Some Like it Scottish (32 page)

“Aye,” he said teasingly.

“But here in Scotland, we sip our drinks.” A reprimand as she poured him another one.

Before taking the dram, he stuck out his hand. “I'm Max McKinley.”

She eyed his hand but didn't take it. “We know who you are.” She motioned to the room, but no one else paid attention. “You may have been invited here, but beware. We know ye've come to rob us blind—take our factory and its jobs away from our town.”

Her words doused him as if she'd thrown ice water in his face.

“Whoa there.” He scooted back, putting his hands up. “I haven't come to steal anything.”

“Are you not with the big American company who was sniffing around before?”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean—”

“Just because our factory needs a little help, you Yanks think it's a fine time to swoop in and swallow us whole, then spit out the leftover bits.”

He frowned. He didn't agree with all of MTech's business practices. Yes, many times they bought a company for one of their products, only to dismantle the rest, letting thousands of employees go in the process. He had to keep telling himself,
Business is business. It isn't personal
. Besides, the deal he brought to the table was different. MTech wouldn't get run out of town with a proposal to buy this time; they were willing to do a partnership.
And I didn't come in here to discuss it at the local pub over a shot of whisky.
He was here to discuss it with Alistair McDonnell, the chief engineer, and his father, Lachlan McDonnell, the owner of the North Sea Valve Company.

“You needn't say a word. It's plainly written on your face.” She gave him a dismissive glower.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the jet lag, or the Scotch. But he'd had enough.

“For a bartender,” he snapped, “you certainly act like you have some say in the matter.”

She didn't flinch but surprisingly backed down. “Aye, you're right. 'Tis not my fight. It's up to the McDonnell.” She dropped her eyes with a submissive shake to her gorgeous head.

She wandered off and he downed his shot, regretting what he'd just done. He couldn't afford to get on the wrong side of even one villager. The stakes were too high.

“Miss?” he called out to her, motioning for her to come back. When she sauntered toward him, he saw the disguised shrewdness playing in her eyes. She wasn't the
demure pussycat who'd backed down a moment ago. She was as cunning as a panther, ready to pounce.

She stopped in front of him and smiled sweetly. “Yes?”

“Sorry for how I acted. I hope you'll forgive my rudeness. Let me buy you a drink to make it up to you.”

She
tsk
ed at him. “Papa says never to drink at the trough with the swine.”

He winced. “Ouch.”

“Besides, us working girls can't afford to drink on the job and get fired. How long are you planning on being here, Yank?”

“As long as it takes. The New Year? Maybe longer.” Max knew these deals took time.

“That long, huh?” She looked at him as if taking his measurements; then she sashayed away.

She hadn't forgiven him and he hated being in this position—the perceived bad guy. He squeezed his empty glass. But he was the one who'd put in for the promotion, trying to stretch his skill set. He wasn't just an engineer anymore. He was a
closer
. And by God, he would close this deal if it was the last thing he did.

*   *   *

The next morning Max woke to a text message from Alistair McDonnell. He'd moved the appointment up, which was fine with Max. Over the last twenty-four hours, the two of them had exchanged many messages, and Alistair seemed like a decent, knowledgeable guy. Max knew Alistair was the one to be credited for calling MTech back to the table. From the project file, Max knew the McDonnell—as others referred to Lachlan McDonnell—would never have opened the door to another meeting with MTech.

Max stretched and gazed out the small window of his room. During the night, the snow had quietly tiptoed in. White covered everything, which was a real treat. Living in Houston, he'd only seen snow when traveling to Vale or Durango to ski.

After a quick shower, Max trudged to the parking lot in a business suit, tie, and dress shoes. By the time he arrived at his car, his dress shoes were soaked and his feet had turned into ice blocks. Thankfully, the steep road that led in and out of town had been scraped, but he wasn't taking any chances with any slick spots beneath the wheels. Slowly and carefully, he drove back up and over the rounded bluff to where NSV sat, about a mile away from Gandiegow. Just as the factory came into view, the sun peeked through the clouds, giving Max hope that all would go well here today with Alistair and the McDonnell.

NSV was made of ancient stone, without all the glitz or size of the megafactories in the U.S. But it did have character—an old warrior, worn-out from many years of battling time and the elements. From reports, he knew the building had stood empty for the last sixty years. Eighteen months ago, the McDonnell had reopened the factory doors. His son, Alistair, had recently joined him, stepping in as chief engineer.

Max pulled into the lot and turned off the car. No one was outside except a single worker, who shoveled snow from the sidewalk leading to the front entrance.

As he got closer, two things struck him at once. It wasn't a man clearing the sidewalk at all. It was a woman in men's coveralls. Secondly this wasn't any woman. It was the tall barmaid from last night.
Pippa.

“Mornin',” she said as chipper as the sunlight above.

“Good morning to you, too.” He was glad she'd let bygones be bygones from last night. He pointed to her shovel. “Your day job?”

She smiled brightly. “Aye. Here in Gandiegow, a lass needs to hold several positions to make ends meet. You'll never know where I might turn up.”

“Where else do you work?” And because he was a guy, and hadn't had the bandwidth to date lately, when she'd said the word
positions
, it kind of got caught in his mind, rolling around. And not in an innocent way either.

Down, boy.

“You'll see me here and there.” She smiled evasively and scraped the last bit of snow from the walk. “Come. I'll point you in the right direction.” She leaned her shovel against the building and took the lead.

Inside, the lobby was the strangest he'd ever seen. No contemporary plush seating or end tables with trendy magazines. This place was bare-bones. Three kitchen chairs, one folding, and one dilapidated Queen Anne sat against the wall. A crest and a sword hung above the seating. In the corner sat the grand prize, a beautiful Douglas fir, decorated with loads of Christmas cheer. The over-the-top tree didn't fit with the other substandard decor.

A brunette came from behind a worn receptionist desk with a
hungry-for-men
smile and a mug in her hand. “I saw you pull up and poured you a cup of tea, in case you needed warming up. I'm Bonnie, by the way.” She seemed to stick out her chest, flaunting her very large breasts in his direction.

But Max wasn't half as interested as he was in the strawberry blonde who'd put him in his place last night. He took his tea and thanked the receptionist just the same.

Pippa unzipped her coveralls and slipped her arms out,
letting the top half dangle down. He kind of quit breathing. Underneath, she wore an old formfitting Tau Beta Pi T-shirt, which befuddled the hell out of him.

Tau Beta Pi?
The engineering honor society?

If he could've formed words, he might've asked why she wore it. Except he couldn't stop staring at her nipples.
God help him!
He jerked his eyes away and, in the process, spilled tea all over his suit, from his chest to his knees.

“Damn.”

“Not to worry.” Pippa leaned over the desk and whispered to the brunette, who had resumed her position behind it. The only word he made out from the exchange was
auction
. From the closet behind the desk, Bonnie retrieved two items—a kilt clipped to a hanger along with a brown paper bag. She handed them to Pippa.

Pippa presented the clothing to him. “Here, put this on. We'll take care of yere suit.”

He frowned at the skirt. “Thank you, no. I'll be fine.”

“It's company policy to wear a kilt.” Amusement danced in her eyes, along with a fair dose of determination. “Everyone has to wear one for their company badge. For plant security.”

That seemed highly unlikely. He glanced at her chest and she wore no badge.

He tore his eyes away. “Don't you have a guest badge?”
Like a normal factory?

“A guest badge is for daily visitors. Ye said you plan to be here the month.” She planted her hands on her hips. “It's company—”

“Policy?” he finished for her.

“You catch on quick, Mr. McKinley.”

“That's what they tell me.” He grimaced at the kilt again.

She spun him toward a small door. “I'll be the one taking yere picture when you come out.”

“Another one of your jobs?”

“Aye. Now change in there.”

He marched into the small water closet and closed the door behind him. The brown bag held a flowing white shirt, black hiking boots, and thick cream-colored knee-high socks.

“Don't be long, Yank,” she hollered through the door. “I've work to do.”

He quickly dressed, surprised the clothes and boots fit pretty well, considering. He left his wet things over the towel rack and went back out.

The brunette rose, giving him a low whistle. “Aye, Pippa, you were right about the Yank in a kilt.”

Pippa nodded appreciatively at his legs. She grabbed a tartan and threw it over his shoulder. When she bent to fasten it by his hip, he couldn't help but let his mind wander to places it shouldn't. She smelled like fresh snow and woman. He felt both turned on and a little like Rob Roy.

She dragged him to the Christmas tree, positioning him in front of it.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just smile for the birdie.”

He didn't.

She snapped several photos anyway.

“Bonnie, pull the Queen Anne chair over to the tree and I'll take a few more.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “What's really going on here?”

Pippa gave him an innocent
I've-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about
stare
.
“Are you sure ye're not Scottish, Mr. McKinley? You have the name for it. The stubborn attitude. A veritable Scottish warrior through and through.”

“Stop buttering me up.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You're up to something.”

“Don't be a prig, Mr. McKinley.” Pippa readjusted the sash on his shoulder. “Americans love to claim to be Scottish.”

“Can I change back into my clothes yet?”

“Nay. We have to make sure you look right. For the badge and all.” Pippa snapped a few more shots. One with him standing by the Queen Anne chair. Another with him seated like the frigging king of Scotland or something. She even had the audacity to point the camera at his legs and take two more, mumbling, “Good, good,” to his shins.

“So do all the employees have their legs on their badges?” he drawled.

“Oh, aye, absolutely.” Pippa looked as if she could barely hold back from laughing. “Leg shots are imperative for security.
Especially if someone is running from the building with our top secret designs.
” She gave him a pointed look, as if that was why he was here. Her own words had a sobering effect. “I think we're done here.” She brushed her long curls out of her face like being the photographer had worn her out. Or was that relief he saw on her face?

“Go change now, Mr. McKinley,” Pippa ordered. Without a backward glance, she walked through the double doors leading into the plant with the camera swinging at her side.

He stood all alone in the lobby; Bonnie was gone too.

Max looked again at the double doors Pippa had gone
through. He wondered if her other jobs included sweeping the factory floor or cleaning the toilets. He forced her from his mind and went into the bathroom to put his clothes back on.

“What the hell?”

His tea-soaked pants weren't where he'd left them. Or his jacket. Or his dress shirt. He marched back out and found Bonnie had returned.

“Where are my clothes?”

Bonnie smiled helpfully. “Soaking in a bucket in the break room. Tea can be a bitch to get out.”

He stared at her slack-jawed. “What am I supposed to wear?”

Bonnie eyed him like her favorite box of Christmas candy. “The kilt, of course.”

“I can't go around like this.”

“Och. It's Scotland. Ye'll be grand.”

He peered down at his outfit, wishing to be anywhere else, and then tried to look at the bright side. At least the boots were warm. He approached her desk. “I assume Alistair McDonnell knows I'm here.”

Bonnie stilled. For a moment, he wondered if maybe she'd misunderstood him. She seemed genuinely confused.

He tried again. “Alistair McDonnell? The reason I'm here? We have an appointment.” He lifted his mug and drained the remaining dribbles of his now-cold tea.

She frowned at him, picked up the phone, and put it to her ear. “The American says to tell ye he's here.” She glanced up at him as if he'd been shortchanged upstairs. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

He wandered over to the coat of arms and studied it. After a few minutes, he chose a chair as far away from
the Christmas tree as he could manage and checked his messages.

One from his mom. One from his sister. One from his brother.

And crap
.
Miranda wanted him to check in. He texted back quickly that he'd arrived, was staying in the room over the pub, and was about to meet with the NSV's chief engineer.

As he hit
SEND
, the doors swung open and a professionally dressed woman came through. He stood. She had on a well-fitted navy suit with a tantalizing slit up the left side of her calf-length skirt. The way her heels clicked as she walked toward him sounded like a command. Her loose braid from earlier had been stretched into a knot at the back of her head. However, it was her sea blue eyes that shocked him.