Zoe looked over at Duncan. “This is the illustrator you mentioned. Where did you get this?”
“Found it at the mansion. I don’t know who it belongs to, but I wanted to check with you before I tracked down the owner. I’m no’ imagining things, am I?”
She shook her head. “No, you definitely aren’t. These are sublime. When was the last time you saw illustrations like these, Gordon?”
The older man rubbed his chin. “I honestly can’t recall.”
“Oh”—Madeline bounced in her seat—“is it like a picture book? I love those. Don’t you?” She held up her phone at arm’s length as she leaned into Duncan’s side. “Smile,” she said. He didn’t. She took the photo anyway, then started to type with her thumbs. “Out for dinner with art royalty,” she read aloud as she typed. “Hashtag blessed.” She beamed at him.
He blinked at her before turning back to the art school dean. “What do you think then?”
Zoe gave him a serious look. “I think, if you can find the owner, I can offer them a place on the illustration course. If they want it.”
“Without a portfolio?” That was a standard requirement for applying for entry.
“This is a portfolio, Duncan. Are you planning to mentor this person?”
“I don’t do that anymore.” But the words sounded false to his ears.
Zoe heard it too. “The same way you don’t teach anymore?” She gave him a smug smile. “I knew you wouldn’t stay in your enforced retirement forever. You have no idea how pleased I was to get your email. You need to share your talent with the world, not only through your paintings but through your teaching too.”
“Which reminds me, I’m confused. You asked me to come lecture. I didn’t ask you.”
“Initially, yes. But you were the one who contacted me about today.”
Just then, Madeline distracted him by getting up from the table to take a photo of them all from halfway across the room. When she came back, she read her caption aloud again, “Great food. Great company. Hashtag happy.”
Gordon rolled his eyes, and before Duncan could pursue the matter of who had asked whom to lecture, the waiter came to take their order.
“Are you on Instagram?” Madeline asked as the waiter poured her wine.
“No.” Duncan shook his head when it was his turn to have his glass filled.
“Oh, but you have to be,” she gushed. “You can’t get anywhere these days without a social media presence. I can help you if you’d like.”
“That’s what Maddie does,” Zoe said. “She’s a social media consultant.”
Madeline pointed at her own face. “Hashtag connected,” she said, then laughed like that was hilarious.
“I don’t need a social media presence,” Duncan said, hoping to shut her down. Reminding himself of the times Donna had drummed into him that he had to be polite, he added a “thanks” to his statement.
“Oh, but you do.” She flicked her black hair over her shoulder. “How will people hear about you if you don’t? It’s the only way to increase your profile.”
“Maddie,” Zoe said patiently, “Duncan’s in every modern art book they publish. His profile is as good as it gets.”
“I forgot.” She laughed. “Still, the consumer likes to feel connected to a brand. You should interact with your fans.”
Consumer? Brand? Fans? Duncan looked at Gordon for help, but the man was just chugging back the wine. He wished Donna were with them. She would have found the humour in the situation and helped him to find it too. Without her, he just wanted to be rude and get up and leave. But he didn’t. Because he knew she would be disappointed in him. Although, he was tempted to get Madeline to send her some ‘hashtag’ messages to include her in the irritation he felt.
The starters arrived, and Madeline promptly took photos of everything and posted the pictures online.
“Do you ever Google yourself, Duncan?” she asked as she nibbled at her salad.
The sight of her eating reminded him that Donna would never have ordered a salad. She would have gone straight for the deep-fried mozzarella sticks and bread. Then she would have talked him into sharing his food too if he hadn’t eaten it all before she’d finished.
“Google yourself?” Gordon said with a laugh. “That sounds rude.”
“That’s enough wine for you, dear.” Zoe confiscated the bottle.
“No,” Duncan said. “I don’t. I already know who I am.”
“Oh, but you should.” She tapped at her phone. “Look, there’s lots about you on here.” She scrolled. “There’s your work. Your past relationships. Your home. Gosh, it looks pretty! It’s so nice of you to let all those people use it for their fundraiser.”
He stilled then slowly turned to her, but she wasn’t paying attention.
“I’ll send a message from you, shall I? Telling them to have fun. It will make people think you’re a generous man, prone to philanthropy. That’s always good for your image.”
“What people?” Duncan said evenly.
Zoe stopped with her wine glass halfway to her mouth, before placing it back on the table.
The tense atmosphere went over Madeline’s head, mainly because she didn’t look up from her phone. “The ones at the ball. Hashtag Kintyre Mansion Ball. Hashtag have a great one! Oh, look, there’s a ceilidh band.”
Those alarm bells that had been sounding for weeks suddenly made sense. “Who’s running the fundraiser?”
“Don’t you know?” Madeline was busy thumb typing.
“No, I don’t know, so I wouldnae mind if you told me.” Duncan clasped her hand to stop her typing. “Who’s running it?”
She licked her lips nervously. “The local branch of the Scottish Women’s Institute.”
A flash of the woman he’d met at the pub came to mind. Flora Reid. It came to him where he’d seen her before—she’d been walking across his lawn with a wheelbarrow full of glitter. The chickens—they were the number of people attending the ball! His heart missed a beat. There were a hundred and twenty strangers in his house.
And his housekeeper had let them in.
He was going to wring her neck. Then work his way through her sisters.
He shot to his feet. “I need to get to the airport. There’s a flight to Campbeltown at eight. I have to be on it.” Without waiting for a reply, he jogged from the restaurant and straight into one of the taxis waiting outside.
Chapter 27
Donna had lost control of the mansion. It was now in the hands of hundreds of rabid party goers and three old women who were stirring everyone up.
“Any ideas?” she asked the women at her side.
“Call the police and have them thrown out?” Grace suggested.
They were standing at the back of the ballroom, watching as a swarm of locusts dressed in formal attire decimated the buffet.
“They won’t do anything,” Donna said. “I spoke to the police officer who came with the ambulance to pick up Flora’s father.” She gave them a bewildered look. “What was a ninety-five-year-old man doing on a mechanical bull?” She shook her head to clear it. “Anyway, the police told me that there was nothing they could do because I’d given permission for the Women’s Institute to use the mansion for the fundraiser. He said that if they were still here after the cut-off time, he could help us evict them. Until then, we’re on our own.”
“Is anyone else wondering how Flora’s dad is still alive?” Mairi said. “I mean, Flora’s ancient. And she has a father? That seems wrong.”
“Focus.” Agnes smacked Mairi on the back of the head.
She rubbed the spot. “Every time you do that, I lose brain cells.”
“Can we concentrate? I need a plan to…contain this.” Donna pointed at the chaos in front of them.
“It’s like every American teen movie I’ve ever seen,” Mairi said. “The parents are away, and the kids have a party that gets out of hand. Only, the twist is that Duncan is the parent. We should sell this concept to Hollywoo
d. We’d make a mint.”
As they watched, the band stopped playing. “We’re going to take a wee break,” the lead singer said. “No doubt you’ll miss us, but not too much because the Women’s Institute have organised a halftime show for you. Hit it, boys!”
Coloured spotlights flitted across the dancefloor as music with a heavy beat blasted from the speakers. A voice boomed out as the group of six men wearing traditional Scottish dress sauntered into the middle of the room.
“What’s happening?” Grace said.
“Oh, no,” Donna moaned.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice shouted out. “Please put your hands together and welcome Scotland’s answer to the Chippendales—the Highland Hotties!”
The men started to gyrate to the music and Donna’s jaw dropped.
“Oh good,” Mairi said gleefully. “I wanted to know what was under those kilts.”
All Donna could do was stare at the strip show taking place in the middle of the Georgian ballroom. Fiona must be turning in her grave. She blinked several times as one of the men whipped off his sporran and tossed it into the crowd.
“Aggie,” she said. “I’m going to my office to see if there’s a clause in that agreement I signed that will get us out of this.”
“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on them—I mean, on things. I’ll keep an eye on things.” Agnes had her eyes glued to the men.
“Is this even legal?” Grace asked in bewilderment.
“Oh aye,” Mairi said. “Women and men are equal opportunity perverts these days.”
Donna groaned and headed for the door. If she couldn’t find something in the contract to get her out of this mess, she’d set off the fire alarm and blame it on Joyce, because she would bet the balance in her bank account that the male dancers were her idea.
***
Duncan climbed out of the taxi in front of the mansion to find a group of men in suits playing boules on his lawn. He ran a hand down his face and told himself that at least they weren’t in the building—unlike the rest of Kintyre.
The noise coming from the house was loud enough to wake the dead. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of the peninsular was vibrating with it. As he walked up his driveway, a woman carrying a placard with the letter D on it came around the corner of the building, with a crowd in tow.
“This is the northern face of the building. Here you can see the windows to Duncan’s studio, where the masterpieces that reside in New York’s Museum of Modern Art and London’s Tate Modern were created. Unfortunately, we are currently unable to enter the room, due to the two feral teenagers guarding it in return for pizza. If you follow me, we can get a look at the renovated carriage house.”
The group crossed his path on their way to the back of the property.
“Hey,” one of the women said. “Isn’t that Duncan Stewart?”
“Don’t be daft,” her friend chided. “He’s in Glasgow for the weekend.”
Duncan walked past the tour group and up the steps to his wide-open front door. There were people everywhere, but his eyes went to the banner spanning the balcony that read: The Fiona Stewart Memorial Ball. Underneath it, in smaller letters, were the words: Raising Money for Families with Children Fighting Cancer.
Now he knew how Donna had been talked into this fiasco. The bloody Women’s Institute had used his dead wife and sick children against her. She never stood a chance. He walked down the corridor towards the music, passing the dining room where a pop-up casino was making a killing, and then the library where—he stopped in his tracks.
They’d pushed the furniture back to the edge of the room and rolled up the rugs, and in the middle of the floor, sat a mechanical bull. There was a wee woman dressed in a silver ballgown sitting on its back. She looked to be about a hundred and was being cheered on by an elderly man in a top hat and tails. He closed his eyes for a second or two before opening them again. Nope. They were still there.
He backed out of the room, dodged a group taking selfies in the hallway, and continued to the ballroom, his anger growing with every step. She’d told him the room was off limits because the floor was being varnished, while all along, they’d been setting up to have a party in his absence. She’d lied to him about everything—posing and playing pool to get him out of the house, telling him Zoe had invited him to Glasgow when she’d sent the email…the list went on. And the most annoying thing was that he’d known something was up, but he’d ignored the warning signs because he’d been too busy chasing after her to think straight.
He stepped into the ballroom, only to be confronted by six topless men in kilts dancing to a room full of clapping women and bored-looking men. Everything Fiona had hoped to achieve had been reduced to a backdrop for people letting off steam. He wasn’t even sure who he was angrier at—the Women’s Institute for conning Donna, Donna for not coming to him instead of organising things behind his back, or himself for ignoring the signs that something was up. He’s been in Kintyre long enough to know that, where the Sinclair sisters were concerned, you never ignored any warning signs. He’d been slack. He’d left his woman without protection—from con artists and from her sisters.
As he scanned the room, he spotted Agnes, Mairi and Grace standing near the buffet tables. Clearly they were as captivated by the dancers as the rest of the women in the room. He headed straight for them, pushing his way through the crowd.
Mairi spotted him first. “Oh hey, Duncan, how’s it going?” She smiled and it froze on her face. “Duncan!” She elbowed her sister.
Agnes’ eyes shot to him. “It wasn’t her fault,” she said in a rush. “She was conned. The Women’s Institute told her it would be a sedate ceilidh using only the ballroom. Then they upped the numbers and asked to use the orangery too. Donna knew nothing about the guided tours or the bull or the strippers—”
“Or the casino,” Mairi added.
“Aye.” Agnes nodded. “None of us knew what they’d planned until it happened. She’s trying to figure out a way to shut it down earlier. She’s really upset about it, Duncan.”
“Funny, so am I.” He cocked his head towards the corridor. “Out there. Now.”
The three women made their way towards the door without protest. As Grace passed him, she looked him straight in the eye. “You don’t have to say it. I already know I’m fired.”
Damn right she was fired, just as soon as he’d cleared up this mess and dealt with his housekeeper.
***
Donna heard noises from the linen closet as she passed the door. As soon as she opened it, she deeply regretted it. There was a couple, who looked to be on the ripe side of middle-aged, getting it on amongst the bedding. She slammed the door shut, wishing she could take out her eyeballs and roll them in bleach.
She made a quick detour past the studio, only to see the teenage boys standing shoulder to shoulder to keep out the hordes. They spotted her at the back of the crowd and saluted her, grins on their faces. They deserved two weeks’ worth of Grace’s cooking instead of one.
Her office door was slightly ajar as she approached it, and her heart sank. The wildlife that had infected the mansion had even made it into her workspace. With a fortifying breath, she pushed open the door then gasped.
Because Bill, the gardener they’d fired, was helping himself to the painting Duncan had given her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.
He didn’t even hesitate. “Taking what’s owed to me, that’s what. I told that bastard you work for I’d get my severance pay, one way or another.”
“Put that back, right now.” Donna’s voice shook and her hand trembled as she pointed at him. “That painting doesn’t belong to Duncan. It belongs to me.”
He shrugged. “Can’t say that I care.”
She stepped towards him, blocking his path out of the room. “Take your hands off it. It doesn’t belong to you.”
“It does now.”
He tried to step around her, but she blocked
him, aware that he was a good head taller than her and had a lot more bulk. And from the vicious look in his eyes, she didn’t think he would have any problem hurting her to get his way. If it had been anything else he was stealing, she would have let him walk out of the building and then have called the cops, but this was her painting. The one thing she owned that was a piece of Duncan. The only piece she would ever have, and she wasn’t going to let anyone steal it from her.
“Get out of my way,” he ordered as he crowded her, pushing at her with the painting.
“No! It’s mine. Put it back.”
“Well, look at that.” He sneered. “The tiny mouse has finally learned to say no. Does it make you cry at night, knowing that the whole of Kintyre sees you as a soft touch? We’d sit in the pub and discuss whose turn it was next to come work at the mansion, just to get the handout when we left. It was my turn this time, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving without my money.” He glanced at the painting she loved. “This piece of crap should be worth a penny or two.”
“Help!” Donna screamed. “Thief!”
It was no use—the band had started playing again, and the music drowned out her words.
He shoved into her, using the delicate canvas as a battering ram. “The whole of Campbeltown is laughing at you. Donna Sinclair can’t say no, she’ll give money to anybody with a sob story. She’s probably bending over for her boss while she’s at it, giving him a pity fuck because she’s too timid to refuse. Look around you—three old women walked all over you to take over the building. You’re the laughing stock of Kintyre. You always have been.”
“No,” she forced out the word, but his aim had been true with the barbed arrows he’d shot. They ripped through what remained of her pride.
“Aye.” He stepped into her. “Now get out of my way.”
Chapter 28
“Where is she?” Duncan demanded of the three women in front of him. Mairi tried to look innocent while Grace looked resigned and Agnes looked like she wanted to hit him. “I’ll no’ ask again. Where is she?”
Can't Stop the Feeling: Romantic Comedy (Sinclair Sisters Trilogy Book 2) Page 23