The Great Scot (5 page)

They both came to a staggering halt just at the edge of the sidewalk. He was careful to steady her before finally letting her go and taking a sanity-restoring step back himself. He was quite ready to head around back, hop in his lorry, and drive straight back to hearth and home. If he had his way, he'd stay there. Preferably till the next millennium. But the situation demanded that he at least be a gentleman. “You staying at the hotel?” It didn't come out sounding quite as polite as he'd intended, judging by the way her smile faltered, before making a swift, if forced encore.

“Yes, but I can see myself home. Thank you for the rescue. Again.” Her smile relaxed a bit. “I'm sorry if my presence in there ruined your evening. I—I didn't know—I mean, I never thought they'd…you know…” Her voice trailed off and even under the lamplight he could see the pink that stained her cheeks.

She was an interesting duck. So confident about some things, yet very disconcerted about others. “No' to worry. Feel free to head back in. Now that I'm gone, you'll likely have a better time of it.” He wanted to smack himself the instant the suggestion left his lips. All he needed was to give her any more time to persuade anyone else what a great idea it would be to invade their peaceful village with television cameras and crew.

“Oh, I think I've done enough for one day.” She stuck her hand out. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Nonplussed by the gesture—he'd been sure she was going to hit him up again on her offer—he shook her hand without thinking. So he was taken quite off guard by the warmth and strength he found there. So much so he dropped her hand a bit abruptly. What was this effect she had on him anyway? He either needed to get out a great deal more…or never leave home. “You certain you don't need an escort?”

“I'm thinking crime is probably not high on the list of problems in your little burg. I'm betting I can safely cross the square. But I appreciate the offer. Good-night.” She lifted her hand, then paused for just a second, staring at him. Then her cheeks went pink again and she abruptly turned and headed off in a straight line toward the hotel. She didn't look back.

“Good-night,” he responded, only realizing when she disappeared inside the front hotel doors that he'd stood there watching her the entire way, much as he had earlier today when she'd driven out of his life. Or so he'd thought. Shaking his head, he turned and made the trek around the pub to the rear lot. “Curious bird,” he murmured, then vowed to put her out of his mind. He heard the music pulsing inside the pub, and was surprised by the sudden urge he had to step back inside. He'd made the decision to come down tonight to assuage the Lettys of the village—hiding from them hadn't worked out too well, so perhaps it was better to join them—and also because he'd wanted to make sure they weren't working themselves into some frenzy over the idea of being on the American telly.

For the most part, he'd enjoyed himself. Enough so, that he looked forward to making it a more regular event. But if he went back in there now, he'd be hounded about Erin, or worse, thrown at somebody local who wouldn't be checking out of her hotel room and leaving town in the morning. Better to let them have their hopes and dreams, at least for the remainder of the evening. It was a small enough town. They'd all know soon enough that Erin had checked back into her hotel room immediately. Alone.

And by then he'd be safely back on his mountain. When he descended into town again, they'd all have long forgotten about the crazy American. Once calmer heads had prevailed, they'd see he'd been right to turn her down. Glenbuie did not need to be turned into an American reality show spectacle to remain economically sound. They were doing just fine, and would continue to do so. Just as soon as he got that bed and breakfast open.

His mind mercifully turned to the list of jobs he had lined up for tomorrow, starting with calls to track down the parts needed to fix the loo. His mind wandered down the list, mentally adding on to it, but as he drove around the square and past the hotel, he couldn't keep from glancing up at the windows…and wondering which room she was in. Was she dressing for bed? Was she already, right now, naked in the shower? His mind immediately flashed on that image, and for a split second, he was sorry he'd been so quick to dismiss her.

His body stirred again at the idea of where the evening could have gone instead, and he couldn't lie to himself and say it wouldn't have felt damn good. She might not be a head turner, but she had intrigued him. He'd turned into something of a recluse while getting Glenshire up and running, but he wasn't a monk. He just lived like one. For now. Small towns made anonymous flings impossible and he didn't have the time or energy to run into the city for anything other than plumbing supplies.

He slowed, glanced up at the only window that was lit up, the one on the top floor. She'd likely gotten his attention only because she'd been available and not a local. Even monks had needs. He pressed down on the gas and drove out of the village and toward home before he could do something really foolish. She might be leaving in the morning, but she wanted something from him that he wasn't willing to give. And no way was he giving her another shot at convincing him, especially in that kind of situation. He hadn't spent much time with her, but enough to know she was a determined sort. Determined enough to swap sex for a favor? He couldn't say.

Miles of moonlit green fields and stacked stone boundary walls passed by him in a blur as his thoughts stubbornly refused to abandon the track he'd stupidly put them on. So fine, he let his mind wander. No harm in that. He'd be home shortly, where there was a cold shower waiting for him. He smiled. Or maybe a hot one, with a lot of slippery soap. Like he'd said, even monks had needs. He might have to embellish reality a bit to get the job done, but she'd never have to know.

He thought it was pretty funny actually…here she'd come to Glenshire looking for something from him, only to go away empty-handed. While, this evening anyway, he was going to be anything but empty-handed.

E
rin had just climbed out of the shower, where she'd spent a very unsuccessful thirty minutes trying to get Dylan Chisholm, hot Scot, out of her mind, and back on Dylan Chisholm, manor owner and sole obstacle to her keeping her job, back into it. Perhaps she shouldn't have been standing there with hot, steamy water streaming over her body as she rubbed lavender-scented soap all over her skin. “Yeah, that might have helped,” she muttered, rubbing her hair dry with another towel, then shaking it out. “Or not.” She sighed and pulled on her gray boxer shorts and faded Lakers shirt. She glanced at the bedside clock. One in the morning. Check out was at eleven. Didn't give her much time to develop a battle plan.

At the moment, her plan was to track down Daisy MacDonnell in the morning at her stationery store. She was both a fellow American and Reese Chisholm's fiancée. Erin had met her earlier today during her first visit to Hagg's. Daisy was a former advertising guru who'd escaped the rat race in the States upon inheriting her aunt's shop. She hadn't left her career behind, though. She'd brought the internet to Glenbuie and had been successful in putting up websites for the distillery, along with a number of the village shops, as well as one advertising Glenshire as a bed and breakfast. In fact, she'd been the one who'd first brought up the idea of Erin checking out Glenshire for her show when they'd all been sitting at the bar eating Marta's stew.

Seeing as how Daisy had worked with Dylan in creating the website, Erin hoped maybe she had some insight on what other kind of approach to take. Other than going back to Brodie, or one of the other Chisholm brothers—and they seemed more interested in getting their brother laid than anything else—she wasn't sure what else to do.

She was just about to climb into bed when there was a knock on the door. Startled, she immediately looked around for something else to pull on. Could Dylan have come back? It was a small enough village that everyone in it probably knew what room the American was staying in.

“Front desk with a message,” came a lilting female voice on the other side.

Erin rolled her eyes. “You only think you're in Brigadoon,” she muttered. “You're still Cinderella before the ball and there's no fairy godmother in sight.” Clearly needing to get over herself, she walked to the door in her boxers and T-shirt, because, honestly, who cared? She opened the door to find a young woman named Amelia standing there, according to her hotel name badge, anyway.

She gave Erin a bright, but apologetic smile. “Sorry to disturb, but the light was still on, and I thought you might be wantin' this.” She handed Erin a folded piece of stationery.

“Thanks.” Erin took the note, then patted her gym shorts for change she immediately realized she wasn't carrying. “Wait, let me get you—”

“Oh, that won't be necessary,” Amelia said, cheerfully waving away the tip. “We'll prosper well enough when the camera crews arrive.”

Oh god
. Erin opened her mouth to warn the perky Amelia not to count her chickens, but the young woman had already gone merrily off, back down the hallway toward the elevators. Erin watched her depart, thinking she'd have been only half surprised to see the young clerk suddenly burst into song and perform a perfectly choreographed dance routine down the carpeted corridor, quite naturally involving the two maids and one bellman she passed along the way. Brigadoon indeed.

Erin clicked the door shut and thought it was a good thing Dana wasn't here. Her assistant would be having a field day if she only knew how ridiculous Erin was being about this place. “Ah, bite me,” she said, to the room at large, and her assistant in absentia, somewhat comforted by the sound of her own sardonic tone. See? She wasn't that far gone. She still had her edge.

She opened the note and read it as she crossed the room, back to her bed. There was a single scrawled line, more of a slash really, across the middle. She read it out loud. “Come out to Glenshire in the morning at 8
A.M
. Just you. Dylan.” Her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Wow. Surprise, surprise.”

She tapped the note against her chin, wondering what had happened to change his mind. Had he gone back in the pub maybe? Or had Brodie said something to finally convince him to hear her out? Not that she was going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hell, she'd head up there right now if she thought it would make a difference.

Visions of getting Dylan out of bed, seeing what he looked like half naked, hair all tousled. Or maybe all the way naked. He probably slept in the buff. She shut that track down immediately. Well, almost immediately.

“Get a grip,” she schooled herself. She had to see him again in less than seven hours and she needed to be on her utmost professional behavior. Whatever the reason was he'd agreed to see her, it wasn't because he'd suddenly decided she was a raving beauty. More like she was a raving loon, with her crazy American reality show. She didn't think that opinion had miraculously changed, especially after she'd tromped all over his feet during their two whole minutes of dancing.

She wasted another minute reliving those glorious two minutes. Well, glorious for her, anyway. Outside of being very self-conscious of her clumsiness and the fact that everyone was watching them, she had rather enjoyed the way his hand had engulfed hers, and how the other had rested so confidently on her waist, guiding her through the crowd. She'd half wished the crowd would have jostled them together, so she could feel what it would be like to be held against that broad chest.

“And just how pathetic are you?” she murmured, then read the note again, still not quite believing her good fortune. Good business fortune. “Just you,” she repeated.
Hmm. Where had that come from?
Did he think she'd show up with half the village in tow? Maybe he thought she already had a whole camera crew stashed here in town or something and would take any sign of capitulation on his part as a reason to show up in full force. He didn't know she was a force to be reckoned with all by herself. She grinned and tossed the note on the nightstand. “But he will.”

She climbed into bed and reached for the lamp, but instead picked up the note again. The writing was decidedly masculine, but it was likely just the hand of whoever had taken the message. Except, as far as she knew, the desk clerks were all women. Meaning he'd come into the hotel tonight. Why not just ask to see her, or at least have them ring her room? Of course, it was pretty late…

She put the note aside once more, shut off the light, then lay there, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts refusing to stray from the man she'd be seeing again in a few short hours.

Interesting how the village was playing matchmaker for him. Although they were getting desperate if they were going after passers-through. Of course, maybe it had nothing to do with matchmaking. Maybe they'd hoped if the two of them had struck sparks, he'd agree to the filming. Could an entire town be so mercenary?

Erin snuggled more deeply into the soft, down bed. She almost felt sorry for Dylan, even though she could see he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. She knew what a pain it was just having one well-meaning person climbing all over her social life. And Dana only wanted her to get laid regularly. She couldn't imagine having a family nosing about her love life, much less an entire village. She didn't blame him for wanting to get out of there tonight, although it would have been nice if he'd at least pretended he wasn't just as anxious to get away from her.

She forced a mental shift back to business. How was she going to present her case? She wondered briefly if losing his wife was yet another roadblock to having a show based on finding true love filmed right in his own home. It would certainly be understandable. Definitely better to talk money and economy over love and romance. Sleep claimed her as she mulled over her options.

Which did nothing to explain why the images that wound their way into her dreams had absolutely nothing to do with profit margins and ratings spikes, and everything to do with other things…spiking.

 

The following morning, as she headed back out to Glenshire, the skies were a stunning robin's egg blue, not a cloud on the horizon, and the valley was such a vibrant, verdant green she still swore that the grass had to be genetically engineered. Even the sheep seemed especially perky and cute that morning.

She, however, was not. It had taken a hot shower, followed by a cold one, followed by two cups of espresso and a big, sticky pastry from the tray in the lobby before Erin had finally, mercifully managed to push aside every detail of last night's hot and sweaty dreams—and wasn't it amazing how the more she wanted to forget, the more details she recalled? She gripped the steering wheel more tightly. But she was fully focused on her job now. Dylan was merely a means to an end. One that didn't have anything to do with either of their ends getting naked.

Nope. Business, business, business. She wouldn't even imagine him in bed. Much less naked. In the bed. Or in the shower. Hot, steamy water running all over his slick skin. Nope. Not even imagining that. Not if she could absolutely help it anyway. So what if he was that perfect tragic figure who appealed to her secret romantic soul? The reclusive, wounded hero, burying himself in his work to push aside the pain of losing the woman he'd given his heart to? To her he was a business opportunity, nothing more, nothing less. Besides, he didn't seem all that wounded anymore. Mostly he just seemed annoyed.

Which suited her fine. She was relieved, in fact, that she seemed to be the only one suffering from delusions of infatuation. Thankful, even. It would make her job that much easier.

Liar.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat as she rolled to a stop in front of Glenshire's massive front door and put her car into park. If anything, the place was even more impressive and perfect in its romantic decay by morning sunrise than it had been in the late afternoon light.

She got out of the car, smoothed her pants, then her hair, before she realized what she was doing and stopped instantly. She'd bet a full ratings share that the only thing that mattered to Dylan where Erin MacGregor was concerned was how big an offer she was bringing to the negotiation table.

Which didn't explain why she slipped her lip balm out of her jacket pocket and ran it quickly across her lips. “Damn Brigadoon,” she swore under her breath as she made her way to the front door.

She looked for a buzzer, and, not finding one, lifted the heavy brass knocker instead. Shaped like a boar's head, it was shining brass and weighed a ton. She rapped once, heard the ominous echoing sound it made, and decided that was enough. She shifted her weight back and forth as she waited, refusing to smooth her hair again, or check her teeth in the newly polished knocker. Her pulse rate had kicked up a few notches in anticipation. Not of seeing Dylan again, of course. She was simply excited to finally be getting a peek inside her newest location. And she would prevail. He had a price, she just had to find out what it was.

She was leaning in, looking at her warped reflection as she pushed her hair from her face—only because there was a wayward strand poking her in the eye, of course—when the door suddenly swung open. An instant later she was eyeball to impressive pectorals with the object of her midnight fantasies.

“You're back,” he said flatly.

She quickly stepped back and smiled, not at all liking how this meeting was starting. Taking in the full impact of Dylan's impressive frame didn't exactly help matters. He was dressed in loose jeans that hung low on his hips and a paint-spattered, Glenbuie Distillery sweatshirt that had clearly seen better days. Eons of them, judging by the hacked-off sleeves and tattered neckline. His arms were impressively muscled and surprisingly tanned. Apparently all of the work on the house hadn't been indoors.

“Why?” he asked, dipping his chin just slightly to snag her wayward gaze.

Caught staring, and confused by his less than cordial greeting, she faltered. “I'm—” She stopped, looked down at her watch to check the time, and absently noticed he was barefoot, which for some reason struck her as incredibly sexy. Apparently any naked part of him was enough to send her vivid imagination on a detailed romp, so she countered by shifting her gaze swiftly back up to his face. Bigger mistake. He was even more imposing today, hard as that was to believe.

He was standing in a doorframe that would, in any other setting, be considered massive. Yet, somehow he managed to fill that empty space quite commandingly and that with cream-colored paint tipping the ends of his shaggy hair and a swipe of baby blue across his un-shaven jaw. And really, what a jawline, huh? The camera would love him, all of him really, from that hard, stubbled curve to those defined biceps, and—and she realized where her thoughts were going and quickly reined them in. If only it were so easy to do the same with her jackrabbit pulse.

She drew on every last bit of her extensive under-Tommy's-fire training and mustered her brightest smile. She didn't know exactly what was going on, but in her experience it was always better to go with the supposed program until someone else derailed it.

“It's eight o'clock,” she said brightly. “I'm right on time.”

His frown deepened, if that were possible. “For what?”