would he assume a perfect stranger, albeit with the same name as his errant wife, would know where said wife was? For one brief moment she wondered if she was being somewhat harsh, but he was so up himself, he needed shaking.

  “More like she lost me,” Gray said. His words shot out like bullets. “Believe me, it was not careless. It was definitely premeditated. By her.”

  “Right, confused now. Clear as mud. How about you start at the beginning and go on to the end?” Jules wondered if he would he pay any attention to her, or just do as he liked. It might be unfair, but even on such a short acquaintance that attitude seemed to fit him.

  He shivered. It might be slightly nippy, but he seemed to be suffering in the early morning air. Jules looked at his tan and decided he wasn’t used to summer in Scotland. Even she, with all but two of her almost thirty years spent there, wished it wasn’t quite so cool most of the time, and she didn’t feel the necessity to dress as she would for an English autumn.

  “Look, you’re cold and probably hungry. If you don’t mind slumming it, let’s go into the kitchen. The Aga is on, so it’s warm in there. Then I’ll feed you. What do you say?” Jules looked him in the eye as she sipped her whisky, hoping her expression didn’t give away the butterflies in her stomach.

  He smiled and his dark eyes brightened. My God, that look could sell snow to the Arctic. And make women all over the world lie down and beg.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

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  About the Author

  A multi-published author of erotic romance, Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats—their children having flown the nest—surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.

  She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland—the midge. As once she is writing she is oblivious to everything else, her lovely long-suffering husband is learning to love the dust bunnies, work the Aga, and be on stand-by with a glass of wine.

  Email: [email protected]

  Raven loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by Raven McAllan

  Hong Kong Heat

  Taken Identity

  Diomhair: Secrets Shared

  Diomhair: Secrets Uncovered

  Diomhair: Secrets Remembered

  Diomhair: Secrets Dispatched

  Diomair: Secrets Learned

  Diomhair: Secrets Dispelled