Red Skye at Night (6 page)

He has an answer for everything. And really, now that I’ve agreed to accompany him on this mad quest, what’s to hang around for? It’s not as though I had other pressing plans. I shake my head in exasperation, knowing when I’m beat.

“All right. Ten minutes. I’ll be outside in the drop-off area. Where I stopped yesterday.” He nods his agreement, then strides away. I let him go before I make my own more uneven way to the door and head outside to the station.

Chapter Three

I feel quite guilty leaving Harry cooling his heels outside in the car while I nip up to my flat to throw some clothes into a bag. I live on the top floor of a converted terrace house in the heart of Hyde Park, Leeds’ student district. The rent’s cheap, and I quite like the buzz of activity. Plus there are always plenty of customers near at hand—many female students prefer a woman taxi driver so I cash in on that. I like to think of myself as enterprising.

As I’m collecting my gear, something occurs to me, something I should have made clear up front but I had no opportunity. Well, not really, though that conversation we almost had about kink might have done it. I pick up the pack of contraceptive pills in my bathroom cabinet then slip them into the pocket on the side of my holdall, along with my passport and the two hundred and fifty-three pounds in cash I had in my bedside drawer. I’m not sure why I feel the need for the last two items, but it just seems prudent to have them.

Harry hops from the passenger door as I make my way back along the tree-lined pavement toward my car. At this time in the middle of the morning, it’s almost impossible to find a space to park so I’ve had to make do with a disabled bay a hundred yards along the road. Not ideal, but I know I won’t be long. Harry comes toward me and reaches for my bag. Surprised, I let him take it and toss it in the boot alongside his own considerably smarter luggage. I go round to the driver’s door and clamber inside as Harry gets in next to me. I turn to him, intending to have
that
conversation.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

His question takes me completely by surprise. It shouldn’t have, not really. It was inevitable that he’d spot my limp sooner or later. Sooner seems more likely.

I shake my head. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. I saw you limping just then, as you came along the sidewalk.”

“The…? Oh, right. The sidewalk.” Talk about divided by a common language. “I am fine, really. I always limp.”

He looks unconvinced. “You do? How come?”

I might as well tell him. It’s not a secret exactly, it’s just that I feel a bit self-conscious discussing what happened to my leg. I know I have no choice, though, and it’s better to get it done with. “I had an accident. Eight years ago, when I was fifteen. I was hit by a car and broke my femur. That’s the long bone in the upper part of your leg.”

“I know what a femur is. Is it still painful?”

“No. It’s stiff, though, and doesn’t move as easily as the other one. My knee was shattered too, and the joint really doesn’t work that well now. My limp just looked more pronounced than it really is because of carrying the bag.” Not entirely true, but I really don’t want to make a big thing of this. Anxious to leave this subject I start the ignition and turn to face him. “So, we head north then. I’m thinking straight up the A1 to Edinburgh, then I’m relying on you and the satnav.”

He grins, seemingly satisfied with my explanation for the limping. “Go for it, honey.” I pull out into the traffic and turn my car toward the North Leeds ring road.

* * * *

“So, how far is it to Edinburgh then? A couple hundred miles?” We’re buzzing along the A1 toward Wetherby, just nicely out of Leeds when Harry asks his question. I hope he’s not going to be one of those ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ passengers.

I glance across at him. “Yes, about that probably.”

“So, how long would it take to get there? Non-stop?”

“I don’t want to drive there non-stop.”

“No, quite so. Health and safety. But if you were?”

I think for a moment before replying. “Four hours perhaps. Five possibly, depending on traffic. We’ll probably miss the rush hour as long as we don’t run into any hold-ups on the way.”

“I’ve been thinking we’ll need some ground rules. About how long you drive for at one go, that sort of thing.”

“I see.” I’m pleased he’s thinking along those lines, I have to admit I was wondering just how this would all work out. It’s a long trip with just one driver, and Harry has made it clear he doesn’t intend to do a stint behind the wheel. I’m not sure I’d want him to in any case—I don’t lend my car out, not ever, to anyone. I glance across at him. “So, what do you have in mind then?”

“Two hours max. Agreed?”

I nod. That sounds reasonable.

He continues, “With a one hour break. That’s two hours on the road, and one hour off. And no more than three stints in a day.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were in no hurry.” At that rate it’ll take us at least two days, possibly three to reach Orkney. And a further two days, perhaps, to get to Skye.

“No, I wasn’t. I rarely say things I don’t mean. I want us to get there safely and enjoy the trip. So, two hours sound fair to you?”

I have to admit it does. And I’m actually quite touched that he brought the matter up. “Yes. That sounds fine. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Hope. So, next pressing problem we need to resolve. Who gets to pick the music?

“Me. I do. It’s my car.”

“True, but he who pays the piper…”

“Never mind pipers, did you bring any CDs?

“No, but I could pick something up when we stop for gas.”

“Petrol. We stop for petrol here.”

“Whatever. I’m thinking a little classical guitar.”

“And I’m thinking the Kaiser Chiefs.”

“Philistine. Where do you keep your CDs? In here?” He’s already digging around in my glove compartment, checking out the handful of CD cases there. Sure enough, he finds the Kaiser Chiefs, along with Coldplay, Nickelback and
Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits
. Poor Neil is shoved unceremoniously back into the darkness but the rest seem to find a degree of favor.

We spend the next hour or so in companionable silence as Harry takes command of the CD player. By the time we approach Scotch Corner I’m feeling pretty relaxed and starting to really enjoy myself. The scenery is sort of okay and likely to get even better once we get past Newcastle. Harry McLeod seems like decent company, and he’s certainly no hardship to look at. And for once in my life, I can be sure of paying my next electricity bill without considering selling a kidney.

“There are services a mile ahead. Pull in there please.” Harry interrupts my self-satisfied reverie.

“It’s not been two hours yet.”

“That’s the maximum, not the minimum. I want coffee and the restroom.” His tone is even enough, but I get the feeling he won’t be debating this.

“You’re the boss.” I wouldn’t mind the loo myself actually, though I would have held out till Newcastle. Still, a hit of caffeine wouldn’t go amiss. I keep an eye open for the exit and when I spot it, I signal left.

A few minutes later, our comfort duly attended to, we’re seated at plastic tables outside an overpriced coffee shop. Harry orders black coffee. I go for a latte. I offer to pay but he is adamant. He’s picking up every tab on this trip. I know we agreed that, but I didn’t really expect to hold him to it. With some reluctance I’m thinking that now might be the time for my little announcement, the one I found myself diverted from making outside my flat when he commented on my limp.

I stir the stripes from my coffee and lick the foam off my spoon. I glance up to find Harry staring at me, a warm glint in his eyes. Oh yes, now is definitely the time.

“I won’t sleep with you.”

There, I said it. It needed saying, and I said it. To his credit, Harry hardly turns a hair. He lifts his cup, takes a sip, then places it carefully back on the saucer.

“That’s a blow. Still, I guess I’ll manage. I suppose a fuck’s out of the question.”

I spit out my latte, showering the map that Harry has opened at the Newcastle page. He snatches it up and shakes it.

“Jesus, girl. You’re making a mess.”

“A mess! You talk to me about…” I’m gasping and wheezing, forced to abandon any attempt at conversation for a few moments. Harry pats my back, solicitous in his concern having first seen to the safety of his precious map. At last, with some considerable effort, I’m able to continue. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Can I not? I thought, since you brought it up… Personally I would never have dreamed of being so indelicate.” He returns to his seat and inspects his coffee, no doubt for any sign of stray latte.

“It wasn’t. I mean I just…”

“You have a dirty mind, Miss Shepherd. I’m shocked. Fancy you wanting to sleep with me. We only met yesterday. Still, I’m flattered.”

“I do not want to sleep with you.”

“So why mention it then? Have I propositioned you?”

“No, but…” I heave in another deep breath, my throat still raw. “But, you were looking at me.”

“I’ve been looking at you all day. I’m looking at that sheep over there but I’ve no intention of shagging it.”

“Now you’re just being crude. What I meant was, I’m coming to Scotland with you, but just as your driver. Nothing else. I just wanted there to be no misunderstandings. No awkwardness if, if…” I fall silent, my face burning. I just know my cheeks are bright crimson and I can only blame so much of that on my near death experience with the latte. I study my drink as though it’s absolutely the most fascinating item I have ever beheld.

The silence lengthens. I’m determined not to speak first. I seem to remember my gran had a saying—‘Least said soonest mended.’ That seems appropriate here, so I keep my mouth firmly shut.

“Hope, I just thought you might like to know, in case you were wondering, which of course if you say you weren’t…” Harry cracks first, or perhaps he always intended to have the last word. He pauses.

I remain silent.

He takes that as his invitation to continue, “I find you stunning. Under the sexless hoodies and awful baseball cap, you are quite lovely. I’ve had a more or less permanent erection to contend with since I first saw you at the airport, but I firmly accept that’s my problem, not yours. Still, if you should ever feel minded to reconsider your position on sleeping with me, that would be very welcome news. For now, though, would you just look at me? Please.”

He called me stunning. Quite lovely. Obedient, I look up into his gentle smile. Perversely, and despite his truly wonderful compliments, I immediately I latch onto his remarks about my clothes.

“My hoody isn’t sexless, and my cap’s practical. It keeps the sun out of my eyes when I’m driving.”

“The thing’s completely shapeless and about nine sizes too big. It swamps you. If you need sunglasses, I’ll get you some. Take them both off. Please.”

“I…”

“Please.”

“You’ll stare at me.”

“I’ll stare at you anyway. I think we’ve established that. Please, Hope. The cap first.”

He’s saying please and asking me nicely, but it still feels like a command. I find myself tugging my cap forward and crumpling it in my hands. Harry leans across to ruffle my hair, cropped short into a layered, easy sort of style. It’s a light blonde and very thick. In the past I’ve worn it longer and found it sort of attracts a lot of notice. I prefer to blend in so tend to play things down. Short hair is good, hidden under a scruffy little cap even better.

“Nice. The hoodie now?”

“I don’t have anything on underneath it.”

“No?” Is that a gleam of lust in his eyes?

“Well, just a vest. A bit too skimpy.”

“Is it decent?”

“Of course.”

“Well then, take off the hoodie. Now please.”

I have absolutely no idea why I obey him, but I do. Every nerve ending I possess is screaming in protest, but under Harry McLeod’s warm scrutiny I take hold of the hem of my dark blue sweatshirt and pull it up over my head. I set it on the spare seat next to me. The strappy vest top underneath is decent but only just. It’s a pretty thing, though—one of my favorites in an eye-catching shade of cerise. Too late I remember that I didn’t bother with a bra today. I don’t bother most days, to be fair, and of course my bulky tops usually cover everything up perfectly well.

“I may have been wrong. About this being decent, I mean. Perhaps I should…” I start to reach for my sweatshirt, but Harry stops me with a word.

“No.” He looks at me, makes no attempt to hide his admiration of my nipples, erect and prominent and threatening to take someone’s eye out if I make any sudden movements.
What am I thinking? What am I doing?

Harry’s voice is soft and low and very, very sexy as he leans across to murmur to me, “You weren’t wrong. It’s decent enough, just about. You’re beautiful. I knew it before. Now everyone can see it. But you’re with me. Do you want another coffee or shall we get moving again?”

I’m surprised to realize we’ve both finished our coffee. Our one hour break isn’t quite up yet but it’s near enough, and I don’t fancy another drink.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Harry stands and picks up my discarded cap and hoodie, perhaps to make sure I can’t scuttle back into my comfort zone the moment his back is turned. I have to admit, in the warm June sunshine the light vest is more comfortable. He waits for me to get to my feet, then we stroll back to my car. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s adjusted his speed for me. It’s not that I can’t walk as fast as anyone else, I just prefer not to because that makes my uneven gait more obvious. A sedate pace suits me, and Harry just fits in with it and not a word is said.

* * * *

We stop for lunch at a motorway services on the outskirts of Newcastle. I’m not that hungry given the huge breakfast we shared at the Queens Hotel but Harry insists we both need a break. It’s clear he’ll insist on a one hour stop-over so I excuse myself for a wander round the shops. There’s nothing spectacular here, just the usual travelers’ fare of magazines, paperbacks and confectionery, none of which excites me much. Harry has grabbed his iPad from his case and brought that in with him to take advantage of the Wi-Fi. I can see him across the mall, seated at a table with a cup of his favorite black coffee, tapping away at the screen. He pulls out his phone and makes a call. I wonder who he’s talking to, but of course it’s no concern of mine. It’s probably business. As far as I know, he has no social or family contacts in the UK. I have to acknowledge, though, and despite his protestations on the subject, that what I actually know about Harry McLeod would fit easily on the back of a stamp.