The Great Scot (6 page)

And it was at that moment Erin realized why she'd looked twice at the handwriting on the note last night. She'd seen it before, only she hadn't realized it at the time. On the chalkboard at Hagg's, toting the dart scores. Brodie Chisholm's handwriting, to be exact. “I can't believe it. He set us up. Again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked back at Dylan. “When was the last time you talked to your brother? Brodie, I mean.”

“Before we left the pub last night, why?”

“You didn't go back inside after I left?”

Dylan folded his arms over his chest, which only served to point out just how divinely muscular his shoulders were, too. “No. Why?”

“I should have known you didn't send that note.” Why hadn't she had this little handwriting epiphany last night when it might have done her some good? But oh no, she was far too busy running hot, sexcapade scenarios through her fevered brain. Now she'd barged in and bungled the one final chance she had.

“What note?”

“I got a message at the hotel last night, ostensibly from you, requesting I meet you here, alone, at eight
A.M
.” And she hadn't brought it with her, dammit, the one piece of proof she had. But why would she?

“I thought I made myself quite clear yesterday.”

“Oh, you did. I thought perhaps Brodie had talked to you, or anyone back in the pub, maybe Alastair,” she added, playing her only ace. And she wasn't even sure he was one. “I thought maybe he'd changed your mind. Made you realize that the good of the village and your family bank balance would be worth inconveniencing yourself for a little while.”

“Inconvenience? Is that what you call it? And for ‘a little while' is it? I believe you mentioned eight weeks. Have you no idea what all must be done to ready this place? And that's the mere tip of it. I've guests booked. An inn to run. I canno' walk away from the place for so long a time.”

This was so not going how she'd envisioned it. She hadn't even gotten inside the place yet. Tommy was going to kill her. Unless Dylan tossed her off the cliff located conveniently a hundred yards behind her and saved her boss the trouble. Her heart sank. This place was so prime, so perfect, and she'd taken her eye off the damn ball. “What if we worked it out so you could stay here?” she blurted, desperate. Tommy would never go for it. And even if he did, the network's legal beagles would have a stroke. They'd learned that particular lesson the hard way on season one when a tiff with the owner had ended in a nasty lawsuit.

But when Dylan didn't immediately close the door in her face, Erin finally, mercifully, flipped into negotiator mode and pushed her tiny advantage. Even a tiny crack had the chance to become a wall-crumbling fissure if the right pressure was applied in exactly the right place. All she had to do was find that precise spot…and push.

Visions of soft spots and just what could be pushing on them punched with ridiculous ease through her tough combatant armor. She'd never really believed in Dana's whole “you just need to get laid” theory, but she was beginning to think maybe there was some merit to it after all.

“The lease offer will compensate you above the business loss. And, as I told you, we'll gladly pay to relocate whatever guests can't rebook for a future date, not to mention that from the exposure you'll get, you'll replace those guests with many, many more. You'll book up—”

“Far and away into the future, aye,” he grumbled. “So ye've said. Do you have statistical proof of that claim? How many bed and breakfasts or hotels have you used in the past?”

Exactly none, was the answer. They usually used privately owned property with little to no public access. But she wasn't completely unarmed. “I have documented proof that the communities we've been located in have always experienced an extended, noticeable economic surge. In fact—”

“Will you back up that claim with a written guarantee? If I lose business, or if I have to shut down in order to repair any damage done, will you guarantee I'll be fully compensated to my complete satisfaction?”

Erin's heart rate kicked into overdrive. He was negotiating. He might not realize it, given he was still scowling and his arms were banded across his chest like they were barring entry to a fortress with a pair of broad beams, but he was talking. He wasn't shutting the door in her face.

“We return every alteration to its original state, and we always repair anything that might suffer any unforeseen damage. You will have that in writing.” Seeing the shrewd gleam in his eyes, she added, “We run a videography of the entire location before and after, so any alterations and repairs are easily determined by both you and the production crew. There's no way to hide anything.” Which worked both ways as it also kept owners from claiming damage or repairs already needed before the crew ever set foot on the property. “If, for whatever reason, anything is irretrievably broken, altered, or damaged, we would, of course, be responsible for settling with you on an appropriate reimbursement.” She tugged her satchel around and slipped the catch open. “I have the entire agreement here. Perhaps I could come in and we could discuss it in more detail? You can have your attorney look it over as well if you'd like.”

It had been her experience that most people were so flattered and eager to have anything they owned be connected with a television show, they often signed without the hassle and delay of getting lawyers directly involved. She didn't think Dylan fell into that category. She could only pray his lawyer was local. And reasonable. They didn't have time for an extended review period.

“I'm no' exactly at a place in my work load where I can stop and sit. In fact, I need to get back to it.” He shifted his weight and unfolded his arms and she went from hopeful to panicked all over again.

“I'll be glad to help.” She really had to learn some impulse control around this man. But never let it be said that Erin MacGregor didn't go the distance to get what she wanted. “With…whatever it is you're doing.”

“You're offering to help me paint?”

She nodded immediately. “Sure. I'd like to look around the place anyway. Maybe you can give me the nickel tour on the way to…wherever it is you're painting. And we can talk while we work. You can ask me about whatever concerns you might have. And when we're done, we can sit down and look over the agreement specifically.”

His gaze narrowed and he was far from smiling, but if she wasn't mistaken, the light that had entered his eyes now was one of faint amusement. Or maybe bemusement was a better word. It didn't matter, as long as he let her in the door. A step forward was a step closer to a signed agreement.

She held his gaze directly, keeping a confident, sunny smile in place. As if she did this kind of thing all the time to placate her clients.

After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped back and waved a paint flecked forearm in front of her. “Come in, then.”

Not the heartiest of welcomes, but beggars couldn't be choosers, now could they? Erin stepped past him through the door and with one look knew she'd do a hell of a lot more than paint walls if it meant getting his signature on that lease agreement. The foyer area was extensive, opening upward two stories, dominated by a wide staircase leading to the second floor landing, and accentuated with a stunning, sparkling chandelier. The floor beneath her feet was slightly uneven hand-laid stone, most of it covered by multiple layers of heavy, ancient Persian rugs that were all the more interesting for how worn the coloring was in the intricately patterned design. She wondered how many generations of Chisholms had walked across them.

“Impressive,” she said, never more sincere, as she slowly turned around and took it all in. Only when she got back around to facing the staircase did she realize Dylan was already halfway up, assuming she was right behind him. Swallowing the myriad questions that were already springing to mind, she turned her attention back to more immediate matters. Namely her host. And her newest job. Painting.

Dylan didn't wait for her at the second story landing either, and she had to hurry to keep up with him. And it was a good thing she did, as he turned left at the top of the second flight and disappeared through one of two sets of double doors just as she topped the last riser. Apparently each wing of the house was deep enough to have two parallel hallways running the length of them. Both sides of each hallway were lined with doors, though not evenly spaced apart, meaning some rooms were larger than others. The heck with a bed and breakfast, he could have opened a freaking hotel in this place.

The hallway was wide, carpeted with throw rugs, much the same as the foyer, which would be a nightmare for mobility with the cameras and crew people. It was lit with smaller chandelier fixtures hanging down in regular intervals and a massive window at the very end. More lighting would be required, she noted, looking at the paintings, mirrors, and wall sconces, some more ornate and gaudy than others, that filled the wall space between each door.

The whole effect was rather overwhelming, and she stood there, all but gaping as she took it all in. No wonder they had a hard time maintaining the place. Just this one hallway alone was a monster, and there were four of them on this side of the house alone, two upper, and two lower. Plus the rooms in the central part. She couldn't imagine one family, much less one man, maintaining all of it. One thing was for certain, though, depending on the condition of the rooms behind those doors, there was no question the place was quite big enough to house their entire production.

She almost missed it when Dylan made a sharp turn and didn't enter either hallway, but opened a door and began climbing yet another set of stairs that led, presumably, up to the third floor of the central section of the house. This staircase was far more narrow, straight up, with closed walls on either side. However her attention wasn't on the walls, the jumble of paintings hung all over them, or the fact that the stairs were dimly lit with wall sconces only, no overhead lighting. No, her attention was pretty much riveted on the very fine backside of a certain Scotsman climbing the stairs in front of her, said backside showcased quite nicely in faded denim. He must do a lot of stair climbing, she thought, admiring the flex and play of his hamstring muscles as he charged up the stairs.

So intent was her focus, when he stopped short just at the top, she was unable to halt her forward motion in time and wobbled precariously on the next-to-top stair, grabbing for the hand-railing to keep from toppling backward.

Before that could happen, he caught her by the arms and pulled her up next to him, wedging them both in the narrow doorway at the top. Suddenly short of breath, she tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding far more like a soft little moan. Probably because it was.

“You seem to have a wee problem with balance,” he said, that intent gaze of his directly on hers, but no hint of expression otherwise.

“I—I'm normally not such a klutz, really. I even went to college on a sports scholarship. Honest. Team captain.” She was babbling when she should be extricating herself from his arms, and from the tight space they were presently sharing…but her body wasn't exactly following her brain's orders. Of course, that could be because her brain wasn't entirely certain she should be going anywhere, either, especially since there were all kinds of benefits to staying right where she was.

Like the way the hard length of him felt so incredibly good against the not-so-hard length of her. Better than she'd imagined, better than that brief moment in the pub. He was solid, and strong, and she felt absurdly safe and in absolute danger all at the same time. Her heart was pounding…and she realized he wasn't making any attempt to move either.

“Your clothes,” he said, at length.

“Yes?” she breathed, barely managing to get the words out, as images of him tearing them off and—

“Ye'll get paint on them.”

“I—oh. Right.”

“I'll lend you an auld shirt of mine to cover up.”

“Yes, that, that would be great. Super. Thanks.” She made a valiant attempt at an insouciant smile. Of
course
he wasn't thinking of tearing her clothes off. It was far more typical of a man to want to cover her up. In fact, he was probably wondering why he hadn't just let her tumble back down the stairs. Probably afraid of the lawsuit she'd file.

“Come on,” he said, and stepped into a short hallway, disappearing into one of the two rooms on the left. As if he hadn't been remotely affected by their little moment.

Because he wasn't affected, you idiot. You're the only affected one here.
She sighed. “Afflicted is more like it,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked up to find him standing in front of her once more, a paint splattered, white dress shirt dangling from his fingers. Would she ever not look like a complete fool in front of this man? She took the shirt from him. “Thanks.” She felt the quality of the linen and glanced back up at him. “Nice work shirts you have.”

He shrugged. “No other use for them now.” He turned and walked into one of the two rooms that had paint buckets sitting in the middle of the floor. “Let's get to it then.”