Chapter 16—Chess Piece

Aaron's angry blue eyes swept down Ivette's form, noting Ivette's disheveled hair, her lips swollen from kissing and the state of her clothes.

Then he looked to Cian whose gaze remained on Ivette, completely ignoring Aaron's sudden presence and Aaron's eyes flared.

"You stay away from her. You stay away," he fumed.

Cian smirked and it was an arrogant and cocky grin that had Ivette's heart thudding against her chest. "I will, if the lass tells me to."

Aaron dashed forward, drawing a fist to hit Cian but Ivette place her body between them, touching Aaron's chest, placating him. "Please, Ron. Don't—"

He shoved her aside, hard.

Pain shot into her rib as she crashed into the guardrail on the left wall of the elevator and a whimper left her lips.

Hands were instantly on her arms and cheeks, scanning her for any injuries and Cian's eyes burned with rage.

"Have you lost your mind?" he yelled, but Ivette slapped his hands off her.

He didn't have that right. He had done this. He had followed her. He had kissed her, knowing fully well that she could hardly resist his lure. And he was playing with her again, coming between her and Aaron on purpose.

Whatever for? Would he bend the knee and ask her to marry him if she called off the wedding? Would he take her home to his parents?

Likely not.

She was just a chess piece on a checkered board for him and she refused to be played by him.

She turned to Aaron. "Let's go home, Ron."

There was nothing but disgust and rage in his eyes and he turned from them, walking out of the elevator.

She blinked back the tears that formed behind her eyes and she gazed at Cian with hate. "I hope I never see you again."

And she left, but not before she saw the longing and remorse in his brown depths.

Useless emotions. It was the last day anyway. She wouldn't see him again.

Hopefully.

****

Cian yanked off his tie and discarded it in the seat beside him.

"Shall I book a flight for the trip back home tomorrow?" Rosalind asked, rubbing the length of his leg with the toebox of her heel.

He shifted out of her leg reach, staring out the window. Where had he gone wrong with the lass, and with himself? He was Cian MacGregor. Wee lasses begged for his attention. Craved him. They sought him out to fulfil the nastiest of their desires and nights of pleasures they would never forget.

He didn't love. He didn't know how to. It had always been superficial. A one-time thing. And he'd always told the women that it would be just that.

And they never objected—not that it stopped them from coming back and pleading for more.

He didn't ever beg for a woman's love or attention.

But Ivette King had him in a miserable fix. He had tossed all night, uncomfortable and utterly miserable with the idea of another man having her, touching her, or breathing in the same air as her.

Where and how had he lost himself?

"Cian," Rosalind called out and he turned to look at her. Her eyes gleamed with unmistakable intensity and he wondered why his lass never looked at him that way. He could tell when he touched her that she wanted him to, but he could hardly understand the female.

He had touched her and he had lost his wits in that elevator. She had wrapped her thighs around him and her soft moan and mewling sounds had driven him into senseless arousal.

He had been in that state since she left. He couldn't be more thankful for the pants that concealed the evidence of it.

He could hardly place the things he felt in the past hour. It had been more than the press of her vee against him, and the feel of those soft, enticing lips dancing against his. That was what worried him. He'd had her, but it wasn't enough. The more he held or, touched her, the less he wanted to let her go.

He'd meant it when he said he didn't know how to let her go. He was going crazy.

"I've missed you," Rosalind whispered, climbing onto his lap. Her lips trailed kisses along his jawline as she murmured breathlessly against his skin. "It's been too long."

"Rosalind—"

"No no. Don't talk. You don't have to." She kissed his cheeks and dragged along the rim of his lips.

His hands gripped her hips tightly and she moaned, misunderstanding his intentions. He ripped her from him, pushing her farther away from him with his firm grip on her hips.

Her eyes were wide and pained.

But he didn't care. They'd had this conversation before. "Doona put your hands on me again, Rosalind. We are well past this. Ours was a one-time arrangement. If you will not heed my instructions and wishes, I will find someone else to do your job properly."

The heat in her gaze iced over instantly. "Because of the King wench?"

Cian growled in warning. "Nay, Rosalind. Ivette has nothing to do with this. Keep her name off your lips."

"Aaron Maxwell sent an invitation for their wedding tomorrow. You realize she will never be yours?"

He looked out the window, ignoring her. The moment he touched down in Scotland, he would have his Dada fire her. Not that he couldn't. He'd done so several times, but his grandfather wouldn't stop hiring her again, believing her services were the best for him.

Sometimes, he wondered if his grandfather had a hand in Rosalind's unrelenting show of affection.

He sighed imperceptibly and considered Rosalind's words. The Maxwell blonde had sent an invitation? To rub salt into his wounds? Cian scoffed, understanding the gesture. It was pure male pride, marking his territory.

He recalled the exchange earlier. He'd pushed the lass and where he had expected her surprise or outrage, there had been nothing but fear.

Would Ivette King be alright? He had to see her once to make sure she was alright. Once.

"Book a flight to Seattle," he said.