Читать книгу The Great Scot - Donna Kauffman - Страница 9

T he instant he had a spare minute to call his own, his brother was going to hear from him and quite loudly. Not that he hadn’t thought of contacting Erin himself. But he’d like to think that was his conclusion, drawn after a long, sleepless night of deep contemplation about the business ramifications of her offer. But the truth was, he’d had a hard time putting her out of his mind.

It was bad enough he’d had to turn even a portion of his family’s ancestral home into an inn. He had zero desire to turn Glenshire over to some American film crew. After all the blood, sweat, and tears he’d literally poured into both restoration and renovation, they’d come storming in, setting up all their cameras and cables, causing untold damage in the process. No. He’d accepted the commercialization of their Chisholm heritage. He wouldn’t further sell out their integrity by allowing it to be used as a backdrop to some crass dating show.

But the devil on his other shoulder wouldn’t stop whispering that if the check was big enough, and they agreed in writing to repair anything they damaged, how could he not at least hear her out? And, though it felt unseemly, there was no getting around the fact that the promotion for future bookings was something to consider in getting the bed and breakfast off the ground. Even with Daisy’s marketing savvy, Glenbuie wasn’t exactly a hotbed of tourism. The television show could change all that.

He’d fallen asleep last night with the battle still waging, only to have Ms. MacGregor play a starring role in his dreams. Which had nothing whatsoever to do with television programming or keeping four hundred years of Chisholm history from crumbling to dust, and far more to do with the images he’d wrestled with most of the way home last night. Images that followed him into sleep if the rock hard state of his body when he woke up was any indication.

So he’d steamed those confusing images of Erin’s ready smile, her spontaneous laughter, her natural joie de vivre from his mind with a long morning shower, intent on putting his thoughts back into focus. In the end, however, one thing had led to another and it had taken a bit more creative use of soap and suds, taking the matter in hand, so to speak, to finally make that happen. He should have just done that the night before as he’d planned. Maybe then he’d have at least gotten a good night’s sleep.

Then, bang, there she was again, right on his doorstep, first thing in the morning, lease agreement clutched in hand, and an entirely too cheerful smile on her pixie face. He hadn’t blushed since he was a very young lad, but it had taken a considerable toll on his willpower to hold her gaze steadily for more than one second and not flame up, as he was incapable of not thinking about the very different version of her he’d been envisioning a mere hour or so earlier, while he’d been…doing what he’d been doing.

Hell, even now his body was stirring just thinking about it. He angled himself more toward the wall. Just in case. What the bloody hell had gotten into him anyway? He’d all but run up the stairs in front of her just to get enough distance between them to will himself back under control. Only to get trapped with her all but plastered against him back there in the doorway. She hadn’t seemed to have the least clue of the rather insanely bawdy direction his thoughts had taken, but then he’d been so disconcerted by the whole thing, he’d all but shoved one of his old shirts in her face and escaped to his paint brush and drip tray.

His sole concern was supposed to be what to do about the bloody lease offer, which was the only thing he should be considering leasing out. He slapped the brush against the wall and dragged his recalcitrant thoughts back to the real business at hand.

“Oh!” came a surprised gasp from behind him.

He turned to find her looking quite put out. Though, given the rather large splotch of pale blue paint presently oozing its way into the open neckline of his dress shirt, and between her breasts, he couldn’t say he blamed her.

She looked down, then up at him, but rather than complain, she laughed and sort of thrust her chest out in an exaggerated fashion pose. “And blue is so not my color.”

Dylan found his lips twitching. She was just so…real. His gaze was drawn back to the splotch. “I don’t know,” he said, considering, then immediately bit back the rest of what he’d been about to say, which would have sounded suspiciously like flirting. He didn’t flirt. Or hadn’t, anyway, in a very long time. He certainly had no business being compelled now. Erin was an obstacle of sorts, and witty banter of any fashion was not the way to clear that particular hurdle. She already had more of an edge than she realized. He’d be a fool to give so much as a toehold more when there was negotiating to be done.

Belatedly realizing he was still staring, he grabbed a rag from the pile on the floor. “Here. If you get it off now, likely it won’t leave a mark.”

She took the rag and plucked his shirt away from her skin so she could scrape off the offending blob. It was only after several moments of watching her dab at the spot between her breasts that he realized he was still staring. He quickly jerked his attention back to his own paint brush and the stretch of window trim awaiting his attention.

“How long have you been working on renovating the place?”

Yes, innocuous banter. Good. Anything to distract him from the fact that he’d noticed that while she might not have a sexy swing to her hips, she had far more of a curve to her bosom than he’d have suspected. And if the nipples pressing against his old shirt were any indication, quite perky, too. He cleared his throat and stared at the wall. “I’m fairly certain a Chisholm has been renovating some part of this place since the moment they laid the final stone.” He glanced in her direction, testing himself. “Perhaps even before that.”

She shot him a grin before turning back to her section of wall. There was a blue smear across her cheek, her hair stuck out at odd angles, apparently on purpose as it had been much the same yesterday, and she seemed entirely unconcerned with how she came off. Appearance-wise anyway. He was already quite certain when it came to her business mien, she was more than concerned. Or she wouldn’t be wearing his shirt and slopping paint all over herself.

And looking somehow quite charming doing so. Get hold of yourself, lad.

“How much of the place, overall, are you turning into the B & B?”

Her questions seemed casually asked, but he knew they were anything but. Calculating her offer most likely. “The upstairs wing on the north side—that was the hallway we entered earlier—and these three central loft rooms. Fourteen rooms all total. Various sizes.”

She made a noncommittal noise and didn’t look up, focusing instead on keeping the brush steady as she drew it down alongside the trim. He saw that when she was really concentrating, she bit the corner of her bottom lip. Which was entirely alluring. On the right kind of woman, of course.

She turned and caught him looking at her, but didn’t react in any overt way. “What about the other first floor on this side? Any plans to expand further if things go well? Do you plan to use anything downstairs?”

So many questions. All of them about business. He should have been happier about that. He attacked his trim with renewed determination. “The rooms along the second upper hallway are in various stages of renovation, one whole section has been completely shut off for years. I don’t foresee the need to add them to the list of available rooms, but I suppose if I were to change my mind, I’d start with the more readily available rooms there. The first floor in this wing has only one common hallway. The rooms below are considerably larger, meant for social gatherings, some in better shape than others. The plan is to open the main parlor, situated near the front of the wing, closest to the central part of the house. The kitchens are located in the central rear, so serving breakfast there makes the most sense.”

“No dining room, then?”

He paused, looked over his shoulder, but she was concentrating on the sill now. “We have several, the smallest of which seats a modest thirty—or would if there were furnishings in it. At present, it’s closed off. Sagging walls, sinking floors. A common problem with a lot of older structures and this one is no different. Anyway, I felt the parlor had a more intimate ambience, suitable to a bed and breakfast, with several small tables set up for a more private atmosphere. Guests can also take their morning meal on the side portico with a view of the mountain range.”

“It all sounds lovely,” she said, sounding quite sincere and likely she was. Yet he easily imagined her mental calculator busily toting up numbers in her head.

“Across from the parlor there is also a library, more of a study really, but on a rather larger scale comparatively speaking, that has been put to rights. It will be available during the day should anyone care to sit and read, play a hand of cards, or whatnot. But otherwise, the other rooms in the lower part of the north wing will remain off view. As will the entire south wing.”

“That is the family wing, I take it?”

“It’s where I reside, if that’s what you’re asking, aye. However, most of it has been likewise shut off. There is no way to tackle the entirety of Glenshire, so we preserve what we can, and seal off, at least temporarily, what we canno’. It’s the only way to keep her afloat.”

“I know I said it before, but it’s such a huge undertaking for one person.” She let out a small laugh. “I guess that’s the understatement of the century.”

His lips quirked, but he kept to his work. “Aye. Several of them, in fact.”

They spent a few moments in companionable silence, and he was surprised at the urge he had to fill that silence with some questions of his own. He was equally surprised to discover that, inquisition notwithstanding, he was rather enjoying this particular disruption of his work day, much as he had his trip into town last night. It felt…good to have someone around. Someone who wasn’t Letty Dalrymple, anyway.

“So, when you open your doors to guests, will you bring someone in to help with the cooking and room cleaning?”

He turned. “Rather sexist, don’t you think?”

Appearing honestly surprised, she stopped as well, and blew her hair off her forehead. One wispy lock had adhered itself to a spatter of paint and didn’t budge. She was going on about something to do with how she was a woman in a man’s field and the last person who’d ever pigeonhole anybody, but he wasn’t really listening. He found himself too distracted by the sudden urge to go over there and free those muck and mired strands.

“My guests won’t go hungry,” he interjected finally, more to get himself back on track—again—than to shut her up. “And they’ll have fresh linens.”

Erin broke off, smiled, then, without skipping a beat, said, “Hard to imagine a place this size ever being fully utilized just by family and staff.”

She’d said it sounding more practical-minded than dreamy romantic. Made him wonder if there was a romantic heart beating beneath her all-business exterior. Given the brand of television show she was touting it seemed she should be a bit more of that happily-ever-after sort than she appeared to be. But what did he know?

“The sheer history of it, the centuries it has endured, it really makes this place quite a draw. And then there’s that awe-inspiring view. I imagine you’ll have no problem filling those rooms.”

Aye, a businesswoman, then, through and through. She was right about Glenshire’s rather gothic ambience being its main selling point. He’d always thought of the crumbling decay as being more eyesore than particularly romantic or attractive, but Reese’s fiancée, Daisy, had taken the same view as Erin. In fact, she’d made that the focal point of the website she’d created as an adjunct to the site she’d developed for the distillery. She’d packaged Glenbuie distillery tours, with village shop discounts and a stay in Glenshire’s bed and breakfast, and lo and behold, though it had taken some time to get the bookings started, over time it had worked. Maybe it was some kind of Yankee sensibility, though the two women couldn’t be more different.

“You’re not too keen on the whole idea, though, I take it.”

Dylan lifted his gaze to hers, realizing once again he’d trailed off into his own thoughts. He’d been out here on his own for so long now, he wasn’t used to being observed by anyone, much less having to concern himself with whether anyone could interpret his thoughts or expression. “I thought I made my stance on that clear yesterday.”

“Though you’re reconsidering now,” she said, that impish light back in her eyes. She waggled her brush at him, splattering paint on the dropcloth. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant you’re not too keen on the whole bed and breakfast plan, either.”

“What would make you say that?”

Erin laughed. “Let’s just say you don’t exactly have the temperament of an innkeeper. You talk about Glenshire with a combination of pride and weary acceptance, but there is a guardedness to it, like a brother who can talk smack about his own siblings, but dare someone else do the same and they’ll get a fist in their face. You’re protective of her,” she said with a softer smile. “And maybe a bit resentful of her demands. But you don’t really want to share her with anyone, do you?”

Dylan said nothing in response. He was a little disconcerted by her insight. Maybe more than a little. Because she was right. And he’d wondered more often than he cared to admit whether, despite his commitment to the joint decision made with his brothers to go ahead with the bed and breakfast scheme, if he’d be truly up to the actual task of running it when the time came. Putting the place to rights was one thing. Planning the room layout, the breakfast menus, the pricing structure, taking reservations, he’d done all of those things, the things an innkeeper would do. And yet, other than the occasional laborer or subcontractor, he hadn’t had to deal with actual people yet. Not a paying guest anyway. And he’d be lying if he said that that part of this whole deal didn’t have him a little nervous.

Because, as she’d so rightly pointed out, he wasn’t exactly innkeeper material. And if she’d picked up on that inside of thirty minutes spent together…what chance did he have with the paying guests? He argued the point anyway, maybe more to convince himself than her. “I’ve devoted two years of my life readying this place for that exact eventuality, what makes you think I’m not wholly invested in the idea?”

She lifted a shoulder and scrubbed the back of her hand across her nose, leaving more paint as she did so. “What did you do for a living when you lived in the city?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” He had to curl his fingers inward against the renewed urge to cross the room and rub the paint off the tip of that pixie-like, upturned nose of hers. “And how did you know I lived in the city?”

“Brodie mentioned it, or maybe it was Alastair.” She waved her brush. “It’s common knowledge. And I’m just curious. I’m trying to adjust my view of you.”

Why it mattered what her view was, he had no idea. But he found himself answering anyway. “I traded stocks. Why do you look so surprised?”

She lifted her shoulders again. “I have no idea, really. Actually, that occupation seems to suit you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“You know what I mean, your general demeanor. You seem more suited to the hustle and bustle of big city life, I guess is what I’m saying. You’re very…intense. Stock trading is an intense occupation. That’s all.”

So she thought him intense, did she? He recalled that moment on the dance floor when she’d first bumped against him. Then again, just now, at the top of the stairs, when they’d been wedged in the doorframe. It had been a rather charged moment, but he assumed it was his own folly, given the fresh memories of his morning shower activities.

“So,” Erin went on, “what is it about opening Glenshire’s doors that bothers you most?”

“Who said it bothered me?”

She just gave him a stop kidding yourself look and continued. “Are you afraid she’ll come up lacking? Or is it a heritage issue, beneath the family name to take in boarders, that kind of thing?”

“I’m no’ afraid of what people will think of Glenshire,” he responded truthfully. He was a wee bit more concerned what his guests would think of him, but only because he needed their patronage to keep the place from complete ruin. Were it up to him, he’d have far rather continued managing his stock portfolio, investing as wisely as possible, and repairing the place as the funds became available. But while his personal portfolio had benefited them all over the years, the market was too unpredictable to trust their fortunes exclusively to his investment prowess, no matter that he was still largely successful at it.

And, frankly, sitting in this drafty auld place, tapping away at a computer terminal as years passed by, wasn’t exactly an enticing future for him to contemplate either. “As to opening her doors, it’s no’ beneath us. It’s far from the first time Chisholms have taken on the role of host within these walls.” It was the first time they’d charged money for the privilege, but she was far too nosey for her own good. No need to give her any more information than was necessary.

She bent and dipped her brush in the pan, and he couldn’t help but notice the way her pants pulled tight across her bum. Huh, he thought. Not much of one there, as it turned out. Her legs were a bit on the spindly side, too, though she wasn’t all that narrow of hip or waist. Add to that her long arms, which gave her the appearance of being taller than she really was. She straightened and turned back to the trim work, reaching above her head. She wasn’t skinny, more gangly, like a baby giraffe, all stick limbs, blocky torso, and slender neck.

No, not at all his type. There wasn’t a sleek, sophisticated bone in her, nor the curves to make up for their absence. He shook his head slightly and returned to his own spot of trim. And thought about his morning shower. And started to get hard all over again. Christ.

“So you’re doing it for family, then. Clan leader, oldest son commitment,” she commented after a few minutes had passed, as if there hadn’t been a break in their conversational flow.

He wondered if she had any inkling of how keenly aware he was of her. She didn’t seem conscious of her impact much at all, to be honest. Maybe because she typically didn’t make one, not of the sort he was thinking about anyway. And why was he thinking like that? He really had to reconsider the whole monk thing. And he would. Just as soon as she left town. “Like all that came before me, we do what we must to maintain the family assets,” he said, at length.

She finished carefully running her brush along the inside edge of the sill, before turning to face him once again. “But that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

He stopped and looked at her. “No, no it doesn’t.” He found it impossible to be anything other than candid in the face of her own easy frankness. And yet, he wondered how she would respond if he were the interrogator and she the object of his inquisition?

She propped her brush on the pan and wiped her fingers on the edges of his increasingly paint-spattered loaner shirt, then grinned at him. “So, why don’t you let me get you away from all of this?” She gestured to the room as if she were a game show presenter. “An eight week, all expenses paid vacation. You’ll come home to a place in better shape than when you left it, starting with us finishing up all this detail work and including any reworking and refinishing necessary for our production, and with the added bonus of a nice check to put in the bank as well.” Her grin broadened. “A win-win proposition. I don’t see how you could turn it down.”

Standing there like that, all twinkly eyed, cocksure smile, and paint-spattered cheeks, he was having a hard time remembering why he was fighting this so hard himself. A chance to get away for eight minutes would have been more than welcome at this point. Had he anywhere to go. He missed the city in some ways, but not the drama that went along with it. Too many ghosts there, not to mention Maribel’s family and friends, who were well meaning, but suffocating. Even a short visit would allow them to drag him right back into the emotional birl he’d spent the past two years successfully working his way out of. But he hadn’t exactly found an even footing yet in Glenbuie, either. He was living in a sort of surreal limbo.

So Erin’s offer to escape the life he’d somehow found himself inhabiting was far more attractive than even she could have known. And she never would. Surreal or not, fulfilling or not, his commitment was here. And if his marriage had proven anything, it was that when he made a commitment, he stuck with it. No matter what.

The fly in the ointment here was the money. He needed it. Or more to the point, Glenshire needed it. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, relinquish the place to a cordon of strangers, and allow them the kind of unfettered access they’d likely demand. He couldn’t risk his heritage in that way for any amount of money or accidental repair riders attached to the contract. Some things weren’t reparable. However…perhaps there was room for a compromise.

“So, what do you say?” she said, cocking her head to one side as he continued his silent regard of her.

“I canno’ vacate the premises here,” he stated flatly.

Her entire body seemed to vibrate then. She’d sensed victory within her grasp. But her voice when she spoke was calm, even. “I promise, we would ensure that any—”

He held up his hand. “I’ll no’ vacate the premises.”

To her credit, she said nothing. She wasn’t a fool, far from it from what she’d displayed so far.

“As noted previously, the other wing of the house is off limits to guests. I’ll need to see exactly what you’re offering me in terms of compensation for relocating or rebooking my guests. And I’d also need to discuss in detail exactly what adjustments your crew would make to my home in order to set up shop here.”

“We have resources that you don’t. I could have a team of people in here less than twenty-four hours from now. We could finish a lot of this type of—”

Again he silenced her with a raised hand, or brush, as was the case. “I’ll need a free flow of communication throughout the production.” He could see that didn’t set well with her at all. He completely understood her reluctance to have the owner underfoot, but she’d learn he wouldn’t be swayed on that point. “To that end, will you be staying for the duration of the filming?”

She looked surprised by the question. “Why do you ask?”

“I realize you’d prefer me not to get in the way of your filming, and I’d definitely prefer to steer as clear of the entire endeavor as possible.”

“So let us put you up in town, then,” she offered quickly, banked excitement in her tone now. “We would pick up the tab, of course, and I’d work it out for you to get frequent reports and updates, addressing any concerns you might have. We’ve done this for seven seasons, now. Trust me, we know what we’re doing.”

“Be that as it may, I’m responsible for the welfare of my family’s heritage. We’ve done so for over four centuries now, and we’re quite good at it as well.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Point taken. Surely we can come up with some kind of compromise that will ease your concerns and make the entire event as easy on both sides as possible.”

She’d used the word event, but he’d heard the word ordeal. It would be both, of that he was certain. “I’ve already come up with such a plan. But you hav’nae answered my question.”

“About me staying on? I’m usually on site through pre-production, scouting out the various local spots we’ll use for some of the outings taken by our contestants, but once everything is in place, I’ll be heading back to the States. We’ve been picked up for another season already because we shoot two a year, so I’ll be working on scouting the next location while they’re filming this one.”

He frowned. “That will be a bit of a problem then.”

She frowned, too. “Why is that? I’ll make certain they set up a direct line of communication with a production assistant before I—”

“We communicate well enough. You understand my concerns here. I don’t see the need to develop another association when this one is working just fine.”

“But—”

“I won’t be relocating to town, Erin.”

“It would be so much easier for you, trust me. You’ll see that—”

“Why don’t we cut to the chase here, as you Yanks say.”

It was her turn to look wary now. “Okay.”

“How badly do you want to lease Glenshire?”

Like any good businesswoman, she said nothing, but her folded arms and set stance spoke for her.

“In exchange for my staying here and giving advance approval on all improvements or adjustments, I will agree not to interfere with any of the filming.” Her rigid stance relaxed somewhat at that. “However,” he added, “that is only if you agree to stay and be my direct line of communication from the production crew.”

“But anyone can—”

“You strike me as a very straightforward person.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Then I trust you’ll continue to be that way throughout. If I’m to turn over four centuries of my heritage to be bandied about by a crew full of camera jockeys who could hardly appreciate the unique history of what they’re dealing with, then the very least you can provide me is the utilization of the one person I’ve developed any sort of trust with.” He put his paintbrush down and stepped around the pans on the floor until he was directly in front of her. “Barring any unforeseen glitches that might arise in the actual contract and require further discussion, do we have a deal?” He stuck out his hand.

She looked from him, to his hand, then back to him again. “Nothing is set in stone until you sign.”

It was clear on her face she still thought to bargain with him and get her way on certain matters. Little did she know who she was dealing with. “Deal?”

To her credit, she held his gaze directly as she took his hand in a surprisingly firm shake. “Deal.”

He gestured for her to leave the room before him. “Then let the deliberations begin.”