by Sam Crescent
“Few blokes are worth mentioning.” Natalie grinned and plucked a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket. “Shall we drink to that?”
“What are you doing?”
Natalie shrugged and reached for two crystal flutes, her grin still in place.
“We can’t.” Jasmine glanced toward the elegant lobby area with its stag antler candelabra.
“Why not? Our shift is over and this is only going down the drain.” She started pouring, fizz filling the flutes. “I mean, who spends one hundred and eighty quid on a bottle of the good stuff and then only has one small tipple?”
“The people who can afford eight hundred pounds a night for a room.” Jasmine brushed the front of her smart black skirt. “Which we most definitely can’t or ever will.”
“True, but as you said, we are lucky enough to work here. All work and no play will make us dull as dishwater.” Natalie handed her a glass. “Here. Bottoms up.”
Jasmine stared at it.
“Oh, come on, don’t be such a Goody Two-Shoes. One wee after-work drink. No one will know, and we’re not doing any harm.”
What the hell.
Jasmine took the glass of golden bubbles. “I don’t think I’ve ever had champagne before. Not the French stuff.” Oh, maybe she had in New York, but that had been with Devon and bought with drug money, so it didn’t count.
“All champagne is French.” Natalie giggled.
Jasmine smiled and pushed thoughts of Devon from her mind, something she was getting better at with each passing day in beautiful Scotland.
The tempting glass of fluid looked as devilish as she knew it was. Had she been alive, her mother would have given her “the look.” If it was going down the drain, it wasn’t technically stealing, but still … it was illicit. It wasn’t really hers to drink.
“Slainte.” Natalie tapped the tip of her glass to Jasmine’s. “And here’s to work colleagues becoming best friends.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Jasmine sipped, the luscious bubbles popping on her tongue and all thoughts of sinning slipping away. It was good to be here in the Highlands. Surrounded by history and beauty, working hard alongside good honest people, finding a new path for herself, by herself, and no one telling her how she should live. And Natalie was right—they were best friends. In the six months Jasmine had been living and working at The Balmorals Inn, they’d become close, having fun when they could.
Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to shift. Then it stilled and cooled. The tingling on her neck went down her spine, weaving a chilled thread.
“Fuck.” Natalie, who was on the other side of the bar, sloshed her drink away then quickly stacked her glass.
Jasmine dumbly turned to the doorway, glass poised ready for another sip. Her heart stuttered, her throat tightened, and all the muscles in her belly tensed.
Standing with his feet hip-width apart and his hands on his waist was Stuart McKeith, billionaire owner of The Balmorals Inn. Light from the candelabra in the lobby caught the red flecks in his hair. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up his wide forearms, and his kilt was a fine blue and black tartan.
With narrowed eyes, he scanned the room, taking in all the neatly set crockery, the perfectly stacked fireplace, and the drawn burgundy checkered curtains that hid the autumn storm.
“Jasmine,” Natalie whispered.
Jasmine knew she should put the flute of champagne down, but what was the point? He’d seen her now. In fact, he was staring straight at her. “Good evening, Mr. McKeith,” she said, aware of the slight wobble in her voice but keeping her chin tilted.
“I see you are having a very good evening indeed.” He walked toward her, his black boots silent until he was off the plush red rug.
“It’s been a busy evening,” Natalie said, then cleared her throat. “We have just finished. Everything is ready for the breakfast service.”
His attention was still fastened on Jasmine. “And you have done a very neat job, as usual.”
Jasmine set the drink on the bar and dragged in a deep breath. She knotted her fingers together and her jaw tensed.
Damn, the man was so tall and handsome, like no one she’d ever met before. In fact, she’d only come across Stuart McKeith a handful of times. After his early morning inspection, he kept to the west wing of the castle, when he was home, that was. More often than not, he was out of the country checking on the global empire he’d inherited from his father.
He stopped before her and leaned on the polished bar. “What are you drinking to? Champagne must be for a toast, otherwise, what is the point in drinking it?”
Jasmine held his eye contact. The green flecks in the bases of his irises glinted like emeralds.
He raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for an answer.
“To men,” Jasmine said then swallowed, her throat still tight.
“Men?” The right side of his mouth twitched as though keeping a smile captive. “Any man in particular?”
She shook her head.
“So why drink to men?” He straightened and folded his arms, his biceps pushing against his white shirt and the tendons in his forearms visible.
“We were drinking to the lack of men in our lives.” Jasmine mimicked his action, clenching her fists beneath her arms as her breasts squashed together. Her cheeks heated.
“Oh?”
In the name of the good Lord, I have to get out of here.
“Aye,” Natalie said. “Lack of men. It suits us to be single. Less complicated. Means we can concentrate on our work and the guests here at The Balmorals Inn.”
“Is that so?” Even though Natalie had spoken, he didn’t take his attention from Jasmine.
She nodded and pressed her lips together. “The guests are our priority.”
“And that toast to the lack of men is worthy of opening a bottle of fine champagne?”
“It was open already and paid for.” Jasmine twirled the base of the flute. “It was going to be thrown away.” She tore her gaze from his face and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. McKeith. It was wrong.”
“Aye, it was.” He reached forward, nipped her chin, and forced her to look at him.
The heat of his fingers burned hot on her skin. His wide chest and broad shoulders loomed before her. The rest of the room seemed to fade away.
“It was very wrong.” His voice was low and gruff, as if he’d spoken over sandpaper.
She gulped. Was this it? Had her job bitten the dust? No more living and working in the beautiful Highlands?
If it was over, she had only herself to blame. Well, perhaps Natalie a bit, too.
“Sorry,” she said again.
“Jasmine,” he said. “Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“American.” Still, he nipped her chin.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know, the Highland constabulary would take this incident very seriously. It’s not a wee crime to steal alcohol in Scotland. It’s a very serious matter.”
“Really?” She frowned. Was he being sarcastic or was he serious? She’d yet to familiarize herself with all the nuances of this new land.
“Aye, really.” He released her and set his hand beside the flute. He tapped his fingers on the bar and his mouth twisted as if in thought.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jasmine spotted Natalie stepping backward, putting distance between herself and their quiet but obviously furious boss. She didn’t blame her.
At this point, she felt like she was standing next to a bomb about to explode—a very handsome, rich bomb, but all the same, something volatile and dangerous.
Her heart pounded. “What … what are you going to do?”
“What do you think I should do?” A tendon flexed in his cheek beneath his sprinkle of pale stubble.
“Accept my apology,” she said. “It won’t happen again … sir.”
“I know it won’t.” He paused. “And while I do accept your apology, this can’t go unpunished.”
&nbs
p; “Punished?” Just the word sent a new shot of adrenaline into her system.
“What do you think I should do with you, American Jasmine?”
“I … I don’t know. I guess it’s for you to decide. You’re the owner of The Balmorals Inn, and, I suppose, also the owner of the leftover champagne.”
“That I am.” He stepped away. “Which gives me the right to consider my answer, weigh up my options.”
“Consider it?”
“Come and see me tomorrow after the breakfast rush.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In my office. Do you know where that is?”
“In the west wing?”
“Aye, get Benson to let you through the locked door, then climb the stone staircase and go through the archway.”
Her curiosity was piqued. She’d walked past the huge oak door a thousand times but had never gone through it. A glossy black plaque in the center read PRIVATE. It was a shame she was going to see behind it in these circumstances—that put a dampener on it for sure. “Yes, sir, after the breakfast rush.”
“Good.” He nodded briefly at Natalie, then his attention slipped back to Jasmine. “Just you, Jasmine. I will deal with Natalie separately.”
He turned and strode from the room, moving with grace despite his size.
“Fuck a duck,” Natalie muttered. “This is bad.”
Jasmine groaned. “Tell me about it. I need this job, I really do. Where else am I going to find somewhere to work that comes with living quarters?”
“Nowhere. Not around here, that’s for sure.”
Jasmine frowned. “And how come he seems madder at me than you?”
“I hid my glass quickly.” She shrugged and looked vaguely sorry. “Perhaps he didn’t see it.”
Jasmine felt sure he had. Stuart McKeith had a reputation for not missing anything that went on in his hotel, or any detail of his businesses. He wouldn’t be the rich, powerful Scotsman he was if that were the case. So why had he singled her out to visit his office? Why had his focus on her been so intense it had heated her body and created a fizz of awareness over her skin? Heck, she could still feel his fingers on her chin and smell his faded sandalwood aftershave.
One thing was for sure, despite how tired she was, Jasmine didn’t fancy her chances of getting much sleep. How could she knowing her boss would be plotting her punishment? A punishment she’d either have to suck up or leave The Balmorals Inn.
And leaving wasn’t an option.
Chapter Two
As she’d predicted, Jasmine tossed and turned most of the night. When she did sleep, she dreamed of running through the rolling heather-strewn hills around the castle, a fast frantic run with the panic-strewn fear of being chased.
So she started her morning tired and fractious, a sense of doom wrapped around her shoulders like a heavy cloak. But even so, she slapped on a smile and went about serving the guests their hearty breakfasts before they wrapped up for a day of shooting, hiking, and kayaking on the loch.
Natalie worked at her side, but they didn’t have a chance to speak about the night before until the last guests headed out of the dining room.
“Are you going to see him?” Natalie asked.
“Is there an option not to?” Jasmine huffed.
“I guess not.” Natalie nibbled on her bottom lip. “I’ll come with you if you want.”
“Yes, I want, but I don’t think you can. He was quite specific about me going alone.”
“True.”
Jasmine glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I should go then. Wish me luck.”
“Just keep your job. No matter what, I need you here. It would be so boring if you left now.”
“I intend to do whatever it takes to keep my job. It’s too important to me, so don’t worry about being alone.” Jasmine squeezed Natalie’s hand.
“Good luck.”
Jasmine removed her small white apron and tucked it behind the bar area. She smoothed her hair, hoping not too many strands had escaped since she’d pulled it back that morning, and brushed the front of her white shirt, removing a crease.
Benson sat behind the reception area, stooped over a computer screen.
“How are you today?” Jasmine asked.
“Busy.” He didn’t look up.
“Mr. McKeith wishes to see me in his office.”
“His office?” Now he did look up. His already wrinkled brow creased some more. “But that’s in the west wing.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t allow hotel staff into the west wing. That’s his private quarters.”
“He was very definite about it.” She nodded at the phone. “Call him if you want.”
“No, no, Jasmine.” He stood and patted his pocket, rattling a set of keys. “I believe you. It’s just highly unusual, but then again, it is you.”
“What do you mean it is me?”
“Er, nothing.” He stepped around the reception desk. “This way.”
Jasmine walked in line with him past the base of the sweeping staircase that led to the first-floor guest rooms.
“What’s this all about then?” Benson asked.
She hesitated. The Balmorals Inn was a hotbed for gossip. After all, there wasn’t much else to do up in the mountains. But did she want to be the center of it?
Not really.
“Just, you know, I’ve been here six months. Kind of an appraisal, how I’m getting on.”
“Really?” Benson studied her as if searching for more information on her face.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Cardigan usually does that. Mr. McKeith is far too busy.”
“What can I say? Perhaps he’s changed his routine?”
“You can say that again. He’s been behaving quite oddly since he returned from Singapore.”
“He has?”
“Aye.” Benson stopped at the locked oak door and pulled out the keys. Beside the door was a portrait of a stern-looking woman and an Afghan hound. She held a rifle.
“Why, what else has he done that’s odd?” Jasmine asked.
“Well, it’s not really for me to say.” Benson looked over his shoulder, even though it was clear they were alone in the corridor. “But he’s been down at the boathouse tinkering around, something he only does when there’s a problem he can’t solve. And he’s canceled a trip to Edinburgh to catch up with old university friends, an annual occasion he’s never missed before.”
“What do you think is on his mind?”
“If I knew that, missy, I’d be a mind reader.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open. “There you go. There’s a key on the other side. Lock it, then hang the key up on the hook again. We don’t want any nosy guests finding their way up this particular turret.”
Jasmine’s stomach clenched. This was it. Time to face the consequences of her actions.
She stepped from the carpet onto the hard flagstone floor. Benson closed the door.
A hook held a black iron key, and she quickly did as he’d instructed, the door locking with a resounding clunk. Trapping herself in the turret with an angry Scotsman who was also her boss wasn’t the most sensible thing she’d ever done.
She turned to the wide set of stone steps. They coiled around, and a brass handle followed the curve. Climbing them, she breathed deep. The air was cool, as if the ancient stone walls kept it that way. Passing a small window in the shape of a cross, she glanced outside. The gale was still blowing, trees clinging to the earth as their boughs bent low.
Eventually, the staircase set her on a landing, larger than she’d expected and with a tartan rug. To her right were two doorways, both closed, and on the left, an archway.
She remembered him saying she had to go through the archway.
Clasping her hands, she walked past a highly polished dresser dotted with photo frames. She resisted the urge to stop and look at them.
The archway led to a neat room with curved stone walls. A wide desk was set before a lead-paned window, and a fire
flickered in the grate to her right. Above it, a faded painting of the landscape that could be seen through the window, though this image was of summertime.
“Good, you’re here.”
She spun around.
“Please sit.” Stuart McKeith strode farther into the room. Today, he wore black pants rather than a kilt, though his fleece shirt was the same blue and black tartan he’d worn the day before. His hair was a little damp, as if he’d showered recently, his aftershave fresh.
“Yes, thank you.” Jasmine quickly plonked herself on the straight-backed chair in front of the desk. She placed her palms on her thighs then changed her mind and clasped her hands together in her lap.
He walked to the window and stared out, hands on his hips.
Her attention slipped to his ass. High and pert, his pants hugged it just right. Much as kilts yanked her chain, some asses were meant to be nestled in pants so they could be admired.
What the hell?
She snapped in a breath and sat up straighter. Checking out Stuart McKeith’s ass was not on her to-do list. Keeping her job and staying in Scotland was.
“I spent a lot of time last night thinking,” he said, his focus still on the outside world.
Jasmine was silent.
“You see,” he went on, “I have a problem on a larger scale than staff drinking leftover champagne.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?” He turned, his eyebrows pulled low, his mouth a straight line.
“Yes, of course.” She hesitated. “Anything I can help with, sir?”
“Actually aye, you can.” He stepped up to the desk, but he didn’t sit. Instead, he placed his knuckles on it and leaned forward.
A kernel of hope sprang inside her. Perhaps she wasn’t going to lose her job and her home, and the nightmare she’d left behind in Philadelphia was going to stay in her past. “Of course, anything.”
“Anything?” His tone was deep and questioning.
“Yes, sir, anything, and I’m happy to work a few shifts for free to pay back the cost of the champagne.”
“Forget the champagne.” He straightened and wafted his hand through the air, as if pushing the fancy bottle of booze from the room. “That is not important.”