Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) Read Free

Did she have an aversion to undergarments? He hoped not, given his penchant for naughty lingerie. He dressed her in a lacy black corset and thigh-high stockings. Oh, aye. She definitely had the figure to indulge his weakness. Swallowing his rising lust, he shifted in his chair to ease the tightening in his trousers.
    Turning to Duncan, he asked, “Who is she? Do you know?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t,” his friend replied.
    Swallowing, Callum shifted his focus to the woman directly in front of him. She was fiftyish, plump, and squat with curly dishwater hair. “What was the name again?”
    “Sorcha.”
    “That’s lovely.” He grinned through the qualm inflicted by the name. “I once had a wife called Sorcha.”
    His statement clearly aroused her interest. “Would you be looking for a new wife by any chance, your lordship? Because, if you are, I ken a bonny lass who’d be just perfect for you.”
    “Oh, aye?” Still smiling falsely, he arched an eyebrow. “What sign would she be then?”
    “She’s a Gemini.” The woman beamed at him in a manner suggesting the lady in question was probably her daughter.
    “Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, Sorcha , that’s too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They’re far too changeable for me, I’m afraid.”
    He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out the dark-haired lass again, wondering what sign she might be. Not that it mattered, since what he had in mind would be brief and involve very little talking.
    Sending in his psychic tentacles, he glimpsed particles of her life. Odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn’t quite fit together. A suspension bridge he recognized as the Golden Gate in San Francisco. Ornate wrought-iron banisters like those in New Orleans. A string of not-nice men. Environmental protests. Tarot cards. A small white house with an inviting front porch.
    Probing deeper, he looked for her childhood and family, but found only two women. An older one who radiated warmth and a younger one—her mother, no doubt—worn down by years of disappointed expectations. Oddly, he found no father; only a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes who seemed familiar.
    Pulling out of her psyche, Callum slid his gaze to her swanlike neck. The dark hunger reared its head as his focus alighted on her throbbing pulse. Swallowing, he looked away, returning his attention to the person at the front of the line—a twenty-something lass with frizzy flaxen hair.
    “I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she said excitedly as she handed him her book. “I follow your blog every day and have read everything you’ve published.”
    The smile that bloomed across his face was genuine this time. As much as he hated these events, they did boost his ego. They also taxed him, mentally and physically. He was ready for it to be over, ready to be home in bed—though not necessarily alone. As he robotically scrawled his signature line— Let the stars be your guide, Callum Lyon —he shot another lustful glance toward the refreshment table.
    Aye. Good. She was still there, still watching.
    Why didn’t she join the queue to have him sign her book? She didn’t strike him as the bashful type. Far from it, in fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.
    Not that he would allow it. He’d bed her and turn her out, just like he always did. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to dissipate the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, but he was sweating. He wanted to shed his jacket and loosen his tie, to get away from all these people, but he only smiled and handed the blonde back her book.
    He took the