The MacGregor Brides Read Free

parquet. Citrus, oils, flowers and the lingering whiff of a nicely seductive perfume in the air. The staircase was a fluid sweep to his right, the front parlor a welcoming opening to his left.
    Tidy as a nunnery, he thought, with the sensual scent of a first-class bordello. Women, to Royce’s mind, were an amazement.
    It was pretty much as he’d imagined. The beautiful old furniture, the soft colors, the expensive dust-catchers. And, he thought, noting the glitter of earrings on a small round table, the pricey baubles one of them left sitting around.
    He slid a mini tape recorder out of the back pocket of his jeans and began to make notes as he wandered through.
    The large canvas splashed with wild colors that hung over the cherrywood mantel caught his eye. It should have been jarring, that bold scream of brilliance and shape in so quiet a room. Instead, he found it compelling, a celebration of passion and life.
    He’d just noted the signature in the corner—D. C. MacGregor—and deduced that the painting was the work of one of the many MacGregor cousins when he heard the singing.
    No, it couldn’t, in all honesty, be called singing, he decided, turning the recorder off and slipping it into his pocket as he stepped back into the hall. Screaming, howling, perhaps caterwauling, he reflected, were better terms for such a vocal massacre of one of Whitney Houston’s anthems to love.
    But it meant that he wasn’t alone in the house after all. He headed down the hallway toward the noise, and as he stepped through the doorway into a sunny kitchen, his face split with a grin of pure male appreciation.
    She was a long one, he thought, and most of it was leg. The smooth, golden length of them more than made up, in his estimation, for the complete lack of vocal talent. And the way she was bending over, head in the fridge, hips bumping, grinding, circling, presented such an entertaining show, no man alive or dead would have complained that she sang off-key.
    Her hair was black as midnight, straight as rain, and tumbled to a waist that just begged to be spanned by a man’s two hands.
    And she was wearing some of the sexiest underwear it had ever been his pleasure to observe. If the face lived up to the body, it was really going to brighten his morning.
    “Excuse me.” His brow lifted when, instead of jolting or squealing as he’d expected—even hoped—she continued to dig into the fridge and sing. “Okay, not that I’m not enjoying the performance, but you might want to take five on it.”
    Her hips did a quick, enthusiastic twitch that had him whistling through his teeth. Then she reached for a note that should have cracked crystal and turned with a chicken leg in one hand and a soft-drinkcan in the other.
    She didn’t jolt, but she did scream. Royce held up a hand, palm out, and began to explain himself. With the music still blaring through her headset, all Laura saw was a strange man with windblown hair, faded jeans and a face that held enough wickedness to fuel a dozen devils.
    Aiming for his head, she winged the soda. He nipped it one-handed, an inch before it smacked between his eyes. But she’d already whirled to the counter. When she sprang back, she had a carving knife gripped in her hand and a look in her eyes that warned him she wouldn’t think twice about gutting him with it.
    “Take it easy.” He held up both hands, kept his voice mild.
    “Don’t move. Don’t even breathe,” she said loudly as she inched along the counter toward the phone. “You take one step forward or back and I’ll cut your heart out.”
    He figured he could disarm her in about twenty seconds, but one of them—most likely him—would need some stitches afterward. “I’m not moving. Look, you didn’t answer when I knocked. I’m just here to …” It was then that he got past looking at the face and saw the headphones. “Well, that explains it.” Very slowly, he tapped a finger to his ear, ran it over his head to the other and