Some Like it Scottish (7 page)

“But why were you shaking your head at me?” he said.

“No reason.” She turned back to her window. She wasn't desperate. Not yet. Ramsay wouldn't do at all for any of her clients. He was too obstinate. Too arrogant. And perhaps,
too observant
.

The rest of the trip to their first stop was made in silence as she studied the printout on Davey McBain, the successful whisky-maker and owner of the family's distillery. When they arrived at the compound, it wasn't at all what she'd imagined. She'd thought there'd be a large sterile-looking building, but instead there was a group of massive stone cottages, some with beautiful arched windows, others with tall steeples.

“Well, this is impressive.”

Ramsay only grunted.

As he parked the SUV, Davey came out to meet them. Kit recognized him from an article in
Forbes
magazine. She'd scored big just getting Davey to meet with her. Looking at him, she couldn't imagine why he was thirty and still unattached. He was nearly as tall as Ramsay with basically the same build. For a moment her thoughts streaked back to Ramsay lying under the sheet with his essentials barely covered.

Good grief!
She needed to focus.

She put her sights back on Davey, cataloging him. He was sporting jeans, a tailored navy shirt—casually untucked—and a pair of dimples to die for.

When she introduced herself, Ramsay stood close, as if Davey might accost her. In truth, the famous distiller did look at her with interest, which was always flattering from an influential man. But he just didn't do it for her.

Ramsay grumbled his greeting.

“I've blocked out the rest of the morning and the afternoon for you, Ms. Woodhouse.” Davey glanced down at the wellies in her hand. “I don't think you'll need those, but you can bring them along if you like.”

She was still processing that he would give her so much of his time.
Time that she didn't have
. Well, if they
left in the early afternoon, she'd still get in one more appointment today—maybe.

Ramsay nudged her to answer.

Kit looked at her feet. “Yes. I was worried I'd ruin my shoes.”

Davey gave her his dimpled grin. “No worries. Come this way.” He put his hand to her back and guided her to the closest building.

His touch felt too intimate, but what could she say?

Kit turned to make sure Ramsay was following. What she saw was her chauffeur glowering at Davey's hand. Ramsay immediately schooled his features into an expression of indifference.

Davey was talking and she'd missed part of what he was saying. “Even though I grew up here with whisky making in my blood—my family has been making it for two hundred years—I rarely, if ever, drink it.”

“Why?” she asked without thinking first.

Davey stopped and faced both of them. “It's no secret my father was an alcoholic. Because of his recklessness with his personal life and with the business, he nearly bankrupted the distillery and our family. I took over when I was just seventeen.”

She knew this, feeling stupid for asking. She recovered quickly. “From what I've read, you've built back your family's empire and then some.”

Davey seemed to approve of her comment and studied her closely. “It's taken thirteen years, but I think I can finally do something for myself.” He put his hand on the small of her back again and started walking them toward the house. “It's past time I found a partner with whom to share my life.”

Ramsay caught up to them again and shot her an eye
roll. “This is some property ye have here. How goes the fishing and the hunting?”

Davey stopped and looked wistfully off to the nearest mountain. “I have a ghillie who acts as gamekeeper. He's the one who has the pleasure.”

“You can't mean to tell me that you have access to this bountiful land and yet ye don't enjoy it!”

“Whisky making is a twenty-four/seven endeavor.” Davey said it as if it pained him.

Ramsay clamped a hand on his shoulder. “What say we keep the distillery talk to a minimum and ye show me what your trout look like over at yonder loch?”

Excitement lit up Davey's eyes. But then he glanced at his buildings, looking worried to leave his operation even for a few hours.

“You only live once,” Ramsay said. “Seize the day, man.”

“Right.” Davey pointed off to a small cottage. “Let's get some gear.” The two men headed off.

Kit stood there, forgotten, confused, and irritated.

Only a minute ago, Davey had given her too much attention. Now, it was as if Kit had faded away, and there she was, left holding her damned wellies.

She ran after them. Maybe she could use this outing to her advantage, as she'd done in Alaska. She'd, gone fly-fishing, taken a harrowing flight on a bush plane during a storm, and even gone moose hunting in the name of getting bachelors to sign up. Besides, how bad could it be to spend a few hours with a couple of good-looking men who were trying to conquer the beasts of the land and water?

“Wait up.” She followed them to the ghillie's cottage. Once there, she changed into her wellies while the men gathered what they needed for fishing. As they headed to
the loch in the jeep, she tried to come up with an opening or at least an angle to use on Davey to get him to sign on as one of her clients. At the top of the steep hill, the view was breathtaking, with miles of water glistening below.

As the Scots unloaded their gear, Kit trekked down the near-perpendicular hill to get a closer look. Unfortunately, she didn't make it very far before one of her boots lodged in a hole and she lost her balance. With breakneck speed, she rolled and tumbled, shrieking all the way, until she hit the loch with a splash. Frigid water went up her nose. The cold took her breath away.

Her feet found the bottom but she was shaking too hard to stand. Strong arms fished her out and held her close.

Ramsay moved her hair out of her face. “I've got ye.” Gently he laid her head on his shoulder. “I've never seen a more graceful fall. Are ye all right?”

“G-grand,” she said, clinging to his neck and shivering.

As he long-stepped it back up the hill, he rubbed his chin on her hair. “Though entertaining, the Highlands are too cold for a wet T-shirt contest.”

She looked down and groaned. Sure enough, her shirt was plastered to her breasts and her nipples were drawn tight as a tack. She slapped a hand over her chest.

Davey came up beside them. “She's got to get out of those clothes right away.”

“You drive,” Ramsay said.

Surely, he didn't mean to strip her on the way back to Davey's.

Jostling her, Ramsay maneuvered open the back door of the jeep and slid inside. Now she wasn't only in his arms but was sitting on his lap as well.

Davey got in the front and turned on the car.

“Do you have a flask in here?”

Davey produced a metal container from the glove box and handed it back.

Ramsay undid the lid and held it to her lips. She was really trembling now.

“Drink.” His voice sounded husky. “To warm yere bones.”

She took a shaky draw of the liquid fire. It did indeed warm her. She laid her head back on Ramsay's chest and snuggled in.

He held her tight. “For God's sake, man, get the heat going.”

She placed a hand on his chest and gazed into his eyes, waiting until he looked down at her. “I'll be o-o-kay. It's summer, for h-heaven's sakes.”

“You don't understand. It's Scotland. She can be cold and unforgiving. You could catch yere death.”

She laid her head back on his shoulder. “Have a little faith.”

Davey turned the heat on high and put the jeep in gear.

The ride was bumpy. The way her backside bounced around on Ramsay's man parts, she became aware that he was getting aroused. She was embarrassed, flattered, and intrigued. And in no way was she going to acknowledge what was going on between them.

Soon Davey was pulling up to the house.

“Bring her bag in from the SUV.” Ramsay was getting out before the jeep had fully stopped.

Toting her, he carried her over the threshold like he owned the place, opening doors until he found a powder room. He set her down and reached for the hem of her shirt.

Shakily, she tried to swat him away. “What are you doing?”

“We're getting those clothes off you.” He reached for her again.

“I c-can do it.” But she couldn't, she was shaking so hard. Frustrated tears came to her eyes.

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What if I promise not to look?”

“Okay.”

He yanked her shirt over her head—with his eyes wide-open!

He gave a low whistle. “Ye're a stunner. Now turn around.”

Too shocked, or too cold to complain, she grabbed a towel from the rack and covered her chest. With her back turned to him, he unsnapped her bra.

Davey knocked on the door. “I have the bag.”

“Leave it outside the door.” He glanced over at Kit. “Are ye covered?”

She nodded, relieved he hadn't exposed her nakedness to the household.

He opened the door, pulled it inside, and unzipped it. He pulled out an NYU sweatshirt and jeans. “Let's get your shorts off next.”

“No way, mister. Give me my top. And I won't put it on until you turn around.” For a second, she wondered if he was going to be stubborn and ogle her while she dressed.

He turned, facing the wall. “Let me know if I can help. I know my way around brassieres.”

“So you've demonstrated.” She pulled the warm top over her head, deciding that was the most she could
handle on her own. A bra could wait until she was warmer. “And for heaven's sakes, who says
brassieres
?”

He chuckled. “I'm an old-fashioned man.”

“Well, how about you give me some old-fashioned privacy so I can dress the rest of the way without an audience?”

He turned around and gave her a brazen stare. “If I say
no
, does that mean I can stay?”

“Out.” She tossed her wet shirt at him.

He picked up her soaked wellies from the floor. “Give me your shorts and skivvies and I'll make sure they make it in the dryer, too.”

“You're not touching my . . .” She faltered for a second. “My underthings.”

That cocky eyebrow of his lifted. “Wanna bet?” He took a step toward her.

She put her hand on his chest, stopping him. “Fine. Wait outside. I can manage now. I'm warming up.”

He surprised her by reaching for the doorknob.

“Ramsay?”

He looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Hurriedly she removed her remaining wet clothing and put on dry underwear, jeans, and her hiking boots. Not very attractive. But look what happened when she'd taken pride in her sailor outfit.
Pride goeth before a fall.
Literally. She looked down at her androgynous clothing. So much for proving to Ramsay that she was a woman and not a
wee laddie
, as he'd put it.

She wadded her panties up and buried them in the folds of her wet shorts before opening the door. Ramsay waited with his hand out. She begrudgingly transferred
her things to him. He had the audacity to shoot her an arrogant look, as if he'd known it was only a matter of time before she stripped for him and forked over her clothes.

“You, sir, have a dirty mind.”

“Aye. I do.” He wasn't apologetic in the least as he scanned down the length of her, undressing her again.

What a teasing rogue. She knew he was messing with her, but her insides zinged with heat as his gaze slid down her body.

“Go find the laundry,” she ordered, laughing. She intended to locate her messenger bag with the contracts tucked inside next.

As she went to the jeep, warmth settled into her chest. Ramsay could've given her a much worse time about being a klutz and tumbling into the loch. He could've laughed at her and called her a sad, wet selkie, or some such name. But instead, he'd been—she hated to admit it—kind of
gallant.
Convention said Davey should've been the one to fish her out of the loch; it had been his property, after all. But she was glad it had been Ramsay, more glad than she wanted to admit.

She pulled her bag from the jeep, banishing the knight- in-shining-armor image from her mind. When she went back inside, Davey was waiting for her with a cup of hot tea.

“Come sit in the parlor in front of the fire,” he offered.

She glanced around for Ramsay but didn't see him. She followed Davey into a beautiful room with a huge fireplace, large paintings, ornate drapery, antique sofas, and a tall cocktail table in the corner with a dry bar nearby.

Davey ushered her closer to the fire with his hand once again pressed to the small of her back.

Ramsay cleared his throat at the door.

She turned around and tried to read his expression. He didn't look nearly as playful as he had back in the powder room.

“I gave your things to one of the household staff,” he said. “Are ye feeling better?”

She felt her cheeks flush at his concern. “I've almost stopped shivering.” She inched closer to the fire.

Ramsay sauntered into the room and stood by Davey. “It's a shame ye didn't get to actually cast in a line and fish. Maybe we should leave ye to it and we should get back on the road.”

Kit wanted to launch the fireplace poker at Ramsay's head. “But we haven't had a chance yet to talk business.” She directed her comment to Davey.

“Aye,” Davey said. “Ye haven't even had a tour of the distillery.”

She would much rather stay here in this cozy room and discuss what she could do for Davey in the relationship department. But the best way to get on the good side of a man was to let him talk about his work.

She stood, leaving the bachelor agreement lying on top of her messenger bag. “Sounds great.” Her forced cheerfulness got lodged between her fake smile and her teeth.