Free Callum by Melissa Schroeder

“I’ll give you a ring next week.”
    She pulled back and studied him, then said, “I don’t think so.”
    “You don’t want me to call you?”
    “I’d love it.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think I’ll hear from you.”
    Too uncomfortable with her words—and the idea they may be true—Callum left without another word. He stepped into the lift, pushed the button, and let out an aggravated sigh the moment the doors shut.
    He’d called Calista when he’d escaped to Edinburgh. After five days with Phoebe in his office, he’d been happy for the break. With Phoebe occupied for a few hours at the library with her research, he’d assumed he could take the edge off with Calista and a bit of bed sport. Since Calista was Phoebe’s direct opposite in personality and looks, he’d hoped she would clear his head of the good doctor.
    Instead, it had the direct opposite effect. He had Calista gasping, begging for release, and he couldn’t do it. In his mind, he knew he wanted—needed—the relief, wanted to give her satisfaction, but every fiber rejected it. There was no doubt he could return and finish it up right now. All it would take was a bit of cajoling, and he could have Calista back in bed. He could use her, and knowing her like he did, she wouldn’t object. But he just couldn’t order his finger to press the button to her floor. He didn’t want the sleek, athletic body. No, when he closed his eyes, his soul craved a different woman. One with curves, a tumble of blond curls, and mermaid eyes.
    The lift’s doors slid open silently, and Callum stepped off, his temper still brewing, his libido still humming. Just what the hell was he going to do? The woman was in his head, and he couldn’t push her out, even when touching another woman.
    Callum was sure pretty words and promises were something Phoebe Chilton would expect. With one marriage behind her, he got the feeling that she would want another—not to mention children. She just seemed the type of woman who would thrive in a marriage. He could never offer her that, even if he wanted to. It annoyed him every time she brought up her late husband. Her passing reference to her honeymoon on Wednesday had him forcing back a growl of frustration. Why did it bother him if she had gone to the Highlands with another man? And why did the need to be the one to show her his homeland almost suffocate him? It didn’t help that Angus sensed his irritation and brought up her husband on a regular basis.
    Bloody curse! He just had to keep his hands off Phoebe and all would be well. If he didn’t, Callum knew any liaison with her would fuck things up—especially in his head. The future of the Lennon clan was on the line, and as Angus had said a few days ago, this might be their last chance. If there was even the smallest of possibilities that the diary held the secrets to end their suffering, he couldn’t chance it. On top of that, he didn’t trust anyone outside of the family, and especially not an Englishwoman. Everyone had agreed it was best that she work in his office. Even Anice, who still wanted to believe the best of Phoebe, admitted that it would be prudent to keep the book safely locked up. And if the bloody doctor didn’t finish her damned research soon, he was going to go out of his bleeding mind. Or fuck her on his desk.
    From the moment she’d lost herself in the research the first day, he’d been in a state of arousal. Their discussion a couple of days ago hadn’t helped, or the way she’d stared at him while he’d been on the phone. Just watching her skin flush with excitement, the way her breathing had hitched and the wary arousal had blossomed in her eyes, almost had him vaulting over his desk to reach her. His body had been screaming for the relief he knew he could find buried deep within her body. Hell, his hands had shook with need, and he’d almost acted on it, had almost taken her. And he could have. He’d sensed her arousal. It was