“Like an idiot?”

“No. No! Not at all.” Adelle stopped in front of him. “You look—” she took his hands and lifted his arms, gawking at him “—amazingly, deliciously Scottish.”

“Half-Scottish,” he corrected.

“Uh-huh.” Adelle dropped his arms and began to fan herself. “My, my. You have grown since I…uh…I last noticed.”

“You mean since I was ten?” Because she’d always treated him like he was still ten…until this moment.

At this moment, she wasn’t treating him or looking at him like he was still ten.

This was becoming a nightmare!

“So, Lachlan,” she said, her hand stroking her collarbone. “Would you like a drink? Or something?”

“No…no thank you.” He sidestepped away from Adelle, disturbed that the woman he saw as one of his aunts watched him as if he were a wounded baby deer.

He had to find Ric, he had to get his clothes back. He couldn’t walk around for the rest of the night like…

Lock stopped, stared down at the Pack of She-dogs gaping up at him. They weren’t Jess’s Pack, they were Asian wild dogs visiting from Japan and really pretty…and gaping.

He forced a smile, knowing he wouldn’t be able to slap them around either. “Hi.”

“Hi,” they all sighed out and, shaken, Lock sidestepped around them. He spotted Ric at a bar across the room, and headed over to him. As he walked he heard distinctive She-wolf whistles, dropped glassware, and several “Oh, my dear God in heaven!” exclamations. If they were directed at him, he didn’t know, didn’t care, and wasn’t going to ask. He wanted out. He hadn’t felt this in danger since his military days when he had to sit around and patiently wait for full-humans to get him in their sights.

“We need to go,” he said as soon as he was next to Ric.

“They have some of the most exquisite wine here tonight. And a sommelier to serve. Surprising as it may sound, the wild dogs are rife with class, my…holy shit! Look at you!” Laughing, Ric shook his head and examined his friend. “I thought it was bad when they made me wear this Jane Austen–suitor outfit, complete with cravat. But you! You look like you just escaped the set of Braveheart.”

“Right. Yeah. We need to go.”

“Why? You’re already in costume, you might as well have a drink and relax.”

“That will not be possible.”

“Why not?”

Lock motioned behind him with a tilt of his head and Ric leaned over to get a look. His entire body jerked and he abruptly stood straight, facing the bar.

“Dear God, man. They’re following you like you’re the Pied Piper of Scottish sex.”

“There were six behind mebefore.”

“Well, now you have fourteen.” He glanced again. “And the number is growing.”

“What am I going to do?”

“If you try and make a run for it, they’ll simply take you down. It’s best to see if they lose interest.”

“Think they will?”

“Maybe if you’d worn a shirt—”

“They said they didn’t have a shirt!”

“Then I have nothing for you, my friend. You’re trapped. I, however—”

“Take one step away from me, you Mr. Darcy wannabe, and I’ll snap your spine.”

Nodding, Ric settled back into place and picked up his wineglass. “Well, then, here’s to an interesting evening.”

“Gwenie?”

Dancing to “I’m the Face,” Gwen barely heard her friend, but when she realized every female on the dance floor was staring off, Gwen looked over at Blayne. And, yep, her friend was staring in the same direction as all the other females.

“What’s going on?”

“You need to see this,” Blayne said, grabbing Gwen’s arm and yanking her over.

Gwen expected to see that her mother had arrived or Mitch had decided to do something particularly stupid. But it wasn’t either of those painfully atypical scenarios. Instead, it was Lock MacRyrie simply standing by the bar. Yet it wasn’t that he was merely standing there, it was that he was wearing a kilt. And it was the

“full kilt experience,” as Roxy liked to put it—and one of the reasons Roxy and her sisters insisted they go to the Highland Games every year although they were Irish.

The pattern was a combination of dark green, blue, and white with the kilt reaching Lock’s knees, a large brown belt around his waist, and a swath of material stretching from his waist and over one shoulder, held together by a big brooch with a coat of arms printed on it. He also had brown leather armbands on both wrists and fur boots with thick flannel socks…and that was it. No shirt.

And wow…was that a lot of perfection to look at. Seven feet and three hundred and fifty pounds of perfection.

While most guys—most guys being her brother, cousins, and uncles—would be lapping this up—

pocketing numbers, getting girls to strip, and playing “who can get my kilt to rise”—Lock looked more like a bear cub cornered by hungry grizzly males. But what exactly did he expect in that outfit? She didn’t want to imply he was asking for it but…he kind of was!

“What do you think?” Jess asked as she and Maylin stood next to them. “Doesn’t he look great?”

Gwen pointed a finger in Lock’s direction. “Who are those women?” Those women all over him!