Callum Read online

  “Please show Dr. Chilton to her room.”

  Amazingly, she didn’t argue with him. She stood, her smile telling him she was satisfied. “Thank you. Mr. Lennon.”

  After the door shut behind them, Callum leaned back in his chair and growled. What the hell was wrong with him? Not only did he give in on an issue, which he never allowed, he now had condemned himself to her presence. All day, every day, until she left.

  Damn. He’d be barmy by the time she finished.

  Not that he had to be physically in the office, and there were times he would have to be gone. Perhaps Angus could watch over her. As quickly as he thought of it, Callum dismissed that notion unless completely necessary. He couldn’t allow any of the others to spend too much time with her. She might start digging into their past too much, and Angus tended to have a loose tongue, especially around women. Anice would be a poor choice because she would probably spill all their secrets over chocolate.

  Logan and Fletcher were both completely unacceptable. Known seducers, caging them in a room with a woman as pretty as Phoebe… He shook his head. No. That he could not allow. Their existence, such as it was, depended on the façade he’d created several years ago. One crack and they would be doomed to live in this hell for eternity.

  Which meant he was stuck working with a woman he wanted beneath him, above him—hell, he would take her every way possible, and he was certain it wouldn’t be enough. He scrubbed his hand over his face and prayed for patience. He was going to need it.

  * * * *

  Phoebe breezed into the dining room behind Belvidore and smiled at Callum. He noted her presence with a nod and a frown. Did the man ever smile?

  Callum stood, always the proper Scot. “Good morning, Dr. Chilton. I’d like you to meet my cousin, Logan Lennon.”

  It was then she noticed the man standing next to Callum. Amazing, she hadn’t even known another person was in the room. She had to be going mental to miss this one. Almost as tall as his older cousin—although all four men appeared to be about the same age—the last male cousin was gorgeous, just like the other three. His hair was a darker blond than Angus’s, curling over his ears and the collar of his shirt telling her he was late for a trim.

  She smiled at him, and he responded in kind. Oh, what a delicious smile. While there was a strong resemblance amongst all the Lennon men, there was definitely something different about each of them. This one could hold his own in the looks department, but there was something almost…poetic about him. Logan’s green eyes had a spot of blue, adding a dreamy quality to them. He completed the look with a goatee.

  “Good morning, Dr. Chilton,” Logan said.

  “Good morning, but please call me Phoebe.”

  He nodded and said nothing else as she took her seat—the same one as the night before. Once she was settled, both cousins followed suit.

  “What would madam like this morning?” Belivore asked, disdain dripping from every word. Usually she would get mad, but his attitude made her want to laugh.

  “Just a spot of tea with lemon and toast with butter, please.”

  He brought her the tea then left to retrieve her toast. Callum pushed the plate of lemons toward her.

  “Thank you.”

  He grunted in response and picked up the paper he’d been reading when she entered.

  “I was surprised to see you so early,” Logan said as he drank his tea. “I thought you might sleep in a bit after all your traveling yesterday.”

  Even in his movements there was something, well, so…artistic about him. Which made sense because she had read he oversaw the art department and created all the ads for Lennon Enterprises. He dressed casually compared to his cousin—who was wearing his normal “Lord of the Dead” black business suit. Logan wore a loose fitting white shirt, no tie, and casual chinos.

  “Mr. Lennon said I should be here at six in the morning.”

  Logan glanced at his cousin, humor lighting his eyes. “Really?”

  “No problem. I believe in a strict schedule. Otherwise, chaos reigns.”

  “Chaos can be interesting.”

  She laughed. “Spoken like a true artist.”

  Callum shook his newspaper, but said nothing. He didn’t even look in their direction. She figured he was annoyed with the conversation, but if he didn’t like it, he shouldn’t have ordered her to breakfast. She almost always played by the rules—especially when it benefitted her. And irritating Callum Lennon was a definite benefit.

  He was frowning—again. Not that she expected anything else. Although, it did bring out the minx in her. She wanted to muss the top of his head, slipping her fingers through his hair, but she knew better. If she ever indulged in touching him, she would embarrass herself and do more than just touch. She’d have to know how he tasted.

  Oh, lord. What the hell was she thinking? She needed to keep her mind on that diary and away from her adversary. Lusting after him would make it harder to go after the grant. It had to be because of the dreams. She’d not slept well. Dreams of whipped cream and Callum Lennon had disturbed her rest. And even as she told herself that Callum Lennon was off-limits, her gaze drifted back to him. Something about that stoic Scot expression made her want to see him smile. She was positive a true smile from him would turn her into jelly.

  With a sigh, she took a sip of her tea and turned her attention back to Logan. He was frowning also, not in irritation, but contemplation. His gaze shifted to Callum, then back to her. Oh, bother. She needed to change the subject and fast.

  * * * *

  A half hour later, she settled in front of a spare wooden desk that Callum had placed in his office. The male assistant kept asking her if she needed anything to the point of being a nuisance, but she couldn’t fault him. Apparently, Callum could.

  “That will be enough, Gregory.”

  The young man blushed to his hairline, bowed his head in her direction, and left them. She swiveled in her chair and said, “You needn’t be so harsh with him.”

  “He would have hovered all morning if I hadn’t put an end to it.” His disgust made her chuckle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  “In dealing with young men, you need to show a little more patience.”

  He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye as he walked across the room. “You have a lot of experience with young men?”

  “Research assistants. They tend to blush easily and hang on your every word.”

  “I don’t have the time to accommodate blushing young men. I’ll be right with you.” He stepped through a door which she assumed was the loo, but a moment later he returned with a security box. Unless he kept a safe next to the toilet, she assumed it was a storage room of some sort.

  “Gregory knows nothing about this. As I said last night, neither does the rest of the staff. Remember, you are researching something valuable to my family. I want to make sure that no one knows anything outside of this room—save my cousins.”

  She nodded in understanding and fought down the guilt. She was being devious, something she had never done in her career, but she knew there would be some way to protect the family. There had to be some way to keep their name out of the press.

  He unlocked the box, pulled up the top, and produced a small, brown leather book. It looked ordinary by most standards, weathered by time, but commonplace all the same. He handed it to her. The moment she held it, a tremor went through her. The reaction was nothing new for her. At the start of a new project or find, she found herself behaving like this. But the feeling was sharper this time, almost painful.

  “It was found in an abandoned home near Inverness. The family is rumored to have been witches. As far as I can tell, there are no descendants.”

  That bit of information had her excitement surging as she opened the book. The pages were yellowed from time, the words faded, some smudged. He was right about the code as she immediately picked up on Old English, Latin, and possibly Old French on the first page. The date read seventee
n ninety-five.

  “It’s in surprisingly good condition if the date is correct.”

  Callum nodded. “I did have a lab test it. I’ve a feeling the family kept it well hidden and safe for years considering the dates span a couple of hundred years.”

  “Is there something in particular I should be looking for?”

  “Come again?” he asked, a hint of wariness in his voice.

  It was odd. Well, the whole situation was odd in that there were so many restrictions. She understood it to an extent, but she sensed there was something else, something more he was hiding.

  What was she thinking? Of course he was. But what was the question. Just why did he need all the security? It went beyond the normal procedures. What she needed was more information to root out his secrets.

  “Is there something in particular I should be searching for? Something you want to know?”

  “Truthfully, we couldn’t make anything out of it. We could only translate parts of it, and what little we did decipher made no sense. Angus thought your background in Egypt—especially pertaining to hieroglyphs—would be beneficial. Combining your expertise with dead languages, the code breaking skills would work well.”

  She nodded as she carefully turned the pages and studied the text. Of course a family of witches would be secretive. Their kind had been hunted for centuries, blamed for everything from boils to plagues. This had been the only way to keep a record of their family and not be killed.

  There were at least three other dead languages, and none of it made much sense together. She knew she would have her work cut out for her.

  “I’ve got some work to do, so I will leave you to it.”

  He gestured to her desk, and while she knew she needed to work, she felt a pang of loss. With another nod, she got down to work.

  * * * *

  After returning to her room late that afternoon, Phoebe slid off her pumps and moaned with relief. She’d give anything to have a good pair of boots and some thick socks on her feet. Her arch was throbbing, and she sat down to massage it, closing her eyes as some of the pain diminished. She hated when she had to dress in what she termed her “professional office outfit.” Not one of the suits she’d bought in the past few years had fit. They were always too long, too bulky, too blah.

  Her mother—now there was a woman who could wear a suit. Every one she wore looked made for her, but her mother had one of those slim bodies that looked good in anything. With another sigh, one filled with self-pity, she stripped off her suit and her hose. After she rummaged through her dresser, she found her favorite thermals and slipped them on.

  All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and relax, but she knew she had work to do. Callum hadn’t allowed her a lot of notes, but she did have a few words to look up. She glanced at her mobile. McWalton would expect her to contact him. And she had told him she would if she thought she had something for the grant.

  Excitement surged. Even as weary as she was, Phoebe gained another jolt from the thrill. A new project. One that could prove career-making. She knew she would never measure up to her parents or their love of ancient civilizations. But this could prove that her years spent studying Celtic folklore hadn’t been in vain.

  She dialed McWalton’s phone, crossing her fingers that his voicemail would pick up. The grant board had eight members, but McWalton was the head, and he wanted to sponsor the winning entry. She hated dealing with him. Every move was calculated. She had the feeling he would sell his mother to the highest bidder if it would get him what he wanted. Whatever the hell that was.

  “Dr. Chilton, I hope that you have something good to report.”

  His chilly tone didn’t set well with her. She had only been there a day, and she wouldn’t have him pressuring her.

  “Not much at the moment.”

  He paused. “But you do have something in mind?”

  “Yes. The family has allowed me to look over an artifact, but I need to be sure it is genuine before I decide if it works for the grant.”

  “What is it?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut.

  “I’d rather not say until I know for sure. All I can say is there’s a code to decipher.”

  There was a beat of silence, and she got the feeling he was calculating, trying to figure out a way to get her to say more.

  “Fine. I did talk to Sir Farthington. He’s onto something extremely big, or so he says.”

  She mulled that over. Whiney Wendell was a big talker, but he usually didn’t live up to even the lowliest of expectations. If he truly had something, it probably wouldn’t hold up to her work.

  “Is there anyone else vying for the grant?”

  In McWalton’s hesitation, she sensed irritation or maybe even anger. He’d expected her to say something about Farthington or perhaps reveal more information about her prospect.

  “Not that I’m aware of, but there are other board members, and all of us want to bring in the winning proposal. So, I am assuming they have their own protégés.”

  Protégé, indeed. As if he was teaching her something. She rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll be able to report more when I’ve had more time with the piece.”

  “Can you bring it to me?”

  She paused. The request sounded nonchalant, but she wasn’t buying it. There was an edge to his voice, something that unsettled her. “No. It is kept under lock and key. I am only allowed to view it with someone watching me.”

  “Well, then, I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Let her, indeed. “I will report to you as soon as I can.”

  She rang off, her chest constricting and her head throbbing. She didn’t like the duplicity, and she definitely didn’t like McWalton’s eagerness.

  When she found the time, she would research the grant committee. Maybe she could sneak off to an Internet café later that week. She needed to know who else was on it just in case she needed another sponsor. Clearing her mind of McWalton, she decided to look through some of her research on her laptop. She had enough information in her own documents that she could at least do a little digging on the languages. With a sigh, she plopped down on her lush bed to get down to work.

  The sooner she figured out that diary, the sooner she could win that grant and be free of her parents.

  * * * *

  Kenneth McWalton eased back in his chair and scowled. Phoebe Chilton wasn’t being completely truthful with him. Nothing that he couldn’t fix, but he’d been so sure she would be easy. After all the research he’d done on her, he’d been positive she’d do exactly as he had planned.

  Aggravation had him pushing up and out of the chair to walk to the window of his hotel room. As he studied the sidewalk below, he thought back to his conversation with the good doctor. He knew where she was, even if she hadn’t told him. He wouldn’t even bother with her if she hadn’t been hired by the Lennons.

  The name of his enemy curdled the gourmet meal he’d just eaten. In his mind, he pictured Callum Lennon, so revered, so tortured. He knew what a vile coward Callum was, how the Lennon’s had ruined his family. Not to mention what Callum had done to Fiona.

  Pain—fast and violent—pulsed in the right side of his head. Kenneth closed his eyes, trying to will the headache away. They were getting to be more common, more intense. Drawing in a deep breath, he opened his eyes and then went to his bag for the medication. After pouring out a double dose of pills, he dry-swallowed them, thinking only of freeing himself of the pain.

  He needed to stay sharp if he was going to ruin the Lennons and force them to flee. He could not accept them on the same continent. The secret he knew would ruin Callum and the others, if anyone would believe it. Alas, no one would—unless Dr. Chilton could help him on that score. Everyone in Edinburgh knew of Fiona and Callum and knew McWalton had a bone to pick. If a respected archeologist revealed the mystery, well, that would hold more weight. What a field day for the rags that would be.

  Another shaft of pain vibrated through his
brain. He sunk down on the chaise and waited for his drugs to work. Even more, he waited for—anticipated—the day he could obliterate every hope the Lennon clan had left.

  Chapter Three

  Phoebe shifted her weight in her seat, trying to get comfortable. The chair wasn’t the culprit since it was made from the softest of leather, designed for long hours of sitting. Even her professional clothes weren’t bothering her. The source of her distraction was the brooding presence who sat squarely behind the desk.

  Three days. Three days he’d sat there working, barely glancing her way. She’d had a bloody hard time ignoring him, though. He did nothing to lure her away from her work. He just sat there quietly, running Lennon Enterprises. She should be able to ignore him. But more often than she liked to admit, the timber of his voice pulled her out of her studies. The calm, resonate tone, and the way his broad Scottish accent slid over the words…it was compelling.

  His laugh broke her concentration. “Alastair, I gave you my offer for the land. I’m not going to haggle with you on it.”

  The amusement in his voice wasn’t a common occurrence. He was straight and to the point, especially with her. Hearing the lighter tone, she just couldn’t help but glance over at him. She found him staring at her. Her breath tangled in her throat. Intense, direct, his gaze trapped her. She couldn’t look away. Heat simmered and then flared in the depths of his eyes. Need crawled through her veins, warming her blood, making her head spin. Her stomach muscles clenched as liquid heat slipped between her legs. She didn’t know if she was afraid or excited. Either way, every muscle in her body tensed. After a long moment, he broke contact, swiftly turning his chair to face the window.

  Staring blindly at the text in front of her, she tried to unscramble her head. Bligh me. Just what the hell was that about? If she didn’t know better, she would think she’d seen lust in his eyes. But that couldn’t be. Men like him just didn’t take a sexual interest in plain archeologists.