“Seriously.”
“I am being serious. But yes, my aunt taught me how to cook at a very young age, and I loved it. My mother, of course, wanted me to do something ‘useful.’ So I suffered through my business studies until I’d finally had enough and went to culinary school.”
“Your mother doesn’t like what you do for a living?” Andrea asked in surprise.
“Oh no. Quid pro quo. You can’t start questioning me about my mother unless you give me something that’s not on your CV.”
“Not going to happen.” Andrea crossed her legs and planted her hands firmly in her lap.
“You can start small. Your favorite color. Your favorite movie. Favorite television program.”
She almost refused, but that was just silly. It wasn’t as if he were asking her to spill her deepest secrets. “All right. Purple, North by Northwest, and I don’t own a TV. Your turn.”
“Hang on a moment. I want to explore this. We’ll ignore the fact that purple is a very girlish color for someone like you, though you wear it well. Why would you choose a sixty-year-old movie as your favorite?”
“That wasn’t the deal. You asked, I answered. Now, why doesn’t your mother like what you do for a living?”
James made a face. “She wanted me to follow in my brother’s footsteps and become a lawyer. Or an investment consultant. Or anything respectable. In her mind, cooking in a restaurant is one step above being a servant. Owning said restaurant is only marginally better. Your turn, answer the question.”
Andrea hesitated. Delving into personal matters with a client was never a good idea, but James didn’t seem the type to let it go. Besides, if she was going to make this deal happen, they needed to venture beyond flirtation and insults.
“I grew up in a little town near Dayton, Ohio,” she said finally. “It was small. No stoplights or fast food chains. We had this old art deco movie theater on Main Street that only showed one new movie a month. The rest of the time, they played classic films: Greta Garbo, Bing Crosby, Cary Grant. I loved them. I saved my allowance so I could just sit and watch for hours after school. I was usually the only person under the age of fifty in there, but I was hooked.”
“Why?”
She remembered hunkering down in the threadbare red seats, transfixed by the flickering black-and-white images on the screen. “I don’t know. They were clever and sophisticated and sometimes a little naughty without being vulgar. No one I knew talked like that. They seemed so glamorous. To a small-town girl . . .” She broke off, heat rising to her cheeks. “I know that probably sounds ridiculous.”
“Not at all. Skye is not exactly the cultural center of the UK, you know.”
He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, so she let it go. Instead she studied him as he drove. One hand rested easily on the steering wheel, the other moving from beside him on the seat only when he needed to shift. In London, he had practically radiated energy. Now his intensity was muted to a soft glow.
How much of the flirtatious wit was the real him, and how much was just the public persona? It wasn’t as if he were a movie star, drawing paparazzi to him every time he stepped outside—they’d made it through two airports without anyone doing more than a curious double take—yet his frequent appearances in the gossip pages suggested he purposely sought the spotlight.
She dragged her eyes away from him and looked out her window. She was spending far too much time analyzing the man when she should be focused on the business owner. At least James seemed comfortable with silence. She’d figured he’d want to flirt and tease the entire drive to Skye.
Andrea lost track of time, soaking in the rapid changes of scenery: open country, enormous lochs, and patches of forest that reminded her of home. The land finally gave way to a tangle of trees as the road climbed upward into the craggy hill. Storm clouds mounded overhead, spattering the windshield in a halfhearted attempt at rain, and mist hung over the higher peaks in the distance.
“Look. We’re approaching Glen Shiel.”
Andrea pulled her attention back to the road, which now wound downward into a valley, rounded mountains sloping sharply up on either side of them. Green had begun to overtake the brown, but snow still capped the top of the ridge. Wide swaths of evergreens stretched along the side of the road and jutted up the mountainside. There was something both desolate and breathtakingly beautiful about the scene.
The road curved along the edge of a loch and climbed back into mountains. When they emerged again from between the hills, Andrea gaped at the water spread out before them, twisting between the mountains in craggy inlets and shorelines. Below, just off the shore, rose a stunning stone castle.
“Eilean Donan,” James said. “The most photographed castle in Scotland. You’re sure you don’t want to stop? I don’t mind.”
“No,” Andrea said, but she heard the reluctance in her voice. “We have work to do.”
“I am going to wear you down, you realize.”
It won’t take much. How long had it been since she’d laced up her hiking boots and strapped on a pack simply to spend a day surrounded by the quiet of nature like she had as a child? Three years? More? The promotion to senior account manager meant weekends in the office or on planes, not exploring her favorite spots in the Hudson River Valley or on Breakneck Ridge. Long summer days and mountain sunsets were just distant memories.
They emerged from the mountains and descended toward the water. Andrea took note of the whitewashed buildings on either side of the road as they passed through a tiny town that reminded her of a New England fishing village. Then the graceful concrete arch of the Skye Bridge lay before them, stretching over the short span of water and framing a lighthouse just beyond.
James pressed a button and rolled the front windows down.
“What are you doing?”
This time his smile made him look downright boyish. “You can’t tell me you don’t love salt air.”
“I suppose I do.” Andrea inhaled the tang of salt and the earthy scent of peat beneath. When they proceeded over the wide multilane bridge, she allowed herself to peer out the window at the water.
“I’ve got you now. Don’t try to deny it.”
A smile stretched across her face. “It’s spectacular. I’m beginning to understand why you decided on Skye.”
“Just wait, love. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Love?” She shot him an exasperated look.
He frowned, taken aback. “It’s just an expression. Like—”
“—sweetheart, honey, pumpkin.”
“I swear to you, I have never used pumpkin as a term of endearment for anyone over the age of ten, nor will I.”
She scowled at him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I thought we were having a nice friendly conversation. It just slipped out.”
His abashed expression summoned a twinge of guilt. Maybe she was being too sensitive. She just despised the diminutives men used for her. Too often they felt like subtle put-downs, a way of minimizing her position. But James didn’t seem to have meant anything of the sort.
She quickly changed the subject before she could embarrass herself further. “You grew up here on Skye?”
“Until I was twelve,” James said. “Then I went to boarding school in Edinburgh.”
“Why?”
“My parents were divorced. I got myself into so much mischief after my mother left, she was sure I’d turn into a delinquent. I didn’t want to go back to England with her, so we compromised on an independent school in Scotland.”
“I can’t imagine leaving home at twelve.”
James shrugged. “I enjoyed myself. Of course, I wasn’t the most serious of students. I got tossed from my first two schools anyway.”
“I don’t believe that. You don’t get into the University of Edinburgh without good grades.”
“Oh, I earned high marks. I just spent as much time in the headmaster’s office as I did in class.” His mouth curved upwa
rd, secretive, mischievous. “I had a rather unfortunate propensity for practical jokes.”
“Which, apparently, you have not lost.”
“Perhaps not.” He made a face. “Do I owe you an apology for last night? I couldn’t resist.”
Andrea sighed. “No. I should have been better prepared.”
“If you’d been prepared, you’d have been perfectly polite. Maybe you would’ve felt you needed to flatter my ego. Trust me, Andrea, I get enough of that as it is.”
“Yes, it must be terrible to have women fawn all over you.”
He glanced over long enough to catch her eye. “Do you enjoy turning the head of every man who gets within ten feet of you? Tell me the truth.”
Heat rushed back to her cheeks, though she couldn’t quite say why. Of course men looked. They looked at all moderately attractive women. It wasn’t as if it meant anything. “It depends on the man, I suppose.”
“Is that right?” Something in the way his gaze slid over her before it returned to the road made her heart trip. The flush deepened. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile. Blast him. He’d noticed, and he knew why.
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut. In the course of a three-hour drive, she’d managed to destroy her only chance of keeping things on a strictly professional level. James was intelligent enough to recognize the effect he had on her, involuntary as it was. If she’d been playing poker, she would have just tipped her hand.
Well done, Andrea. Well done.
Chapter Six
For someone used to being in charge, Andrea Sullivan blushed more than any woman he’d ever met.
Not that he minded. There was a fine line between assertive and brash, and so many of the women he’d met took a giant leap over it. James suppressed his smile. Andrea might be opinionated, but there were apparently some things she couldn’t plan or control.
He slowed as he made the turn onto the road that led down the Sleat peninsula toward Isleornsay. His heart lifted at the familiar stretch of asphalt, bordered by dry grasses and patches of evergreens. He may have lived the last thirteen years of his life in London, but Skye would always be home. Even his lingering irritation toward Ian faded as he took in the slant of sunlight through the clouds, the rapidly moving shadows on the rolling hills.
After a few minutes, he turned onto a pitted road, the Subaru’s spongy suspension magnifying every bump and roll in the macadam surface. He’d have to remember to have the car looked at. Apparently the previous winter had taken its toll on the vehicle.
They rounded the bend, and the water stretched out before them, a gleaming, protected bay of blue dotted with tiny islands.
A backdrop of mountains framed Isle Ornsay, the larger island in the Sound of Sleat from which the village had drawn its name. The isle’s charming lighthouse stood sentinel in the bay, a slender column rising from the craggy island, a splash of white against the dark scenery. James may have grown up here, but he was struck by the spot’s wild beauty every time he returned.
“This is the village of Isleornsay,” James said. “Those mountains across the water are the mainland.”
A surprised smile spread over Andrea’s face. He stole glances at her, gauging her reaction as he navigated the rough road into the gravel lot and pulled up before the main house. “This is the hotel. Welcome to the MacDonald Guest House.”
Andrea opened her door before he could do it for her and stepped out. James paused in his own open door and folded his arms atop the car’s roof, watching as she took in the hotel and the picturesque bay in the background. The smile hadn’t yet left her face.
He followed her gaze to the main structure. The lines of the original Hebridean croft house remained, though it had been updated and expanded over the years to a two-story whitewashed stone building with a shingled roof and many tiny, multipaned windows set into its sides. Several smaller buildings stood nearby and wild grasses and spring flowers spread around it in a riot of early color. Even closed up and in dire need of attention, it spoke of warmth and welcome. He had missed it.
“I’ve never seen any place like this,” Andrea murmured.
“It’s breathtaking,” he agreed. “Even to me. Come, let me show you to your room.”
He retrieved her bag from the back of the car and led the way toward three small freestanding stone cottages that faced the sound. Built a few decades before, they had been designed to blend with the main house, even though they were more open and expansive than the isle’s traditional cottages. He flipped through the keys on his key ring to find the proper one. “The cottages aren’t quite finished. It may not be what you’re accustomed to, but they’re comfortable enough.”
He unlocked the red-painted door of the farthest cottage, set Andrea’s suitcase inside the door, and stepped aside for her to enter before him.
She brushed past him and looked around. “Nice.” She walked slowly through the kitchenette, trailing a finger along the stone countertops, checking the interiors of the hand-finished cabinets. The woman who blushed at the slightest innuendo was gone, the executive in her place. “I assume you’ll be providing dishes and cookware?”
“Yes. As I said, we’re not quite done yet.” His stomach gave a twist. He hadn’t been this nervous since the first time a reviewer stepped inside the Hart and the Hound. That was ridiculous, though. He was the client. She was the one who needed to impress him.
Except he had taken a personal interest in the renovations. He’d consulted a designer, but most of the choices had been his, from the hand-planed wood floor to the antique bed tucked into the niche on the back wall. Andrea paused by the bed, rubbing the edge of the fluffy duvet between her fingers.
“Checking the thread count?” That was a phrase he’d never thought he’d hear from his own mouth. A man really shouldn’t know a thing like thread count existed.
She didn’t say anything, just shot him an unreadable look and continued into the small sitting area with its two slipcovered armchairs and colorful rag rug.
He couldn’t stand the silence. He moved to a door beside the niche that housed the bed and opened it. “This is the bathroom.”
Andrea strode across the room and peeked through the narrow doorway. The corners of her mouth edged up. “Now this is a bathroom.”
She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his chest and leaving a trail of her perfume behind. Vanilla. Definitely.
“I hear the way to a woman’s heart is a claw-foot bathtub and a sparkly chandelier.”
Her eyes rose to the dainty antique fixture hanging from the vaulted ceiling, then returned to the other details—the subway tiles on the walls, the fluffy towels. “The chandelier is a nice touch, I’ll admit. But you had me at the heated towel rack.”
He chuckled as she turned to exit the bathroom, but he stayed where he was, shoulder against the doorframe. A cheap ploy, maybe, but since she wouldn’t willingly get near him any other way . . . He was gratified to see that this time her step faltered at the contact. She hurried past him into the open space at the center of the room.
“So? What’s the verdict?”
“It’s lovely.” She took another sweep of the room, her eyes lit with appreciation. “Both rustic and elegant. Peaceful yet sophisticated. I can’t imagine a better setting for a romantic getaway.” She met his gaze and added quickly, “Which is how we’d probably want to market the cottages.”
“Of course.” If his slight smile hinted at something other than agreement, he couldn’t be held responsible, could he? He glanced at his watch. “It’s after four. I should be getting up to the house to start supper.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My aunt’s house up the road. My sister, Serena, is visiting for the week. I promised I’d make supper.”
“Oh.” Andrea blinked, obviously taken aback. “I’d hoped we’d be able to see the main house tonight.”
“We can see it in the morning. The electricity’s off while
the house is being rewired, and the plasterboard is falling off the walls. It’s a hazard.”
“Fair enough. I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.” She retrieved her suitcase and rolled it toward the wardrobe. “What time should I be ready?”
She really thought he would leave her to her own devices without a car? Was her opinion of him that low? “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re coming with me.”
Alarm flashed over her face. “Oh no. I couldn’t. It’s a family thing. I wouldn’t presume—”
“Andrea, there are no restaurants within walking distance. I’d lend you the car, but I don’t like the idea of you driving these roads after dark. I insist.” When she still hesitated, he added, “There’s some big-shot chef cooking tonight. It might just be rumor, but I hear he’s pretty good.”
She repressed a smile. “When you put it that way, I can hardly say no.”
He shouldn’t feel so relieved she’d relented without an argument, but so far she seemed to think he was a poseur, a celebrity constructed on paper and video. Some part of him wanted her to appreciate why he’d become so popular.
Not that he could take full credit for it. His success had come too easily—his hard work and talent notwithstanding—to not believe in divine intervention. Opportunities had fallen into his lap, chances most men only dreamed about.
He ushered her back out the door and into the car for the short ride to his aunt’s house, a modern clapboard structure facing the bay, painted the ubiquitous white of Skye. The storm shutters had gotten a new coat of gray paint since his last visit, and window boxes promised colorful blooms to come during the island’s warmer months. The garden plot already lay tilled and ready for planting, a square of dark earth on the far side of the gravel drive.
James parked behind Serena’s dusty red Vauxhall before he noticed the vintage Austin-Healey in front of it. His heart plummeted to his stomach and churned there for a minute. Perfect. Just what he needed—a confrontation in front of Andrea. For one second, he considered putting the car into reverse and heading back to the hotel, but he’d promised Aunt Muriel and Serena he’d make dinner. He couldn’t let his brother run him off. He’d never hear the end of how he’d broken his promise.
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