Читать книгу The Great Scot - Donna Kauffman - Страница 8

E rin had just climbed out of the shower, where she’d spent a very unsuccessful thirty minutes trying to get Dylan Chisholm, hot Scot, out of her mind, and back on Dylan Chisholm, manor owner and sole obstacle to her keeping her job, back into it. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been standing there with hot, steamy water streaming over her body as she rubbed lavender-scented soap all over her skin. “Yeah, that might have helped,” she muttered, rubbing her hair dry with another towel, then shaking it out. “Or not.” She sighed and pulled on her gray boxer shorts and faded Lakers shirt. She glanced at the bedside clock. One in the morning. Check out was at eleven. Didn’t give her much time to develop a battle plan.

At the moment, her plan was to track down Daisy MacDonnell in the morning at her stationery store. She was both a fellow American and Reese Chisholm’s fiancée. Erin had met her earlier today during her first visit to Hagg’s. Daisy was a former advertising guru who’d escaped the rat race in the States upon inheriting her aunt’s shop. She hadn’t left her career behind, though. She’d brought the internet to Glenbuie and had been successful in putting up websites for the distillery, along with a number of the village shops, as well as one advertising Glenshire as a bed and breakfast. In fact, she’d been the one who’d first brought up the idea of Erin checking out Glenshire for her show when they’d all been sitting at the bar eating Marta’s stew.

Seeing as how Daisy had worked with Dylan in creating the website, Erin hoped maybe she had some insight on what other kind of approach to take. Other than going back to Brodie, or one of the other Chisholm brothers—and they seemed more interested in getting their brother laid than anything else—she wasn’t sure what else to do.

She was just about to climb into bed when there was a knock on the door. Startled, she immediately looked around for something else to pull on. Could Dylan have come back? It was a small enough village that everyone in it probably knew what room the American was staying in.

“Front desk with a message,” came a lilting female voice on the other side.

Erin rolled her eyes. “You only think you’re in Brigadoon,” she muttered. “You’re still Cinderella before the ball and there’s no fairy godmother in sight.” Clearly needing to get over herself, she walked to the door in her boxers and T-shirt, because, honestly, who cared? She opened the door to find a young woman named Amelia standing there, according to her hotel name badge, anyway.

She gave Erin a bright, but apologetic smile. “Sorry to disturb, but the light was still on, and I thought you might be wantin’ this.” She handed Erin a folded piece of stationery.

“Thanks.” Erin took the note, then patted her gym shorts for change she immediately realized she wasn’t carrying. “Wait, let me get you—”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Amelia said, cheerfully waving away the tip. “We’ll prosper well enough when the camera crews arrive.”

Oh god . Erin opened her mouth to warn the perky Amelia not to count her chickens, but the young woman had already gone merrily off, back down the hallway toward the elevators. Erin watched her depart, thinking she’d have been only half surprised to see the young clerk suddenly burst into song and perform a perfectly choreographed dance routine down the carpeted corridor, quite naturally involving the two maids and one bellman she passed along the way. Brigadoon indeed.

Erin clicked the door shut and thought it was a good thing Dana wasn’t here. Her assistant would be having a field day if she only knew how ridiculous Erin was being about this place. “Ah, bite me,” she said, to the room at large, and her assistant in absentia, somewhat comforted by the sound of her own sardonic tone. See? She wasn’t that far gone. She still had her edge.

She opened the note and read it as she crossed the room, back to her bed. There was a single scrawled line, more of a slash really, across the middle. She read it out loud. “Come out to Glenshire in the morning at 8 A.M . Just you. Dylan.” Her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Wow. Surprise, surprise.”

She tapped the note against her chin, wondering what had happened to change his mind. Had he gone back in the pub maybe? Or had Brodie said something to finally convince him to hear her out? Not that she was going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hell, she’d head up there right now if she thought it would make a difference.

Visions of getting Dylan out of bed, seeing what he looked like half naked, hair all tousled. Or maybe all the way naked. He probably slept in the buff. She shut that track down immediately. Well, almost immediately.

“Get a grip,” she schooled herself. She had to see him again in less than seven hours and she needed to be on her utmost professional behavior. Whatever the reason was he’d agreed to see her, it wasn’t because he’d suddenly decided she was a raving beauty. More like she was a raving loon, with her crazy American reality show. She didn’t think that opinion had miraculously changed, especially after she’d tromped all over his feet during their two whole minutes of dancing.

She wasted another minute reliving those glorious two minutes. Well, glorious for her, anyway. Outside of being very self-conscious of her clumsiness and the fact that everyone was watching them, she had rather enjoyed the way his hand had engulfed hers, and how the other had rested so confidently on her waist, guiding her through the crowd. She’d half wished the crowd would have jostled them together, so she could feel what it would be like to be held against that broad chest.

“And just how pathetic are you?” she murmured, then read the note again, still not quite believing her good fortune. Good business fortune. “Just you,” she repeated. Hmm. Where had that come from? Did he think she’d show up with half the village in tow? Maybe he thought she already had a whole camera crew stashed here in town or something and would take any sign of capitulation on his part as a reason to show up in full force. He didn’t know she was a force to be reckoned with all by herself. She grinned and tossed the note on the nightstand. “But he will.”

She climbed into bed and reached for the lamp, but instead picked up the note again. The writing was decidedly masculine, but it was likely just the hand of whoever had taken the message. Except, as far as she knew, the desk clerks were all women. Meaning he’d come into the hotel tonight. Why not just ask to see her, or at least have them ring her room? Of course, it was pretty late…

She put the note aside once more, shut off the light, then lay there, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts refusing to stray from the man she’d be seeing again in a few short hours.

Interesting how the village was playing matchmaker for him. Although they were getting desperate if they were going after passers-through. Of course, maybe it had nothing to do with matchmaking. Maybe they’d hoped if the two of them had struck sparks, he’d agree to the filming. Could an entire town be so mercenary?

Erin snuggled more deeply into the soft, down bed. She almost felt sorry for Dylan, even though she could see he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. She knew what a pain it was just having one well-meaning person climbing all over her social life. And Dana only wanted her to get laid regularly. She couldn’t imagine having a family nosing about her love life, much less an entire village. She didn’t blame him for wanting to get out of there tonight, although it would have been nice if he’d at least pretended he wasn’t just as anxious to get away from her.

She forced a mental shift back to business. How was she going to present her case? She wondered briefly if losing his wife was yet another roadblock to having a show based on finding true love filmed right in his own home. It would certainly be understandable. Definitely better to talk money and economy over love and romance. Sleep claimed her as she mulled over her options.

Which did nothing to explain why the images that wound their way into her dreams had absolutely nothing to do with profit margins and ratings spikes, and everything to do with other things…spiking.

The following morning, as she headed back out to Glenshire, the skies were a stunning robin’s egg blue, not a cloud on the horizon, and the valley was such a vibrant, verdant green she still swore that the grass had to be genetically engineered. Even the sheep seemed especially perky and cute that morning.

She, however, was not. It had taken a hot shower, followed by a cold one, followed by two cups of espresso and a big, sticky pastry from the tray in the lobby before Erin had finally, mercifully managed to push aside every detail of last night’s hot and sweaty dreams—and wasn’t it amazing how the more she wanted to forget, the more details she recalled? She gripped the steering wheel more tightly. But she was fully focused on her job now. Dylan was merely a means to an end. One that didn’t have anything to do with either of their ends getting naked.

Nope. Business, business, business. She wouldn’t even imagine him in bed. Much less naked. In the bed. Or in the shower. Hot, steamy water running all over his slick skin. Nope. Not even imagining that. Not if she could absolutely help it anyway. So what if he was that perfect tragic figure who appealed to her secret romantic soul? The reclusive, wounded hero, burying himself in his work to push aside the pain of losing the woman he’d given his heart to? To her he was a business opportunity, nothing more, nothing less. Besides, he didn’t seem all that wounded anymore. Mostly he just seemed annoyed.

Which suited her fine. She was relieved, in fact, that she seemed to be the only one suffering from delusions of infatuation. Thankful, even. It would make her job that much easier.

Liar.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat as she rolled to a stop in front of Glenshire’s massive front door and put her car into park. If anything, the place was even more impressive and perfect in its romantic decay by morning sunrise than it had been in the late afternoon light.

She got out of the car, smoothed her pants, then her hair, before she realized what she was doing and stopped instantly. She’d bet a full ratings share that the only thing that mattered to Dylan where Erin MacGregor was concerned was how big an offer she was bringing to the negotiation table.

Which didn’t explain why she slipped her lip balm out of her jacket pocket and ran it quickly across her lips. “Damn Brigadoon,” she swore under her breath as she made her way to the front door.

She looked for a buzzer, and, not finding one, lifted the heavy brass knocker instead. Shaped like a boar’s head, it was shining brass and weighed a ton. She rapped once, heard the ominous echoing sound it made, and decided that was enough. She shifted her weight back and forth as she waited, refusing to smooth her hair again, or check her teeth in the newly polished knocker. Her pulse rate had kicked up a few notches in anticipation. Not of seeing Dylan again, of course. She was simply excited to finally be getting a peek inside her newest location. And she would prevail. He had a price, she just had to find out what it was.

She was leaning in, looking at her warped reflection as she pushed her hair from her face—only because there was a wayward strand poking her in the eye, of course—when the door suddenly swung open. An instant later she was eyeball to impressive pectorals with the object of her midnight fantasies.

“You’re back,” he said flatly.

She quickly stepped back and smiled, not at all liking how this meeting was starting. Taking in the full impact of Dylan’s impressive frame didn’t exactly help matters. He was dressed in loose jeans that hung low on his hips and a paint-spattered, Glenbuie Distillery sweatshirt that had clearly seen better days. Eons of them, judging by the hacked-off sleeves and tattered neckline. His arms were impressively muscled and surprisingly tanned. Apparently all of the work on the house hadn’t been indoors.

“Why?” he asked, dipping his chin just slightly to snag her wayward gaze.

Caught staring, and confused by his less than cordial greeting, she faltered. “I’m—” She stopped, looked down at her watch to check the time, and absently noticed he was barefoot, which for some reason struck her as incredibly sexy. Apparently any naked part of him was enough to send her vivid imagination on a detailed romp, so she countered by shifting her gaze swiftly back up to his face. Bigger mistake. He was even more imposing today, hard as that was to believe.

He was standing in a doorframe that would, in any other setting, be considered massive. Yet, somehow he managed to fill that empty space quite commandingly and that with cream-colored paint tipping the ends of his shaggy hair and a swipe of baby blue across his un-shaven jaw. And really, what a jawline, huh? The camera would love him, all of him really, from that hard, stubbled curve to those defined biceps, and—and she realized where her thoughts were going and quickly reined them in. If only it were so easy to do the same with her jackrabbit pulse.

She drew on every last bit of her extensive under-Tommy’s-fire training and mustered her brightest smile. She didn’t know exactly what was going on, but in her experience it was always better to go with the supposed program until someone else derailed it.

“It’s eight o’clock,” she said brightly. “I’m right on time.”

His frown deepened, if that were possible. “For what?”

And it was at that moment Erin realized why she’d looked twice at the handwriting on the note last night. She’d seen it before, only she hadn’t realized it at the time. On the chalkboard at Hagg’s, toting the dart scores. Brodie Chisholm’s handwriting, to be exact. “I can’t believe it. He set us up. Again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked back at Dylan. “When was the last time you talked to your brother? Brodie, I mean.”

“Before we left the pub last night, why?”

“You didn’t go back inside after I left?”

Dylan folded his arms over his chest, which only served to point out just how divinely muscular his shoulders were, too. “No. Why?”

“I should have known you didn’t send that note.” Why hadn’t she had this little handwriting epiphany last night when it might have done her some good? But oh no, she was far too busy running hot, sexcapade scenarios through her fevered brain. Now she’d barged in and bungled the one final chance she had.

“What note?”

“I got a message at the hotel last night, ostensibly from you, requesting I meet you here, alone, at eight A.M .” And she hadn’t brought it with her, dammit, the one piece of proof she had. But why would she?

“I thought I made myself quite clear yesterday.”

“Oh, you did. I thought perhaps Brodie had talked to you, or anyone back in the pub, maybe Alastair,” she added, playing her only ace. And she wasn’t even sure he was one. “I thought maybe he’d changed your mind. Made you realize that the good of the village and your family bank balance would be worth inconveniencing yourself for a little while.”

“Inconvenience? Is that what you call it? And for ‘a little while’ is it? I believe you mentioned eight weeks. Have you no idea what all must be done to ready this place? And that’s the mere tip of it. I’ve guests booked. An inn to run. I canno’ walk away from the place for so long a time.”

This was so not going how she’d envisioned it. She hadn’t even gotten inside the place yet. Tommy was going to kill her. Unless Dylan tossed her off the cliff located conveniently a hundred yards behind her and saved her boss the trouble. Her heart sank. This place was so prime, so perfect, and she’d taken her eye off the damn ball. “What if we worked it out so you could stay here?” she blurted, desperate. Tommy would never go for it. And even if he did, the network’s legal beagles would have a stroke. They’d learned that particular lesson the hard way on season one when a tiff with the owner had ended in a nasty lawsuit.

But when Dylan didn’t immediately close the door in her face, Erin finally, mercifully, flipped into negotiator mode and pushed her tiny advantage. Even a tiny crack had the chance to become a wall-crumbling fissure if the right pressure was applied in exactly the right place. All she had to do was find that precise spot…and push.

Visions of soft spots and just what could be pushing on them punched with ridiculous ease through her tough combatant armor. She’d never really believed in Dana’s whole “you just need to get laid” theory, but she was beginning to think maybe there was some merit to it after all.

“The lease offer will compensate you above the business loss. And, as I told you, we’ll gladly pay to relocate whatever guests can’t rebook for a future date, not to mention that from the exposure you’ll get, you’ll replace those guests with many, many more. You’ll book up—”

“Far and away into the future, aye,” he grumbled. “So ye’ve said. Do you have statistical proof of that claim? How many bed and breakfasts or hotels have you used in the past?”

Exactly none, was the answer. They usually used privately owned property with little to no public access. But she wasn’t completely unarmed. “I have documented proof that the communities we’ve been located in have always experienced an extended, noticeable economic surge. In fact—”

“Will you back up that claim with a written guarantee? If I lose business, or if I have to shut down in order to repair any damage done, will you guarantee I’ll be fully compensated to my complete satisfaction?”

Erin’s heart rate kicked into overdrive. He was negotiating. He might not realize it, given he was still scowling and his arms were banded across his chest like they were barring entry to a fortress with a pair of broad beams, but he was talking. He wasn’t shutting the door in her face.

“We return every alteration to its original state, and we always repair anything that might suffer any unforeseen damage. You will have that in writing.” Seeing the shrewd gleam in his eyes, she added, “We run a videography of the entire location before and after, so any alterations and repairs are easily determined by both you and the production crew. There’s no way to hide anything.” Which worked both ways as it also kept owners from claiming damage or repairs already needed before the crew ever set foot on the property. “If, for whatever reason, anything is irretrievably broken, altered, or damaged, we would, of course, be responsible for settling with you on an appropriate reimbursement.” She tugged her satchel around and slipped the catch open. “I have the entire agreement here. Perhaps I could come in and we could discuss it in more detail? You can have your attorney look it over as well if you’d like.”

It had been her experience that most people were so flattered and eager to have anything they owned be connected with a television show, they often signed without the hassle and delay of getting lawyers directly involved. She didn’t think Dylan fell into that category. She could only pray his lawyer was local. And reasonable. They didn’t have time for an extended review period.

“I’m no’ exactly at a place in my work load where I can stop and sit. In fact, I need to get back to it.” He shifted his weight and unfolded his arms and she went from hopeful to panicked all over again.

“I’ll be glad to help.” She really had to learn some impulse control around this man. But never let it be said that Erin MacGregor didn’t go the distance to get what she wanted. “With…whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You’re offering to help me paint?”

She nodded immediately. “Sure. I’d like to look around the place anyway. Maybe you can give me the nickel tour on the way to…wherever it is you’re painting. And we can talk while we work. You can ask me about whatever concerns you might have. And when we’re done, we can sit down and look over the agreement specifically.”

His gaze narrowed and he was far from smiling, but if she wasn’t mistaken, the light that had entered his eyes now was one of faint amusement. Or maybe bemusement was a better word. It didn’t matter, as long as he let her in the door. A step forward was a step closer to a signed agreement.

She held his gaze directly, keeping a confident, sunny smile in place. As if she did this kind of thing all the time to placate her clients.

After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped back and waved a paint flecked forearm in front of her. “Come in, then.”

Not the heartiest of welcomes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, now could they? Erin stepped past him through the door and with one look knew she’d do a hell of a lot more than paint walls if it meant getting his signature on that lease agreement. The foyer area was extensive, opening upward two stories, dominated by a wide staircase leading to the second floor landing, and accentuated with a stunning, sparkling chandelier. The floor beneath her feet was slightly uneven hand-laid stone, most of it covered by multiple layers of heavy, ancient Persian rugs that were all the more interesting for how worn the coloring was in the intricately patterned design. She wondered how many generations of Chisholms had walked across them.

“Impressive,” she said, never more sincere, as she slowly turned around and took it all in. Only when she got back around to facing the staircase did she realize Dylan was already halfway up, assuming she was right behind him. Swallowing the myriad questions that were already springing to mind, she turned her attention back to more immediate matters. Namely her host. And her newest job. Painting.

Dylan didn’t wait for her at the second story landing either, and she had to hurry to keep up with him. And it was a good thing she did, as he turned left at the top of the second flight and disappeared through one of two sets of double doors just as she topped the last riser. Apparently each wing of the house was deep enough to have two parallel hallways running the length of them. Both sides of each hallway were lined with doors, though not evenly spaced apart, meaning some rooms were larger than others. The heck with a bed and breakfast, he could have opened a freaking hotel in this place.

The hallway was wide, carpeted with throw rugs, much the same as the foyer, which would be a nightmare for mobility with the cameras and crew people. It was lit with smaller chandelier fixtures hanging down in regular intervals and a massive window at the very end. More lighting would be required, she noted, looking at the paintings, mirrors, and wall sconces, some more ornate and gaudy than others, that filled the wall space between each door.

The whole effect was rather overwhelming, and she stood there, all but gaping as she took it all in. No wonder they had a hard time maintaining the place. Just this one hallway alone was a monster, and there were four of them on this side of the house alone, two upper, and two lower. Plus the rooms in the central part. She couldn’t imagine one family, much less one man, maintaining all of it. One thing was for certain, though, depending on the condition of the rooms behind those doors, there was no question the place was quite big enough to house their entire production.

She almost missed it when Dylan made a sharp turn and didn’t enter either hallway, but opened a door and began climbing yet another set of stairs that led, presumably, up to the third floor of the central section of the house. This staircase was far more narrow, straight up, with closed walls on either side. However her attention wasn’t on the walls, the jumble of paintings hung all over them, or the fact that the stairs were dimly lit with wall sconces only, no overhead lighting. No, her attention was pretty much riveted on the very fine backside of a certain Scotsman climbing the stairs in front of her, said backside showcased quite nicely in faded denim. He must do a lot of stair climbing, she thought, admiring the flex and play of his hamstring muscles as he charged up the stairs.

So intent was her focus, when he stopped short just at the top, she was unable to halt her forward motion in time and wobbled precariously on the next-to-top stair, grabbing for the hand-railing to keep from toppling backward.

Before that could happen, he caught her by the arms and pulled her up next to him, wedging them both in the narrow doorway at the top. Suddenly short of breath, she tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding far more like a soft little moan. Probably because it was.

“You seem to have a wee problem with balance,” he said, that intent gaze of his directly on hers, but no hint of expression otherwise.

“I—I’m normally not such a klutz, really. I even went to college on a sports scholarship. Honest. Team captain.” She was babbling when she should be extricating herself from his arms, and from the tight space they were presently sharing…but her body wasn’t exactly following her brain’s orders. Of course, that could be because her brain wasn’t entirely certain she should be going anywhere, either, especially since there were all kinds of benefits to staying right where she was.

Like the way the hard length of him felt so incredibly good against the not-so-hard length of her. Better than she’d imagined, better than that brief moment in the pub. He was solid, and strong, and she felt absurdly safe and in absolute danger all at the same time. Her heart was pounding…and she realized he wasn’t making any attempt to move either.

“Your clothes,” he said, at length.

“Yes?” she breathed, barely managing to get the words out, as images of him tearing them off and—

“Ye’ll get paint on them.”

“I—oh. Right.”

“I’ll lend you an auld shirt of mine to cover up.”

“Yes, that, that would be great. Super. Thanks.” She made a valiant attempt at an insouciant smile. Of course he wasn’t thinking of tearing her clothes off. It was far more typical of a man to want to cover her up. In fact, he was probably wondering why he hadn’t just let her tumble back down the stairs. Probably afraid of the lawsuit she’d file.

“Come on,” he said, and stepped into a short hallway, disappearing into one of the two rooms on the left. As if he hadn’t been remotely affected by their little moment.

Because he wasn’t affected, you idiot. You’re the only affected one here. She sighed. “Afflicted is more like it,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked up to find him standing in front of her once more, a paint splattered, white dress shirt dangling from his fingers. Would she ever not look like a complete fool in front of this man? She took the shirt from him. “Thanks.” She felt the quality of the linen and glanced back up at him. “Nice work shirts you have.”

He shrugged. “No other use for them now.” He turned and walked into one of the two rooms that had paint buckets sitting in the middle of the floor. “Let’s get to it then.”

She slipped the shirt on over her own and rolled up the sleeves. Yes , she thought, let’s get over your fixation with the hot Scot and get back to business. She surreptitiously lifted her arm so she could breathe in his scent from the linen.

And she would. Any minute now.

Just as soon as she figured out how.