The Accidental Scot (12 page)

Miranda broke his reverie. “Are you going to stand there all day or give me my food?”

He passed her the salad and took the chair across from her. “Miranda, I haven't seen the complete contract you want the McDonnell to sign. I'll be better equipped to deal with his questions when I have a copy. Did you bring one with you?”

“No,” she said firmly, and he knew she was holding out on him. He just didn't understand why.

This must've been her plan all along. Have him come in and butter up the townsfolk and then she would get the signature without Max ever knowing the fine points of the deal.

“I see.” He
had
to get ahold of the contract. But the only other person in town who had a copy was the chief engineer. How could he pry it from her hands? Maybe if he kissed her and made her dizzy first . . .

Max stood. “I'll be right back with some napkins.” He stepped into the kitchen and pulled out his phone. Joe ought to be able to help. He was the only other person in acquisitions at MTech Max knew well enough to call.

They said their hellos, and then Max got right to it.

“I need you to e-mail me a copy of the North Sea Valve Company contract.”

“Sure, no problem. I'll do it right now.” He heard Joe typing on the other end. “So how's Scotland?”

“Cold,” Max answered, thinking of Pippa's rejection.

“Umm,” Joe said. “There's a problem. That contract has been taken offline. Let me do another search on the server.”

A few seconds passed. “Yup, I found it. But it's been password-protected. I wonder why?”

Max thanked him for his trouble and hung up.

Shit.
Why wasn't the contract available? What was in there that they didn't want Max to know?

When he returned to the dining room, Miranda was pushing her salad away, barely touched. “I'm going back to bed. When I get up, we're going to come up with a plan so we can get out of here as soon as possible. Care to join me?”

And there it was.
The proposition. He'd known it was coming.

She eyed him as if he was the meaty lasagna. “You know, McKinley, what happens in Scotland, stays in Scotland.” Miranda was as exact as always. Direct. The same way she'd propositioned him before. “I'm a busy woman. I don't have time for games. I'm attracted to you, plain and simple. And we have time on our hands apparently.”

Max grabbed his coat and went to the door. “Call me when you wake up.” He had no idea what he'd do with her then. Maybe while she slept, he'd come up with a plan. Anything to get himself out of this mess with Miranda, and hopefully get Pippa back in his arms.

*   *   *

Miranda lay on the twin-size bed, exhausted and kicking herself for not coming to Scotland sooner. She should've been more assertive with Roger, MTech's president, and convinced him to see it her way—she should've been the one sent to close the deal.

She slipped off her heels. But Roger didn't know that she was here, and she planned to keep it that way. Roger expected Max to get this deal under his belt all on his own. Max, the golden boy,
Roger's new protégé
. But she'd known to her very core that Max wouldn't be able to do this without her. He didn't have the killer instinct. What she didn't expect was to catch him messing around with one of the locals.

She couldn't throw stones. She'd messed around with a local when she'd come to Scotland, too.

Lachlan.
Last year, she'd set up a meeting with Lachlan McDonnell in Edinburgh to discuss selling NSV to MTech. She was surprised when he'd actually met with her. She'd liquored him up—a tactical move—hoping to get him to listen to why NSV would be better off under the MTech umbrella.

Surprisingly though, his charm had gotten through her armor. But he was, after all, an attractive middle-aged man. When they'd ended up in bed together, she'd enjoyed it exceedingly, hoping the affair would continue. But in the morning, Lachlan seemed to regret their
lovemaking. He'd turned MTech down flat and left her alone in her posh Edinburgh hotel room.

Miranda shifted toward the wall and pulled the quilt over her, willing her jet-lagged headache to subside. The only reason she could admit Lachlan's rejection had hurt was because pain was a great teacher. It made her stronger. She was the type of person who learned from every mistake she'd ever made.

The first lesson she'd learned in the business world . . . nice girls finish last.

Not long after graduating from business school, her let's-all-play-fair-and-get-along attitude had been trounced into oblivion. Women needed to hide their soft side, as she had learned to do. Emotions were for losers. It took a few rounds with the big boys, but she learned her lesson. She squashed down her femininity, put her game face on, and had become a ruthless, take-no-prisoners winner, doing whatever it took to get ahead. It was, after all, how successful businessmen became
successful
.

She didn't even recognize her old self anymore—the eager-to-please young woman she'd been while collecting her diploma for her MBA.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She was approaching forty-one and feeling . . . desperate? She had not lost her touch! She had more than a sneaking suspicion she was being scrutinized by MTech's higher-ups. She hadn't been able to get the job done before with NSV, and Roger had lost all confidence in her to get it done this time. In the end, though, Roger would appreciate how she'd stepped in, guided Max, and made the deal happen.

She blocked out everything and focused on the end goal. She was a winner. She just needed to prove it.
One more time.

P
ippa left her bag by the door as she stepped into Quilting Central. Normally, she had the concentration of a pit bull when it came to dissecting a problem, but she'd accomplished nothing once Max stormed out of the factory. The MTech monstrosity-of-a-contract bulged out of her bag, nearly spilling on the floor. She shoved it with her foot to prop it better against the wall.

She should've gone home first to check on her da, but the details needed to be hammered out for the Strapping Lads in Plaid bachelor auction. Her to-do list had gotten out of hand and there was no way she could get it all done by herself. She was left with no choice but to ask for help. She prayed Deydie and Bethia might have time to take up the slack, or else her father would be sunk.

She found the two of them at one of the small café tables near the back of the room, their heads down, both writing on pads of paper. Pippa walked over to them, but when they looked up, they each had a goofy expression on their face.

Pippa gestured toward their notebooks. “What's all that?”

Like a pair of synchronized swimmers, the two old women simultaneously overturned their notebooks.

“Nothing,” said Bethia.

At the same time, Deydie said, “None of yere damned business.”

Pippa had enough worries without wondering what they were fooling around with this time. “Can I speak with you both about the auction? There are a lot of particulars that need to be cleared up so we can move forward.”

Deydie pressed herself to her feet, then waddled over to an organized desk and pulled out a folder. “It's all in here.”

“What's all in there?” Pippa took the folder and flipped through it. She found that two buses were chartered, one from Inverness, one from Aberdeen. The list of attendees riding each bus was attached.

Bethia pulled another sheet of paper from the folder and laid it on top. “We have a smaller coach coming up from Edinburgh and surprisingly a few from London.”

“How did you do all this?” Pippa's words faltered. She felt choked by the love they'd shown her and her da.

“It wasn't hard. Everyone pitched in. Amy sent out e-mails. Moira got the posters sent all over. It's done,” Deydie said. “Except one thing. You better get to work on that quilt you started.”

“What quilt?” Pippa knew which one. Deydie, Bethia, and all the quilt ladies had forced her to start a quilt when she was a teenager. Pippa never finished it, never intended to. She was good at the craft. She just didn't want to be forced into it.

“It's over there in the tissue paper,” Bethia said. “Not a stitch done to it all these years.”

Pippa followed behind them as they went to the paper bundle on the long table. Hesitating a moment, she
pulled back the wrapping. There it was. Her Gandiegow Hometown quilt.

She sighed. She loved the mixture of tartan fabrics and how the plaid buildings represented each home in town because she'd used their respective clans' colors. The first block she'd made had been their own house in the McDonnell tartan, complete with the red roof and green door. Her eyes burned and then blurred. She'd missed her hometown. She might have run off to Edinburgh to keep from settling down, but Gandiegow had never left her heart.

“We thought it was only fitting you should auction off your quilt with our lads,” Deydie said.

“It would be a fitting way to honor your da,” Bethia added.

Pippa didn't hesitate. No longer did she feel coerced as she had when she was a girl; this was something she wanted to do. “Ye're right.” She hugged both of them. “I'm so glad you kept it all these years.”

Bethia took her hand and pulled her over to a sewing machine, while Deydie gathered up the unfinished project.

“Get to it,” Deydie said.

Bethia pulled out Pippa's chair. “There's no time like the present. Ye can get the quilt done in time if ye put in the effort.”

Pippa smiled up at the bossy, interfering women—women she dearly loved. She didn't have the heart to tell them that she had too much else to do. Instead, she snatched up the fabric and laid out the next block to sew on the table beside her.

She had just put the first two pieces under the presser
foot when the bell above the door jingled. She wheeled around to find Max in the doorway.

Her breath caught.
What kind of homing device did he have that he could find her whenever he wanted?

Deydie leaned over her. “Close yere mouth, lass. Ye look like a strung-up carp.”

God, I'm a fool. He's not for me, and I still want him?

Max's mouth hung open, too, but he shut it quickly enough. His eyes left her and focused on Deydie and Bethia.

“Just the two I wanted to see.” His greeting seemed to be filled with forced cheerfulness.

And Pippa wondered—quite unwillingly—didn't he want to see her, too?

Max strode over and stood near. And he was taking up all the oxygen. Pippa worked hard at finding her breath.

Deydie wagged a finger at him. “We wanted to see ye, too.” The old woman looked ready to take her broom after Max. “We heard ye had a woman up there in the room over the pub.”

He and Pippa shared a glance.
Aye. It could've been the two of us.

“I believe Deydie's speaking of Miranda,” Pippa said. She was hit once again with the bitter taste of rejection.

He nodded, appearing relieved. “Miranda Weymouth is my boss. She's here to help along the MTech deal.” Max didn't look happy about it either, which made Pippa feel infinitesimally better.

“Well, it ain't proper for ye two to share a room.” Deydie did reach for her broom then.

Bethia nodded her head in agreement.

“Which is the reason I came here to see the both of you.” Max shot them a charming smile that looked more practiced than sincere at the moment. “I was wondering if I could stay at one of the quilting dorms since your retreat is over.”

Deydie and Bethia seemed to contemplate this for a long moment. His smile wilted while he waited.

“Nay,” Deydie finally answered. She held up her hand when Max looked ready to argue. “The woman will stay in the dorm. It'll be too loud for her at the pub.”

Bethia nodded in agreement. “We'll keep an eye on her.”

Max looked grateful. “Are you sure?”

“She looks to be a handful,” Pippa muttered to her machine as she sewed the next seam.

“Aye, we're sure.” Deydie used her broom, sweeping imaginary dirt from the hardwood floor. “Dougal said she was none too kind to him. A whole group of people saw her giving him a tongue-lashing. We'll make sure she doesn't get up to any devilment. We'll take care of her.”

Max gave a harsh laugh. “Miranda needs to be handled with kid gloves. Not meat hooks.”

“But if the meat hook fits—” Deydie started.

Bethia touched her arm to stop her.

Pippa grabbed another piece of fabric. If anyone could keep Miranda from causing trouble, it was these two women.

Deydie's head shot to the side. “Ailsa! Put those quilt blocks down. Bethia and I were going to use that design wall next.”

Pippa focused on her sewing, trying to ignore that Max was still near.

Suddenly he was leaning over her shoulder. “I never expected to find you here.” His breath was warm on her cheek.
Minty.
“Especially using a sewing machine.”

Pippa gave her own harsh laugh. “It's a requirement. You can't live in Gandiegow and not sew. As babies, instead of rattles, we're given sewing needles to thread.”

“Tough Scottish stock?”

“Aye.”

“My mom and sister are avid quilters,” he said. “They formed their own group back in Texas. First Saturday of every month. Food, Fabric, and Friends is what they call it. I call it Grub, Gossip, and Just-Shoot-Me. Those women know how to talk.”

Pippa switched off her machine and gave him her full attention. “Do you know how to sew, too?”

He harrumphed begrudgingly. “Yeah. You'd have to know my mom. She made my brother and me learn whether we wanted to or not. She said real men aren't afraid to hem their own jeans.”

“And yere father? What does he think about you knowing your way around a sewing machine?”

Max's smile faded. “My father's dead.”

Crap. What a bombshell.

Deydie and Bethia quit talking among themselves and listened in.

Pippa waited a second longer but Max didn't elaborate. “Sorry. I didn't know.”

“No worries.” His tone had an edge to it as he looked away. “It was a long time ago.”

But she could tell it still hurt.

So she and Max had something else in common besides being engineers. They both had lost a parent.

For a long moment, he seemed to be contemplating, but then he reached out and touched her shoulder.

“Pippa, we need to talk.” His voice had become conciliatory, kind.

But voices could be deceptive. So could a touch to the shoulder.

“Why are you being nice?” Pippa didn't mean to jump down his throat, but her emotions were everywhere. She felt bad that he'd lost his da. Pippa didn't know what she'd do if she lost hers. And at the same time, she was angry with Max for hurting her. Before Miranda showed up, the two of them had been headed down a certain path—but then he'd stopped everything for
her
.

Deydie and Bethia edged closer, seeming to hang on every word.

Pippa wheeled on the quilting ladies. “Go away.”

“Careful, lassie,” Deydie warned.

Bethia looped her arm through her friend's. “Let's leave the young ones to chat.” She gently pulled Deydie away to their blocks and the design they'd started on the wall.

*   *   *

Freda hurried to Deydie and Bethia. She had to know who the new woman was, the one who had stopped Dougal this morning. Freda had seen the whole interaction.
Such an interesting person.
And she had to know more.

Freda came up beside her two friends. “Hello.”

Deydie jumped. “Freda, ye scared the shite out of me. Why can't ye make a little noise when ye walk?”

“What do you need, Freda?” Bethia asked kindly.

Deydie picked up a box and thrust it at her. “We can talk, but ye'll have to sort the fabric kits while we do. It should've been done hours ago. With Cait and Mattie going away soon . . .” Deydie's voice was strained. She covered it with a cough. “There's a damned lot to do. The party for them . . . everything.”

Freda took the box, understanding Deydie's pain that her family was leaving for a time. “Why isn't Cait waiting until after Christmas to join Graham in New Zealand?”

Deydie sighed heavily. Not because she was angry with Freda; she mostly sounded sad. “Graham's shooting schedule. He'll return to the U.K. to do a couple of publicity events and then gather Cait and Mattie to take them back with him.”

Bethia wrapped an arm around her old friend's shoulders. “Ye'll miss them.”

Deydie shook her head. “Caitie asked me to go with them. But my place is here. No one else could run the Kilts and Quilts retreat. Besides, they won't be gone forever.” But her voice held doubt as if they would.

Bethia rubbed Deydie's back reassuringly. “Graham said that once his biography comes out, the media won't bother with Gandiegow for too long as he'll be in New Zealand. Things will be back to normal soon.”

Freda, for one, would do anything for Deydie. The whole town would gather around her and support her in her time of need.

Bethia confirmed her thought. “It'll be okay, my dear friend. Ye have us to help ye through.”

Freda glanced about the room. “Maybe we should have our Christmas Eve dinner here this year. We could ask others to join us.” Maybe Abraham Clacher. There had to be other people, too, who were at loose ends at this time of year, the same as Freda had been her whole adult life.

For a second, she wondered if Deydie would take the broom after her for suggesting it.

Instead, Deydie nodded. “'Tis a good idea. We could help the lonely souls this Christmas.” Deydie looked at Freda pointedly, the message clear: Freda was the lonely soul and she wasn't. She gestured to the box in Freda's arms. “Ye better get to organizing those damned fabric kits.”

Freda sat the box on the table beside the design wall and began pulling out the bags filled with fabric. “Tell me about the new woman in town. I haven't heard yet who she is. No one stopped by while I was cleaning the McDonnell's house this morning, and I've waited all day to find out something.” She had Pippa and the McDonnell's dinner in the slow cooker, and their kitchen floor sparkling as if stars had fallen from the sky and lay upon their floor.

“Ye were always a strange one, Freda. A dreamer.” Deydie shook her head as though Freda was a bampot. “Always interested in people, even as a girl.”

Freda put her eyes back on the kits. She'd learned a long time ago to keep her assessments to herself. In some respects, she liked fading into the woodwork so she was free to study people and not be asked about what
she thought. But the problem with fading into the background was that when she wanted to be noticed, she had no idea how.

Freda spoke nonchalantly over her shoulder. “So what's the woman's name?”

“She's another one from that big company. Her name's Miranda something. She's Max McKinley's boss.”

“Oh. Do you know anything else about her?”

Deydie stopped messing with the quilt blocks and gave Freda her full attention. “I take it ye saw her then. Go ahead and tell me what you think. What was it about this one?”

But Deydie would laugh at Freda, maybe even scold her, if she told her what she thought.

Freda had clearly seen the vulnerability that lay beneath Miranda's overabundant confidence. A vulnerability that Freda knew well. How had Miranda pulled it off? How had she managed to overcome the same flaw that Freda had—insecurity? A small spark of hope flickered inside of Freda then. If Miranda could display confidence, then maybe Freda could, too.