Red Skye at Night (7 page)

Still, it hasn’t stopped me so far. I watch him from my vantage point beside a passport photo machine. No doubt about it, he’s a treat to look at. I’m not the only woman who thinks so—I spot more than a few female heads turning as they pass on their way to the ladies’ loos. A tiny little girl totters toward him, her harassed mother busy with a tray of juice and sandwiches, and an older child intent on pestering for the cash to spend on a vending machine peddling small rubber balls. As his mother juggles her purse and the tray, the tiny tot, with that unerring cunning even the youngest children seem to be blessed with, sees her opportunity and makes a beeline for Harry. It would seem he’s a magnet for females of any age. It looks to me as though the first Harry knows of it is when a sticky hand clutches his knee. He turns and leans down. I see his lips move but of course I can’t hear what he says to her. Whatever it is, she approves. The tiny pink face splits in a beaming grin as she holds her dummy up for his inspection. I suspect Harry will have declined her offer, but he still catches the lump of plastic as the toddler drops it, preventing it from ending up on the floor.

The harassed mother rushes over, her face flushed as she grabs for her stray offspring. Harry’s easy smile causes my stomach to flip. He smiles at me too, all the time, but there’s more to it when he’s with me. A warmth, a flicker of interest, of something not quite definable but definitely there. I recall the semi-permanent erection he mentioned. I’ve not noticed it, but his jeans are not especially tight and he’s been sitting in my passenger seat all morning, the map open across his lap.

As I watch, the older brother comes trotting over, now with a bouncy rubber ball to add to the chaotic family mix. Harry is briefly surrounded but seems quite unfazed by the interruption. He’s soon alone again, in glorious, grinning isolation as the little family is herded away toward the pay desk. Time to rejoin him.

I may have been a tad hasty in my refusal to sleep with my enigmatic passenger. Is it too late to reconsider, I wonder? My limp is forgotten as I head back across the tiled floor.

Harry puts his iPad down as I approach, his smile pleasant. “We’ll stop again at Berwick, then go on toward Edinburgh. Sound okay to you?”

I slip into the plastic seat across from him. I’ve picked up a latte in a tall polystyrene cup on my way over so I place that on the table. I hope he doesn’t say anything calculated to choke me again. I nod in response to his question.

“Yes, fine. What’s in Berwick?”

“Not a lot, from what I can tell. There’s an arts center, though, with a decent restaurant, specializes in Italian food. We could eat there later.”

“Sounds good. Just a salad and a sandwich for now then?”

“Sure. You go choose something.” He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out his wallet. He takes out a couple of twenty pound notes and tosses them onto the table in front of me. “That should be enough.”

Even at motorway service area prices that’s a lot more than enough. I pick up one of the notes. “Any requests?”

He glances at me, his expression wry. “For a woman who doesn’t want to fuck me, you do insist on living dangerously.”

I pointedly ignore his remark. “Meat or veggie? Cheese?”

He grins and seems to be enjoying the joke at my expense. “I’m easy, honey. Whatever you fancy.”

“Now who’s living dangerously?” I mutter the words under my breath but can’t miss the raised eyebrow as he watches me scuttle off.

I return with a selection of sandwiches and a tray of mixed salad. We polish it all off, and I realize I was hungrier than I thought. I’m looking forward to Berwick, and for the first time today, beginning to properly enjoy this trip.

The next couple of hours up toward Berwick seem to drag. Harry has managed to pick up a couple of classical CDs from the shops in the services—pleasant enough but not my taste really. My mind’s occupied negotiating the road and Harry seems content to watch the Northumberland countryside roll by. He has his iPad on his lap.

“It says here that the castle at Alnwick was the setting for Hogwarts in the
Harry Potter
movies. Did you know that?” Harry sounds like a small boy suddenly, excited at tales of wizards and magic, elves and goblins.

“Says where? What are you looking at?”

“Northumberland Tourist Board website. Very helpful. Did you know that when you pronounce it right Alnwick rhymes with ‘panic’?”

“I’m English so yes, I did know that. Not about Hogwarts, though.” I shake my head. I was never much of a
Harry Potter
fan, to be fair, whether in print or immortalized on screen. Now Harry McLeod, I could get interested in…

Christ, where did that come from?

By mutual and unspoken consent I pull into a lay-by with a view across to Holy Island. It’s low tide so the connecting causeway is visible and there are figures hustling to and fro, tourists mostly, I imagine. The priory, castle and harbor look stunning against the clear blue of the late afternoon sky, and I make a mental note to perhaps come back here sometime. I’ve always had a soft spot for castles.

“It’s a pity we don’t have time to go over there, have a proper look around.” Harry leans back in his seat, surveying the turreted skyline.

“Would you like to?” Perhaps he shares my fondness for old ruins.

“Why not? I’m on vacation.”

“There’s a castle in Edinburgh. A huge one, I think.”

“We’ll go there then, for sure.” He returns his attention to the iPad and taps the screen with his customary determination. “Hey, and pandas. They have real pandas at Edinburgh zoo. Do you like pandas, Hope?”

I’ve never given pandas a great deal of thought, but Harry’s enthusiasm is infectious. I can’t help the smile that seems to be always hovering around my face now, ready to break through at the least provocation. “Yes, I expect pandas are just lovely.”

“Right, we’ll be needing tickets to see the castle and the pandas. I’ll call Jill and get her to sort it all out.”

“Who’s Jill?”

“My secretary, in Winnipeg. I’ll get her to book us a hotel too.”

“Separate rooms.” I’m considerably less convinced of the necessity of this, but feel compelled to make my point nevertheless.

He shakes his head, looks amused. “For now. Yes then, separate rooms.” He taps the screen on his phone—obviously Jill is on speed dial. I pretend not to listen as he issues his instructions for tomorrow’s excursions and tonight’s accommodation.

“Yes, just one night in Edinburgh. We’ll travel on later tomorrow.” A pause, then, “Thanks. If you would.” Another pause. “Perth probably. I’ll let you know after that.”

I surmise that he plans for us to be staying at Edinburgh today, and at Perth tomorrow. I find I have no objections. I start my engine.

Chapter Four

The arts center in Berwick lives up to its reputation as described by the Northumberland Tourist Board. The food is excellent, the service cheerful, the atmosphere vaguely bohemian. The evening’s entertainment could have been rounded off nicely with a Billy Joel tribute act, highly recommended by the lady on the front desk, but it’s not my scene. Nor is it Harry’s. We prefer to press on to Edinburgh. As we get back in the car to leave Berwick, Harry reels off a postcode and asks me to put it into my satnav.

“Our hotel for tonight. It’s about ten miles south of Edinburgh. Should take about ninety minutes. Wake me up when we get there.” With no more ado he props his feet on my dashboard and closes his eyes. He’s asleep in seconds.

I spend the hour and a half of quiet solitude enjoying the soft and lilting Borders landscape and wondering what on earth I’m thinking of, haring off to Scotland at a moment’s notice with a man I met only slightly more than twenty-four hours ago. I glance at Harry from time to time, his breathing light, relaxed, his face softened in sleep. He looks as though butter wouldn’t melt, but I already know better than to trust that innocent exterior. The clues are there. His casual reference to being kinky, his response when I said I wouldn’t sleep with him, his gentle teasing on that subject since. He fully intends to get me into bed.

And I’m starting to think I fully intend to let him. But not straight away. He can work for it.

I follow the satnav instructions religiously, and swear under my breath when I pass through an imposing gateway into the grounds of what I think must have once been a stately home. This is definitely much more upmarket than my usual watering holes, on the odd occasions that I’ve had need of a hotel. In the more distant past I traveled a fair bit on the athletics circuit, but not in recent years. I follow the wide, curving driveway for about a half mile or so, rounding the final bend. I stop, and I swear out loud. My exclamation of “Holy fuck” wakes Harry.

“You have a dirty mouth, Hope. Are you sure I can’t convince you to put it to better use?” He lowers his feet from my dashboard and sits up.

Undaunted by his latest remark, I round on him. He must have known what sort of a place he was directing me to. “That’s a castle. It’s a fucking castle.”

Harry peers with interest at the large stone building looming ahead of us. “Yeah, it does look to be. I texted Jill and asked her to find us somewhere nice, somewhere traditional. I think this’ll do.”

“Nice? This is… This is…” Words fail me. I turn to him in despair. “I can’t afford anything like this.”

“You’re not paying. All expenses are on me, remember?”

“This isn’t expenses, this is…excessive.” Not especially good but the best description I can come up with on the spur of the moment.

“Honey, if you think this is excessive, you should see me with a tawse in my hand.”

“What’s a tawse?” I’m still staring at the imposing, solid entrance, wondering what this place will make of me in my Topshop cerise vest and Primark jeans.

“Ah, honey, don’t ask unless you really want to know the answer.” He reaches for his iPad while I just stare at him.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Shit! Is that a golf course? This place has its own golf course?” My attention is diverted by the sight of the sprawling greens carpeting the landscape on either side of the drive.

“It does. Do you play, Hope?”

“Do I look like I play fucking golf?” I’m continuing up the long driveway toward the entrance at a slow crawl, my head swiveling from side to side as I take in my surroundings. I muttered my response under my breath, but it seems that Harry misses nothing.

“I’m sure we could find a game you’d like. They have pony trekking, too, according to the brochure. Shall we give that a try tomorrow?”

I choose to ignore his cryptic comment. “I don’t ride either. And what about the pandas?”

“I’m sure you could, given the right encouragement. So, another day then for the riding. I’ll get the bags.”

Not at all certain how to answer that, and even less convinced that I want to try, I pull up in a parking bay close to the hotel entrance. Harry hops out and round to the boot. He pops the lid and heaves his own case out, then mine. He waves me away when I try to grab the handle of my battered holdall.

“It’s fine. I’ve got this. Let’s go see what this place is like.”

I find myself trotting after him like an obedient little spaniel, straight through the heavy oak doors and across what was, I imagine, once the great hall in the domain of some medieval lord. At the far end a gray-haired woman in a tartan jacket smiles at us as a young man in a kilt—yes, a proper kilt in bold shades of red and dark green—leaps forward to take the luggage from Harry. This time he relinquishes the bags without protest and turns to complete the formalities at the desk. Harry’s company credit card is all that’s required to gain us admittance into this new world of luxury, where it seems everyone’s sole aim in life is to lavish attention on our every need.

The kilted youth leads us to the lift, does all the button pressing, then leads us along a thickly carpeted corridor right to the doors of our adjoining rooms, carrying both our bags the whole way. I’m impressed. He opens my door first and gestures me inside before handing me the key card. He leaves Harry’s case in the corridor and marches past me to set my bag on the floor beside the bed.

“Breakfast is from seven in the morning, madam. If you need anything, please just dial one from the hotel phone.” He turns to rejoin Harry on the landing. “You’re next door, sir.”

Harry nods to me as the porter closes my door. I hear the sound of the door to the next room opening and shutting, then silence. Alone, I turn in a complete circle to take in my surroundings.

The room is huge, and quite beautiful. In what I take to be Scottish tradition, the carpet is a lavender and green pattern, the pile knee-deep it seems. I kick off my trainers in deference to it. The furniture is large, dark and solid, made of carved wood. There’s the bed, at least six feet in width, two huge wardrobes, a dressing table, and a seating area in an alcove by the window. This offers two small settees, both upholstered in a purple and green tartan fabric to match the carpet. A low table nestles between them. It’s decidedly cozy.

The bathroom is equally impressive, designed for space and personal pampering. Two washbasins are set into a marble countertop, waterfall taps arching over them. There’s a semi-sunken bath and a separate shower. The whole place is tiled in a soft dove gray. A pile of fluffy, thick towels the color of wet slate is perched on a stand beside the shower. The complementary toiletries are extensive, the small bottles lined up along the counter top. What would Harry make of it if I was to keep a few as souvenirs, I wonder? I think I’d prefer not to know.

I decide to try out the shower straight away. It’s been a long day. I strip quickly and step into the cubicle. There’s a chrome button that looks promising. I hit it, and jets of warm water fly at me from all directions. It feels heavenly. I stretch under the hot spray and take a few moments to simply luxuriate in the wet freshness.

I knew we wouldn’t be roughing it—Harry made that clear from the start. I suppose I also knew, sort of assumed, that he’d offer me the same standard of accommodation he would choose for himself. But I never anticipated anything on this scale. As well as being good company and drop-dead gorgeous, he’s generous too. If I’m thinking about breaking my stint at celibacy—it’s been eight months this time—I could do a lot worse than Harry McLeod. Harry might say some strangely unnerving things, but he’s really very nice as well. I’ll forgive him a lot if he’s nice.