The Accidental Scot (2 page)

But NSV had been her deal . . . though one small miscalculation on her part had ended the negotiations early. Since then Roger's confidence in her had waned.

Miranda typed back to Roger.
North Sea Valve is my project. I'll go. I know Lachlan McDonnell.

No sooner had she hit the
SEND
button than Roger had written back.
No. McKinley will go. You'll be his backup, but only if he fails.

She closed her laptop, knowing what rested on this deal. Max, the golden boy, better not screw this up.

*   *   *

Max McKinley was jarred awake from his nightmare as the plane touched down in Scotland.
The same damn dream every time.
The real live nightmare he'd lived through at fifteen. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and tried to put the tragedy out of his mind. It always got worse this time of year. God, he hated Christmas.

He grabbed his carry-on and rushed off the plane. The first order of business was to call Mom and let her know the news—he wouldn't be home for the holidays. She would have a cow. Maybe he should've called before he left. But hell, he'd barely had enough time to pack before MTech pushed him out the door. It still puzzled him. Max was the new guy. The technical asset. Brand-new in the acquisitions department. Why send him?

Before he went in search of his rental car, he pulled out his phone and delivered the bad news.

“You're what?” His mom came close to blowing a gasket.

“Not coming home for the holidays,” Max repeated.

“Or
won't
? How did you arrange it this time?” There was severity in her mom-knows-all Texas twang.

He cringed for the truth in her words. But he was thirty-four, for chrissakes. He was entitled to do what he thought was best. He loved his mom and her heart was in the right place, but she was ruthless when it came to the holidays.

“Come for at least the day,” she said.

Max was tired from traveling, and tired of the same old argument, so without cushioning the blow he released the second bombshell. “I can't. I'm in Scotland.”

“You're where?”

“Scotland. For work. Please don't give me a guilt-trip over it.” Max sighed heavily into his cell, making sure his mother heard him all the way back in Houston.

She lit into him anyway. “You volunteered for it, didn't you? Found the perfect excuse to get out of Christmas this year.”

“Mom—” he tried.

“You're not the only one who's suffered. Your father would've wanted you to move beyond this. And your brother . . . Well, at least we bought him a wheelchair instead of a casket.”

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I know.”

“You still blame yourself for Jake's accident, but—”

He cut her off. “Enough, okay? This trip has nothing to do with the past. It's work.” But both nightmares still felt fresh. A fifteen-year-old boy should not be awakened on Christmas morning and given the news that his dad was dead. For the whole day, the television had replayed the oil rig explosion over and over again. Max had made it through some rough Christmases since. Then Jake's accident . . .

Mom was the one who sighed heavily this time. “Why couldn't they send someone else?” She could be such a pit bull when it came to family. And Christmas. “Why you?”

Exactly the question he'd asked himself. “I guess MTech wants me to cut my teeth on this deal.” Even though he had no experience, as yet, in the acquisitions department. It must be trial by fire. But maybe it was because he was such a damned good engineer. MTech had made him the youngest lead engineer in the history of their company, and now they'd given him a new challenge.

“Well, I hope at least you packed some warm clothes,” Mom said begrudgingly.

“Love you, Mom.” He meant it. “Tell Bitsy and Jake I'll call on Christmas Day.” There'd be hell to pay if he didn't talk to his siblings then.

After a few more good-byes, he hung up. He got his rental car and started the trek to Gandiegow. It was only five o'clock in the afternoon, but the sky was dark, no moon in sight. The northeast coast of Scotland at the beginning of December would take some getting used to. With only the hum of the car to keep him company, the question niggled again. Why did MTech send him?

Max understood the importance of the new technology he was to evaluate. He was also here to close the deal. Miranda and the rest of the acquisitions department must have some pretty big Christmas plans to ship Max out alone. The whole thing was crazy, but he hadn't questioned his superiors.
Anything to get out of Christmas.

Yes, this trip came at exactly the right time. A nice cold visit to Scotland
by himself
would be an excellent way to spend the holidays. It would be the best damn Christmas he'd had in a long time.

The drive took longer than expected, given the icy, curvy roads. Not to mention that his GPS had not calculated how a herd of languorous hairy cows, dawdling in the thoroughfare, would slow him down.

When Max finally arrived in the village, he parked his rental car in the lot on the edge of town, knowing that no vehicles were allowed within the actual city limits. The walking paths were only wide enough for the small carts or wheelbarrows that rested here and there in front of the doorways. He'd read about this and many other quirks of the community in the MTech file.

He pulled out his American Tourister, locked his rental car, and rolled his bag toward the sparse civilization of stone cottages. He wasn't in Texas anymore.

The small village of Gandiegow hugged the coastline in an arc with a smattering of houses and buildings. The town looked as if an artist had painted it there to add visual interest to the snow-dusted bluffs rising out of the North Sea. Besides the valve factory, Gandiegow was known for two things: its commercial fishing and its international quilt retreats—
Kilts and Quilts
, they called it.

Max wheeled his bag over the snow-covered cobblestones until he reached his destination, The Fisherman. After getting a look at the town, he understood better why there was no hotel. It was a small community and ancient. He should be happy there was at least a space for him to rent—the room over the pub.

For a moment, he stood peering down the narrow walkway that expanded to the other end of town. This strip of concrete was the only thing separating the ocean from the village. He really should go inside the pub—he was freezing his ass off—but he couldn't get over it. One strong wave and the town could be washed away; the sixty-three houses and various establishments pulled out to sea. Who in their right mind would live near such danger looming outside their door?

He stepped inside the mayhem of the crowded pub and made his way to the bar with his bag in tow. He'd considered staying in Lios or Fairge at one of their bed and breakfasts, but he needed to be close to the factory, and it wouldn't hurt to embed himself in this community. He had only a month to win these people over and convince Lachlan McDonnell and his son to make the deal with MTech.

It would be a hell of a partnership. NSV's new subsea shutoff valve had the capability of shutting down an oil
rig leak in seconds and preventing a catastrophic event.
Like the one that killed my father and many others over the years.

If Max did his job right, the valve would be perfected in MTech's state-of-the-art research facility and in full production by the end of next quarter. He knew MTech saw dollar signs when they drew up this deal, but Max saw only how the valve would save lives.

As soon as he sat on the barstool, a strawberry blonde—tall, lean, and tempting—materialized. She glanced at his luggage and then peered at him.

“What can I get for ye, Yank?” She had a thick Scottish burr and the most incredible sea-blue eyes.

Before he could answer, an inebriated lug pushed Max aside and got in the bartender's face.

“Give us a kiss, Pippa,” the man slurred. “Just one kiss before I have to go home to me wife.”

“Och, ye're stinking drunk, Coby. Back off with ye. Can't you see we have an important guest in our midst? An American.”

“American?” Coby telescoped his head back and forth, likely trying to get Max in focus.

Max caught him as he fell forward.

“Don't muss the pretty Yank.” She motioned to the group at the end of the bar. “Taog, Murdoch, get Coby home, will ye?”

Max transferred Coby to the others and waited until they were out of earshot. “So I'm pretty, huh?”

“Aye and you damn well know it.” She gave him a sardonic once-over as if
real
men were honed during barroom brawls and covered in scars from wrestling with sharks. She plunked a shot glass in front of him and filled
it, though he hadn't ordered. “Here's yere drink,
sir
.” She cocked a mocking eyebrow at him.

He didn't let her less than warm welcome bother him. He'd expected some resistance, especially since MTech had tried before to buy NSV outright. Instead, he smiled and thought about how her spirited name suited her . . .
Pippa
. He'd grown up around sassy women—his tough mother, grandmother, and firecracker of a little sister. He wasn't in the least put off by this Scottish lass and her sharp tongue. Actually it was quite the opposite. Her long curly hair and perfect curves made this Texas-born man want to know more about this intriguing woman
.

But he wasn't here to hook up with the local barmaid. He was here to make a deal, which would prove himself to the higher-ups at MTech. Max needed to earn the trust of the Gandiegowans or he'd go home empty-handed.

“Thanks.” He picked up the mystery drink and eyed the caramel-colored liquid before knocking it back. It didn't taste like the scotch back in the States. It was smoky and burned smooth. He pulled out money for another, enjoying the shocked expression on Pippa's face.

She leaned on the bar and he couldn't help but notice the tease of her cleavage in her tight green sweater.

“So ye can handle your whisky?” There was an air of respect in her tone and perhaps admiration shining in her sea-blue eyes.

“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. She leaned in again. “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 people.”

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?” She stood tall and straight. “The mangy dogs.”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean—”

“Just because our little factory needs a bit of 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 was business, it wasn't personal
.

Besides, the deal he brought to the table was different this time. MTech wouldn't get run out of town with a buyout offer like before. MTech was willing to do a partnership.
And I didn't come here to discuss it at the local pub over a shot of whisky.
He was here to speak 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 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. “I've no say. I should remember my place.”

She wandered off and he downed his shot, regretting what he'd 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 a cunning panther, ready to pounce.

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

“Sorry for being rude. Please forgive me. Can I buy you a drink to make it up to you?”

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

He winced. “Ouch.”

“Besides, us working girls can't afford to imbibe 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 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.

T
he 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 responsible for calling MTech back to the table. From the project file, the McDonnell—as others referred to Lachlan McDonnell—would never have opened the door to MTech and another meeting.

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 seen snow only when he went to Vail 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, made of ancient stone, had none of the glitz or size of the mega-factories in the U.S. But it did have character—an old warrior, worn-out from many years of battling time and the elements. He knew the building had stood empty for many years until eighteen months ago, when 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 one guy shoveling 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 walk 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. 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. Ye'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, the word
positions
got kind of caught in his mind, rolling around. And not in an innocent way either.

“Ye'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 furniture or end tables with trendy magazines. This place was barebones. Three kitchen chairs, one folding, and one dilapidated Queen Anne rested against the wall. A crest and a sword hung above the seats. In the corner sat the grand prize, a damned Douglas fir, decorated with loads of Christmas cheer. The magnificent tree didn't fit with the rest of the 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 in her 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 dangle down. He was stunned to see that underneath, she sported an old, form-fitting Tau Beta Pi T-shirt.

Tau Beta Pi?
The Engineering Honor Society?

If he could've put together words, he might've asked where she got it. But 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 and whispered to the brunette who had resumed her position behind the
desk. The only word he made out from the exchange was
auction
. From a nearby closet, Bonnie retrieved two items—a kilt clipped to a hanger, and a brown shopping 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 man skirt. “Thank you, no. I'll be fine.”

“It's company policy to be dressed in a kilt.” Amusement danced in her eyes, in addition to 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; she wore no badge.

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

“A guest badge is only good for the day. 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 restroom and closed the door behind him. The brown bag held a white flowing 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
smile
.
“Are you sure ye're not Scottish, Mr. McKinley? You have the name for it. And 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.”

The receptionist slipped from behind the desk.

He frowned at both of them and moved the Queen Anne chair himself.

The way Bonnie sauntered up to him, there was no denying she was out to stake her claim. “So what are you doing later? How about we grab a few drinks and have some laughs at the pub?”

Pippa put her hands on her hips. “Back off, Bonnie. He's here on business. Not to be handled by the likes of you.”

He felt like a spectator at a tennis match, looking from one to the other.

Bonnie smiled, no offense taken to Pippa's harsh words. “A lass can try, can't she?” She slunk off, leaving them alone.

“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 the way as if 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. She perplexed him and he didn't know why. 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 that I'm here?”

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

He tried again. “Alistair McDonnell? 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 short-changed 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 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 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—the same heels that made her almost as tall as him. Her loose hair from earlier had been stretched into a knot at the back of her head. However, it was her sea-blue eyes that shocked him.

Pippa was
also
secretary to the owner?

She stuck out her hand. “Alistair Philippa McDonnell. It's nice to meet you.” She gave him a firm handshake.

He fumbled with the mug. If there'd been any tea left
in it, he would've doused his kilt and been forced to tour the factory buck-naked.

She smiled, her professional aloofness daring him to acknowledge the switch-up. “Well, then,” she finally said. “Should we have a look around?”

He seldom backed down from a challenge. “But last night—” he started.

“Let's not ruin last night by talking about it,” she purred.

Bonnie's head shot up.

Pippa—
no, Alistair
—gave a throaty laugh and sashayed away, not seeming to give a damn about her reputation.

Max trailed behind her through the double doors like her lowly servant. They went down a long corridor as a million questions rolled through his baffled brain. He'd been given a data sheet on the McDonnell with as much personal information as could be attained. How had he not known that Alistair McDonnell was female? He certainly knew now by the shapely derriere in front of him. Max's only explanation for his file not being complete—privacy laws in Europe were much stricter than in the U.S.

He didn't let the subject drop. “Hold up. What should I call you?”

She stopped and turned to him, the epitome of seriousness. “How about
Yere Excellency
?”

“Alistair or Pippa?” he clarified.

“Since we're in Gandiegow, you can call me
Pippa
.”

“Where's the McDonnell? Is he waiting for me in his office?”

Her eyebrows stitched together and she looked away, not meeting his eye. “Da took the day off.”

Max frowned at her. “He knew I was coming, didn't he?”

She didn't answer but pushed open another set of double doors. They stepped into a room filled with industrial sewing machines and bolts of canvas. In the corner stood . . .
another Christmas tree?

“What the devil?” Max said. Nothing was typical in this factory.

“We rent this space to Agnes Bowie. She makes custom sails to sell on the Internet. Agnes needed a spot for her shop and we made room for her.”

Apparently Pippa took umbrage to his shock. She scooped aside a sail as she walked by—much like a cat swishing her tail. And like a cat, her irritation was evident. He hadn't been criticizing NSV or the sail shop, but it was too late to say so. She was already gone.