Operation

by Barbara Bretton

  After all they’d shared, how could he possibly object to sharing a piece of plastic with her?

  She unzipped one side of the bag then reached in. Flashlight. Flares. Another, smaller bag. She pulled it out, unsnapped the flap, then peeked inside. Success! She grabbed a comb and was about to replace the smaller bag in the larger one when she noticed a badge of some kind. Her curiosity got the better of her and she plucked it out. The picture was the usual ID-style snapshot, but not even bad photography could dim the subject’s good looks. Her Scotsman was one gorgeous specimen. Her gaze flickered over a string of license numbers, hair color, eye color, name—

  Duncan Fraser Stewart.

  She blinked then looked again.

  Duncan Fraser Stewart.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed, as the blood seemed to rush down to her feet. This couldn’t be happening. The man she’d made mad, passionate love to couldn’t possibly be the same man she’d traveled to Scotland to find. The reclusive artist, the genius, the man who was going to save Wilde & Daughters Ltd.

  She looked at his sleeping form. That body she now knew as well as she knew her own—the thought made her feel light-headed with a combination of shame and anger. She wanted to hit him over the head with the emergency kit then tell him what a no-good, rotten son of a—

  She caught herself. If she did that, she’d have to face him, and that was the one thing she didn’t think she could do. Murder him, yes. Talk to him? Not on your life.

  She heard the sound of an engine idling nearby then a voice called out, “Hallo? Who’s there?”

  The thought of enduring a ride to the nearest village with that rat Stewart was more than she could contemplate.

  She looked at him again. He was still deeply asleep. If he’d heard their rescuer call out, he gave no indication.

  “Get up,” she said, in as quiet a voice as she could manage. “We have company.”

  He didn’t so much as move a muscle.

  What a shame.

  Nobody could say she hadn’t tried.

  Turning, she went to head their rescuer off at the pass.

  With a little luck, Duncan Stewart would wake up alone.

  With a lot of luck, he’d spend the rest of his life that way.

  * * *

  Glenraven Castle, six weeks later

  “UP ALL NIGHT he is,” Old Mag said to Robby, the caretaker. “Don’t work at all, just drowns himself in whiskey and howls at the moon.”

  “’Tis a lass, plain and simple.” Robby poured himself a cup of tea from the blue china pot that sat in the middle of the kitchen table. “This is how it was the first time.”

  “Och!” Old Mag shot him her fiercest look. “Mention that one’s name in this house, man, and deal with my wrath.”

  “The devil take her,” Robby agreed. “Her name will never pass these lips again.”

  “Broke his heart, the witch.” Mag poured herself three fingers of single malt from a half-empty bottle. “He’s never been the same.”

  “Aye,” Robby said, “until now. I’m a man, Mag, and I know what I know. There’s a new lass. He fights his heart now, but it’s a losing battle.”

  “Have you two nothing better to do?” Duncan Stewart roared as he strode into the kitchen. He’d heard enough of the conversation to know it was time to put a stop to it. “Do I pay you to sit here and talk about me?”

  “And the pay not nearly enough,” Mag muttered, glaring at him. She’d been part of the family since he was a wee bairn and knew how far she could push. “You should be taking care of your own business, not minding ours.”

  Duncan ignored the comment. If he engaged the old woman in battle, they’d be at it until sunup. “I’m going into town,” he announced. “More than that no one needs to know.”

  Mag and Robby exchanged a look.

  “There are young ones in need of employment who’d be willing to do your jobs for half the wages.”

  Mag snorted. “Aye,” she said, “and wouldn’t you be the one, looking to save a tuppence on the back of an old woman.”

  “You’ll outlive us all,” Duncan said. Two minutes with Old Mag and he sounded more Scottish than Robert the Bruce.

  “God willin’,” said Robby.

  “God willin’,” said Mag and Duncan.

  “And what would I tell a body if he calls?”

  Duncan threw his hands up in exasperation. “Tell him what you like, old woman,” he bellowed. “I’m past caring.”

  He stormed out, striding past the north turret that served as his studio. Old Mag and Robby had known him all his life. They were more his parents than his own parents had been. It was Old Mag who’d wiped away his tears when he skinned a knee and Robby who’d taught him the things a young boy needed to know to make his way in the world. His own parents were perfectly nice people, but the world of childhood had been beyond their understanding. By the time Duncan was a man, the gap between them had grown too wide to bridge.

  His father was gone now, ten years dead and buried. His mother had followed a year ago Christmas.

  And Duncan was still alone.

  Years ago, when he was young and idealistic, he thought he’d found the woman he would grow old with. He’d met Lana at university, when he was a struggling art student and she was an artist’s model with her eye on a stage career. He had been captivated by her dark eyes, her catlike face, her tiny body with the surprising curves. She had been captivated by his castle and all that came with it. It had taken him four years of marriage—and one tragedy—before he understood that simple fact.

  His Highland heritage had served him well. When grief threatened to pull him under, he withdrew to the castle and poured his emotions into his work. And it was his work that saved him.

  And no one had ever recognized the loneliness at the core of everything he did. Nobody until Samantha.

  The beautiful American had awakened something in him he’d thought long dead. He might not have shared his identity with her but he had shared his heart, and look what she’d done in return—set the hounds of Fleet Street on his heels. She’d apparently returned to Glasgow and made certain that every reporter in the city knew she’d left Duncan Stewart stranded by his wrecked Cessna alongside Loch Glenraven.

  Artist in Plane Crash, read one of the headlines. His face was in the newspapers, and so was his whole sordid story. His failed marriage to Lana, his castle, his solitary state of mind—everything except the thing that meant the most to him in the world, his work. They brushed over his finest sculptures in a half sentence, then devoted endless paragraphs to speculating about the American woman who’d been in the plane crash with him.

  Even Lana had been interviewed on movie location in Africa. She hadn’t said much but had cleverly managed to mention the name of her newest film at least three times. She was as beautiful and cruel as ever, the woman he’d loved once. Lana had married two more times since their divorce and was about to try for number four. He marveled at her optimism. He had none left. She had made certain of that when she left.

  The American lass did him a favor, he thought, as he climbed into the Land Rover he kept parked behind the stables. They’d been naked in soul and body that afternoon by the lake. He would have told her everything if she’d stayed with him, would have offered up his heart—or at least what little heart he had to offer. He supposed he should be grateful because, by walking out on him the way she did, she’d saved him from making another mistake.

  * * *

  Houston, Texas, that same day

  * * *

  “You don't have to snap my head off, Ms. Wilde.” Jack, her administrative assistant, faced her across her desk. “You’ve been in a bad mood since you came home from that mystery trip, and I’m tired of taking the blame.”

  Samantha looked up from a stack of papers a foot high. “What was that, Jack?” she asked. Lately she seemed to be having a terrible time concentrating. No matter what she was doing, no matter how hard she tried, all thoughts led
to Duncan Stewart.

  Jack gave her a baleful look then turned and left her office. He’d get over it, whatever it was. People always did. Anger vanished. Annoyance faded. Even lust cooled.

  Or at least she hoped it did. She only thought about Duncan Stewart eight or ten times a day now, instead of a dozen times an hour. Progress, she told herself. Definitely progress.

  She’d just gone over third-quarter projections for Wilde & Daughters Ltd. and the prognosis was grim. Her sister Martie was one of the best jewelry designers in the country, but jewelry wasn’t enough. Not if the company was going to survive. Besides, Martie was getting married soon and heading off on her honeymoon. Who knew what would happen once her little sister got a taste of domestic life? What if she got pregnant and decided she’d rather change diapers than dream up new and exotic jewelry designs for the rich and privileged?

  Marriage did strange things to people. Her parents’ Byzantine marital histories were proof of that.

  The company needed to go in a new direction, and she’d been dead certain Duncan Stewart was the creative genius who could take them there. Now she’d never have the chance to find out if she’d been right.

  Never mix business and great sex. Isn’t that what they’d taught her at Harvard Business? If they hadn’t, they should have. The moment a woman let down her guard and became a woman, the game was over. At least when it came to the dollars-and-cents business of making money. She’d lost her advantage with the first kiss, and now she could never get it back.

  She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. It seemed like she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in years. Since her return from Scotland, she felt as if she were operating underwater, moving through her day in a hazy kind of slow motion that made her feel out of sync with the entire universe.

  She’d thought she was doing a pretty good job of covering up, but apparently she was wrong. Her father, Lucky, his assistant, Estelle, even her about-to- be-married sister, Martie, had all commented on the circles under her eyes and her shortness of temper. “Thanks,” she’d growled at Martie just yesterday. “Next time you have a bad hair day, I’ll be sure to point it out.”

  And now Jack told her she’d been in a bad mood since her mystery trip.

  She tried to tell herself it was spring fever, but it was already mid-June, with summer right around the corner.

  Tears burned behind her lids but she’d be darned if she would let them fall. If she gave in to tears for even a second, she’d be lost. Her emotions were right there at the surface, and it took every ounce of strength to keep them from getting the better of her. The most bizarre things made her cry—garbage bag commercials on television, rock videos, the theme song from Friends. Last week, in a fit of sentiment, she’d even picked up the telephone and called her mother in London.

  Julia had sounded her usual self, glad to hear from Sam but not particularly curious about the details of her daughter’s life. Julia prattled on about the wonderful play she’d seen and the marvelous man who was taking her to dinner that night and never once asked Sam why she’d called. By the time Sam hung up, she felt worse than ever. All weepy and wishing she could have had a mother instead of a pal. She would never do that to a child, blur the lines between them. She would never abandon a child to grow up without her. And then she wondered why she was thinking about any of this when having a baby was the furthest thing from her mind. She was either suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder or losing her mind.

  This was what happened when you let your heart rule your head. Cool, controlled Samantha finally threw caution to the wind and ended up sleeping with the man she’d wanted to impress with her business acumen and not her bedroom skills. There was definitely a lesson to be learned from the experience, and as soon as she forgot the way she’d felt in his arms, she’d figure out what it was.

  * * *

  Glasgow

  “WE CAN DELIVER a new plane to you by Friday next, Mr. Stewart,” said the salesman to Duncan later that afternoon.

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  The young man nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then so be it,” said Duncan, signing his check. “Ring me when it’s delivered and I’ll drive down.”

  They shook hands and Duncan left the sales office. At least he’d accomplished one thing today. He felt about his plane the way American movie cowboys felt about their horses, and he was lost without it. Fleet Street’s interest in his crash—and the subsequent resurrection of interest in his personal life—had finally waned, and he’d ventured to Glasgow to see about reclaiming his life.

  The long drive down from Loch Glenraven had given him time to think. He hadn’t done much thinking at the castle, but not for want of trying. The good citizens of Glenraven had banded together to keep the gossips and the press at bay. They knew nothing. They said nothing. They offered nothing in the way of comfort for the throngs of reporters. It didn’t take long for the city folk to fold up their tents and leave.

  And then there was Old Mag, who watched his every move and commented on each one of them. “Something happened to you,” she’d said, “and I’ll find out what. Mark me well on that, laddie.”

  So he’d spent much of the past six weeks barricaded in his studio, trying to lose himself in his work, but no matter what he tried—clay or marble or wood—the result was always the same. His beautiful American was everywhere, in everything he did, every word he uttered, every thought that rose half formed from his heart.

  He tried to drown the image of her in whiskey but she would not be denied. He hadn’t planned to make love to her. They’d faced death and lived to tell the tale. What happened between them afterward had been as inevitable as drawing their next breaths, a celebration of life. Only a fool would read more into the interlude than that.

  That sense of destiny, of something beyond the moment, had been a product of his own imagining.

  He climbed into his Land Rover and started the engine. The road to Glenraven was on the far side of Glasgow. He had noticed a pub not far from there where he could get a pint and some food to sustain him on the long drive to the castle.

  He rarely came into the city. He hated the crowds and the noise of city life, hated the drab gray buildings and the smell of petrol in the air. The city diminished him. His wild and beautiful Highlands restored him. It was that simple.

  “Sit where you like,” the bartender called as he stepped into the dimly lit establishment a few minutes later. “We have stout if you’re of a mind.”

  “Aye,” said Duncan. “And soup and a loaf of bread while you’re at it.”

  “A man after my own heart,” said the bartender, laughing. “My Celia will bring it to you in a wink.”

  If the man recognized him from the newspaper stories, he gave no indication. For the first time in weeks, Duncan felt himself relax. He claimed one of the small tables and glanced around the pub. A stag’s head decorated the far wall. Mounted fish lined the wall behind the bar. The other walls boasted a tartan plaque, an ad for Guinness and an oil painting of William Wallace, among other things.

  “Your pint,” said the bartender, placing the heavy glass before him. “And good health to you.”

  Duncan raised the glass in salute. The stout was dark and strong and it went down smooth as silk. He was glad he’d stopped here instead of at one of the fancy restaurants in Glasgow proper. A radio played softly in the background, some music, soccer scores, a man railing against the monarchy. There was something comforting about the mix of sights and sounds and smells.

  This was his land. This was where he belonged.

  Celia, a round woman in her early sixties, bustled up to him, bearing a tray overhead. “I hope pepper pot is to your liking.” Her tone was brisk but friendly. “And this is the best honey-oatmeal bread in all of Scotland.”

  She placed a steaming bowl in front of him and a basket of bread still warm from the oven. He thanked her. She stood next to him, waiting.

&nbs
p; He looked at her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Eat,” she said.

  He ate a spoonful of soup.

  “And?” she asked.

  “Delicious,” he said.

  “The bread.” She pointed to the basket. “Try it.”

  He took a bite, chewed, then swallowed. “The best.”

  Celia beamed with pleasure. “Finish,” she said, “then I’ll bring you more.” She hurried to the kitchen.

  “Forty-two years,” the bartender said as the door closed behind Celia. He beamed with pride. “Six children and thirty-two grands.”

  Duncan met the man’s eyes. “You have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “And don’t I know that.” He poured himself a whiskey then joined Duncan at his table. “A man’s family is everything,” he said. “Everything. Children are the reason we’re born.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Duncan. “I have none.”

  The man looked sympathetic. “Our first bairn was six years coming.”

  “And I have no wife.” Had he lost his mind then, telling all to a stranger?

  “A man needs a mate,” the bartender stated in a tone that left no room for discussion. “We’re not meant to go through this life alone.”

  A few weeks ago Duncan would have argued the man under the table. Now he was no longer sure. In one afternoon, she had seen through to his loneliness, to a place no one else on earth knew existed, and now he seemed trapped within the emptiness.

  “I had a wife,” Duncan said carefully, “but she wasn’t one for family.”

  “Then you need a new one, man, and soon. You’re not getting any younger.”

  “I have a good life,” he said, “and work I care about”

  “Ach,” said the bartender with a look of disgust. “Work cannot warm your bed at night.”

  “A hot water bottle can warm my bed more efficiently,” Duncan said. “What need do I have for a wife?”

  The man waggled a finger in Duncan’s direction. “You joke now, lad, but in twenty years you’ll be wishing you’d listened to Gordon. I thought like you once. Thirty years I lived without my Celia, and happily, but from that first day I knew there was no life without her.”