Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

T he mirror reflected a stranger. Someone polished and elegant, with her hair somehow turned into soft waves. The hired stylist had worked miracles, though Rowan suspected actual witchcraft might have been involved.

The little black Ala?a-dress was a study in contradictions. Classy enough to scream ‘respectable wife’, but short enough to whisper ‘bit of trouble’. It was made of some textured fabric that felt way fancier than anything she’d ever worn. The high neckline was sleek and minimalist. Without sleeves, it showed off her shoulders in a way that felt powerful, not prissy.

‘Right, MacKay. I mean, Drummond.’ She fiddled with Max’s great-grandmother’s pearl earrings. ‘Time to convince Scotland’s finest that you belong in their tax bracket.’

The day had been a whirlwind of last-minute preparations. She’d spent the morning helping Mrs MacPherson direct an army of caterers, making sure the champagne was chilled and the canapés were arranged just so. The housekeeper had tried shooing her away – apparently, ladies of the manor didn’t pitch in hands-on with party prep – but Rowan had ignored the protests and rolled up her sleeves.

Max had been absent all day. No brooding presence at breakfast, no chance encounters in corridors. Even his study door had remained shut when she’d walked past... Three times, but who was counting?

Her reflection stared back, eyes bright with nerves she refused to acknowledge.

The bodice hugged her like a second skin – which made her boobs look bigger than they were – cinching at the waist before flaring out into a skirt that was short, wide, structured, and ridiculously fun. It had that perfect dramatic swing, the kind that made you want to twirl to see it in action. Though she’d die before admitting she’d tried it in front of the mirror.

The shoes were pure temptation. Cute strappy sandals in emerald suede that purred luxury. The delicate ankle strap added elegance to balance the drama of the flared skirt. The heels were high enough to make a statement, but still comfortable and solid.

Minimalist, sophisticated, but with a dash of audacity . It was maddening how Max had nailed it. Every detail – from the clean, powerful neckline to the wicked flare of the skirt – felt like it had been plucked straight from some hidden part of her she didn’t even know he’d noticed. It wasn’t just that he had impeccable taste, though he did, it was the unnerving sense that he’d been paying attention. To her. Like he’d pieced together the bits she tried to hide and turned them into a dress that didn’t just fit her body, but her personality.

Like she wasn’t playing dress-up in someone else’s life for money, so her gran could get the best care there was.

I suppose there are worse sacrifices.

Even though right now, Rowan felt as if she was about to dive into a shark tank after shaving her legs with a flint stone.

She grabbed her lipstick and swiped on the red, putting her best game face on. ‘You’ve got this. Smile, nod, and try not to swear and hiss.’

But why was her stomach doing backflips at the thought of seeing Max?

Nothing had changed.

Except something had.

Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her in his study like he was fighting the urge to—

‘Nope.’ She capped the lipstick harder than needed. ‘Not going there.’

Music drifted up from downstairs. She took one last look in the mirror. ‘Showtime.’

The grand staircase stretched before her as Rowan held the bannister. Voices floated up from the hall below. Cultured accents, no doubt discussing stock portfolios and how to best profit from rising energy prices.

Her heels clicked against the first step, and she made herself move with grace. No stumbling allowed, not in front of Scotland’s financial elite. The dress swished around her upper thighs with each step.

Then she saw him.

Max stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand in his pocket, radiating that effortless authority that had made her want to punch him and now… Well, snog his brooding, chiselled face off.

But not only had he made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t his type, but it would also complicate their arrangement times a thousand.

But wowza, Max cleaned up far too nicely.

His dinner jacket fit like it had been poured over his shoulders. He glanced up, and something flickered across his face. A glimmer of unchecked appreciation that made her steps break for a second. He took in the heels, the pearls on her ears, the dress. When their eyes met, the quiet storm in his expression knocked the breath from her lungs.

‘Happy birthday,’ she said as she reached the bottom step, still above his eye level. ‘Will I do as a prop for your little performance?’

His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘You…’ He paused, searching for words. ‘Extraordinary.’

The simple honesty in his voice hit harder than any elaborate compliment. A flush rolled over her chest and up her neck.

‘The dress was a good choice,’ she said, trying to recover her equilibrium. ‘Though I still think you had help picking it out from Hugh Grant’s stylist.’

‘No. I simply knew what you needed.’

The air hung heavy around his words, brimming with meaning neither of them was ready to face.

Max stepped closer, and she let him guide her toward the growing noise of the party.

What terrified her most wasn’t the prospect of facing board members or the trustees or posh pals. It was how natural this felt. Her hand on his arm, their steps falling into sync, like they’d been doing this for years instead of days.

The ballroom took Rowan’s breath away. Not because of its size – it was way smaller than she’d thought before she’d walked in for the first time – but because of how the space vibrated with excitement, warmth, and history. Crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across wood floors that had known centuries of dancing feet.

The guests turned as one to watch their entrance, a sea of old money. Max’s arm stiffened beneath her fingers. She pasted on her best ‘of course I belong here, fuckers’ smile.

‘If anyone asks me about hedge funds, Max, I’m pretending to faint.’

His mouth curved. ‘I’ll catch you.’

The simple statement shouldn’t have made her stomach lurch. She blamed the champagne she hadn’t drunk yet.

They moved through the crowd, Max introducing her with polished ease. ‘My wife, Rowan Drummond.’ The words rolled off his tongue like they belonged there, like this wasn’t all elaborate play.

She shook hands, smiled, laughed at the right moments. But her mind kept circling back to those two words.

My wife .

When Max stepped forward to address the room, Rowan watched him transform. His posture straightened even more, and his voice filled every corner of the space with natural authority. He thanked the staff, praised Mrs MacPherson’s dedication, welcomed his guests, and then…

‘…finally, I must thank my beautiful, captivating wife.’

A shallow inhale stuck in her chest as he turned to face her. His eyes softened with something that looked a lot like affection. So effortless that it seemed utterly real.

Oh, he’s good.

‘Your spirit and determination have brought new life to these old walls.’ His voice carried, but the words felt intimate. Personal. Meant only for her. ‘Thank you for choosing to share this journey with me.’

He was fantastic at this. Too fantastic. Because for a moment, she almost believed him. Her pulse wavered. It was an act. She knew that. And yet… It didn’t feel as scripted as it should have, it slotted into place a little too well. Like they’d been designed to clash, but somehow still meshed together in all the ways that mattered.

In a parallel universe, they could’ve made sense. Hell, she might even have let herself enjoy it. Him.

But not here. Not now.

Not ever.

Music started again and twenty seconds later, Max appeared at her side, hand extended. ‘Dance with me? It’s in the contract, you know.’

Rowan hesitated. They hadn’t practised this. But refusing wasn’t an option, not with every eye in the room on them. She’d never thought she’d be this glad for the annoying dancing lessons her gran had made her take in her teens. Because that was how her gran had met Joe, her one true love, in the Barrowland Ballroom. ‘Ye need to ken how tae dance,’ she had declared. ‘That’s how ye find oot if a lad is right for ye.’

So Rowan placed her hand in his, and her world swerved.

Max drew her close. Not inappropriately so, but close enough that she felt his strength, and the muscles she now knew were hiding there. His hand came to rest at her waist, warm through the fabric of her dress. They began to move, and her feet remembered what to do.

‘You can dance,’ she said.

‘Don’t sound so shocked. I had lessons.’

‘So did I.’ She tried to regulate her breathing, which shouldn’t have been this difficult. ‘Let me guess, you squeezed them in between fencing and brooding 101?’

‘I’m surprised you let me lead you, Mrs Drummond.’ He spun her out and back and her skirt flared.

‘Show-off,’ she muttered as she returned to his arms.

‘You love it.’ The words ghosted across her ear.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She was starting to love too many things about this arrangement. It was so much more than free breakfast and fancy soap. It was the way his hand rested on her back. The way his eyes crinkled when he almost smiled. The surprising gentleness beneath all that rigidity.

The music came to a close, and Max’s expression shifted. Rowan recognised that look now. It meant he was about to do something that would complicate her life.

He lowered his head, and time stretched like treacle. His jaw locked tight like a part of him was battling the very thing he was about to do. But then his lips – God, his lips – were so firm and soft. He tasted like potent Scotch, like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. Raw masculine energy, sheathed in restraint, but underneath… Underneath was something she had no business craving.

His kiss was careful, contained, perfectly appropriate for their audience.

And yet it hit her like starlight bursting inside her chest.

Without her permission, her fingers clutched at his lapels. His mouth shifted, the soft glide of lips over lips, like he needed to know how she fit, how she’d let him have her, if… For three heartbeats, maybe four, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

Wow. Oh God. What the—

Then applause broke out, splintering the moment. Max drew back, his eyes darker than usual. Rowan’s lips burned, and her heart performed an impressive triple axel.

Right. Just for show. All part of the dramaturgy.

But it didn’t feel like a performance to her. How his lips had moved against hers had felt real. Too real.

And she didn’t know what to do with that.

Over two hours later, Rowan leaned against a pillar, watching the crowd through the golden fizz of her third glass of champagne. She had mastered the art of nodding at lobotomisingly boring stories about exclusive mooring spots and shooting grouse, when a statuesque blonde materialised beside her, exuding Chanel No. 5 and casual superiority.

‘Victoria Thorne,’ the woman purred and extended a manicured hand. ‘I simply had to meet Max’s mysterious new wife.’

Something in her tone made Rowan’s hackles rise, but she accepted the handshake. Victoria’s grip lingered a beat too long.

‘Rowan…erm…Drummond. Though you probably already know that.’

‘Oh, everyone’s talking about you, darling.’ Victoria’s smile was a precision-cut diamond. ‘You’ve certainly captured Max’s attention. I’ve never seen him look at anyone quite like that.’

‘He doesn’t seem to look at people much in general.’ Rowan followed Victoria’s gaze across the room. Max stood with a group of trustees, but his glance kept finding her through the crowd. Whenever their eyes met, her pulse kicked hard in response.

‘He seems different with you,’ Victoria continued, swirling her champagne. ‘More intense. Though he’s always been intense in certain situations.’ Her pink lips twitched. ‘In particularly memorable situations.’

The penny dropped with an almost audible clang.

‘Oh, so you’re trying to tell me you slept with my husband.’ Rowan kept her voice breezy, though her grip firmed around the stem of her glass.

‘Ages ago, yes. It was nothing.’ Victoria waved. ‘But my goodness, what a night. He has particular talents. Unforgettable ones. But of course, you already know that.’

The champagne turned acidic on Rowan’s tongue. She pictured Max’s hands on Victoria’s perfect skin, his mouth on her—

No.

‘How fascinating,’ Rowan drawled. ‘Perhaps we could talk about your obvious desperation, instead of my husband’s “talents”?’

So much for keeping herself in check.

Victoria’s nonchalant composure crumbled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No need to beg, darling . Your attempt to mark your territory is noted, if painfully transparent. See this ring?’ Rowan held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. ‘Max put it there. Couldn’t wait, actually. So, I don’t care if you or everyone slept with my husband. It only made him the incredible artist he is now.’ Her smile was pure Glasgow steel wrapped in silk. ‘And you know who’s benefitting from that each night? This girl right here. Cheers.’

She clinked her glass against Victoria’s stunned silence and turned away, her exit unhurried despite her thundering pulse.

But Victoria’s words echoed in her head, painting pictures she couldn’t shake. Across the room, Max caught her eye again. A shadow crossed his features as he read something in her face, and he cut through the crowd toward her.

By now, the party had reached that phase when crystal glasses clinked a little too enthusiastically and laughter carried a touch too much warmth. Just before the first guests were announcing their departures.

‘There you are.’ Max’s voice carried a whisky-tinged timbre, slower and richer, with a rasp that snagged like wool against bare skin. His fingers circled her wrist.

‘Dance with me again.’ Not quite a question, not entirely a command.

‘Shouldn’t you be entertaining your other admirers?’ She let him pull her closer. ‘Victoria’s been sharing some fascinating stories about your specific talents.’

His laugh rolled through his chest. ‘Jealous, Rowan?’

‘You wish. Though I must say, you’ve collected a fan club. That ex-model by the piano has been eyeing you like a gull spotting chips on the pier all night.’

‘I can feel your pulse, your heart is racing. Don’t start a scene. Play nice.’

His thumb traced circles on her inner wrist, tiny flames licking up the skin of her arm. That should have been illegal.

‘You’re doing so well tonight, Rowan. Being so very… good .’

His words seeped down her spine like honey, settling low in her belly. She fought to keep her voice steady. ‘Careful there. Or I might think you actually like me.’

‘Maybe I do.’ His eyes held that dangerous softness again. ‘You’re nothing like them, you know. Nothing like anyone here. Nothing like anyone.’

‘Max—’

‘That kiss earlier.’ His tone deepened. ‘You liked it. You felt it, too.’

She should step back. Should make a joke about his ego. Instead, she heard herself say, ‘Felt what?’

‘Don’t play coy. You’re too clever for that. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘Neither does this dress, apparently. Since you can’t seem to stop staring.’

‘The dress is perfection on you.’ His look roamed over her body, languid and appreciative. ‘Though it’s making it very difficult to respect the terms of our arrangement.’

He was tipsy, the alcohol loosening his tongue. Still, a traitorous warmth unfurled beneath her sternum.

‘Poor husband. Such hardship.’

‘You have no idea how hard. If you weren’t my wife… I would move behind you…’ With that, he stepped behind her and wrapped one arm around her stomach. His other hand claimed the back of her thigh, tucked between them, hidden from view. Only his thumb moved in searing, knowing strokes. ‘Then I would let this hand work its way underneath that scandalously short skirt of your dress. Right where you felt my kiss earlier.’ His breath was hot on her neck. ‘And then I would tease you. Until you came right here, in front of everyone, without so much as making a sound.’

Rowan’s breath suspended like a held note. A throb gathered between her thighs like her body was already making room for him. The space around them faded into colours and sounds. All that mattered was the man behind her. Her skin hummed as if kissed by static. She almost felt his hand sliding higher, fingertips slipping beneath lace, palming her swollen sex like he had every right to be there.

‘But since you’re my wife, not an affair, and since this is a business deal, I can’t. And I won’t. As I told you, I won’t touch you unless you want me to.’

That was the thing, though. Did she want to?

This was Maxwell Drummond. The walking embodiment of everything she despised about the elite – privileged, entitled, accustomed to the world bending to his will. She should despise him. Shouldn’t crave him like this, shouldn’t feel this gnawing hunger scraping at the edges of her self-control.

Yes, fine. He was stupidly gorgeous. That she could admit. The kind of mouth that begged to be ruined, pecs that could take a bite. But this? This raw, visceral full-body need that pulsed through her like a bass drop? She’d never felt anything like it. Not once. Not even close.

Because he’s not just hot, is he? whispered a voice in the back of her mind. Not just the ridiculous face and the body built for sin. It was the way he owned every space he stepped into, that quiet, unwavering authority wrapping around him. The sharp mind behind those knowing eyes, the strength that met hers. Challenge for challenge, fire for fire.

It was the way he saw her. Really saw her. Like her sharp edges didn’t scare him. Like they made him want to get closer. No one else ever had. Not truly. She’d spent her whole life standing on her own two feet, proving she didn’t need a man.

And now she wanted to fall back into him, let him catch her, surrender to his hands?

The fuck I will.

Rowan pulled in a steadying breath. If Max thought he could throw her off balance, he had another thing coming.

She half-turned, glancing up at him over her shoulder. ‘And if you weren’t my husband,’ she murmured, voice dripping with sin, ‘I’d take you by the hand, lead you into your study, and give you a birthday present you’d never forget. The kind you’d think about for the rest of your life.’

She rolled her hips back, brushing against the hard ridge pressing into her.

Oh. Oh . Victoria had not been fibbing.

‘Here’s something you should know about your wife, Maxwell…’ She turned fully now and rose onto her tiptoes, letting her lips hover just a breath away from his. ‘She doesn’t have a gag reflex.’

His intake of breath was as gratifying as his strangled voice. ‘Rowan.’

For a fleeting second, she thought he might haul her back, consequences be damned. For another fleeting second, she thought she might.

Instead, she dotted a quick kiss to his cheek and let her lips linger long enough to feel him tense. ‘Happy birthday, hubby. I’m withdrawing to my chambers now. Feel free to watch me walk away.’

She slipped from his grasp before he could react, but his touch didn’t let her go. It clung, a smouldering brand on her flesh, a tease of possession that shouldn’t have thrilled her.

The hem of her dress danced high on her thighs as she wove through the thinning crowd, and God, she felt him. That gaze, hot and unrelenting, raking over her like a rough hand between her legs.

What the hell was she doing? This wasn’t part of their deal. This thing between them – this spark that threatened to ignite every time they got too close – it was dangerous. Messy. Complicated.

And Christ help her, but she wanted more.