by Tarah Scott
Margot stood and shrugged. “You have to admit these Scottish men are damned hot. But he’s a prospective customer—well his cousin is—and I didn’t want him thinking you were running a southern-style whore house.” Though she couldn’t help wondering how much he would have minded.
Cat turned her attention to her computer. “You’re a guest here just like anyone else. You can socialize with whoever you want.”
Margot nodded genially. What would Cat do if she had discovered McNeil was SAS? Damn him. Margot had agreed to his dinner invitation. Invitation, her ass, he’d used blackmail. She’d decided that making friends with an SAS agent couldn’t hurt, and she couldn't deny the desire to see him again, which had surprised her. The last thing on her mind was romance. Romance, hell. If the dreams she'd been having were an indication, Cat had hit the mark. Margot needed a good lay. Besides, if McNeil got in her way, she’d kick his SAS ass all the way back to Gordon’s doorstep.
Margot smiled at Cat. “You need anything…” She let the offer hang.
Cat’s nod gave way to a soft smile that could have made Margot believe her old friend was incapable of murder. But Margot could only hear Etta Mae’s gravelly voice saying, “No baby’s gonna get in her way.”
Chapter Seven
Margot watched from the front steps of Castle Morrison as headlights cut through the darkness beyond the driveway’s stone gate and a red Alpha Romeo turned into the circular drive. She wondered which window Cat was spying from. Given Cat’s reaction to McNeil that morning, Margot had decided to cancel their date. She'd called Chief Inspector John Gordon and asked that he get in touch with McNeil, but Gordon said he didn’t know any McNeil and warned her against saying otherwise. She hadn’t been surprised by Gordon’s response, but requested that he tell the gentleman who visited her today that the date was off. Gordon had laughed with much the same amusement McNeil had and informed her in a clipped Scottish burr that he wasn’t a dating service. Goddamn Scots.
McNeil slowed in front of the entrance and Margot reached for the passenger side door before the car came to a complete stop. She slid into the leather seat and pulled the door shut.
Broad shoulders accentuated by a golden brown pullover sweater registered in her mind before she said, “You’ve pretty much fucked me.”
Light from the brightly lit drive illuminated the surprise that flickered across is face before nonchalance veiled his thoughts. He released the clutch and the car started forward. “Not yet, but give me a chance.”
Margot ignored the warmth that flushed through her, and said, “She knows.”
His gaze remained focused on the driveway. “Knows what?”
“Who you are.”
His head snapped in her direction. Their gaze locked for a second before he looked at the driveway again and slowed as they approached the road. “That’s not possible.”
“Anything’s possible.”
He looked both ways, then turned left onto the deserted road. Scant moonlight shone down on the barren hills that melted into shadow.
“What happened?” he asked.
“As I predicted, she knew about our meeting.”
“That's not surprising. The Isle of Lewis is a small island. Castle Morrison is an even smaller community. Everything is news. You come from a small town. You know that.”
“She advised me to find you and get a good lay.” So much for keeping her distance.
He glanced at her. “Sound advice, if you ask me.”
Margot gave him an appraising look and said, “Looks aren’t everything,” despite the bulge that pressed against the fly of his jeans.
“No,” he answered with a small smile, and she knew he had come close to reading her mind.
“It was subtle, but she was angry,” Margot said. “She would have no reason to care unless she knew.”
“You say it was subtle. Maybe you’re mistaken.”
“Just like I’m mistaken about her murdering her husband?” My cousin, she silently added. “You think I’m stupid enough not to recognize when someone’s hiding something that big?”
A moment of silence passed before he said, “No, I don’t think you're stupid. But that doesn’t mean you’ve got it right. Your chief said the coroner ruled the death an accidental drowning.”
Margot gave a hollow laugh. “Wouldn’t you be able to tell if your best friend killed her husband?”
“Suspecting a close friend of murdering her spouse is no small matter.”
He turned a bend in the road and thin moonlight shimmered across the small inlet she’d visited her second day on the island.
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”
“I’ll have a look at what she’s been doing here in Scotland.”
“I thought you said I was wrong.”
“Professional—”
“—courtesy—” she finished in unison with him.
He smiled. “John ran a check on her. Mine will be more thorough." McNeil's expression sobered. "But keep in mind, he didn’t find even a parking ticket. Is she involved with anyone?”
“Not that I know of.” Margot stared out the window, but saw Donny's face, the love shining in his eyes the day he'd looked down at Cat in the Woodville First Baptist Church, and said, I do. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a target in her sites." Margot said. "Killing is in her blood.”
*****
They arrived in Stornoway, and McNeil pulled the Alpha into a spot along the curb, then got out and came around the car as Margot stepped from the car.
“I thought you might like this place.” He nodded toward the sign that read Sunsets Restaurant. “The seafood is quite good.”
He slipped an arm around her and warmth spread from the fingers that lightly gripped her waist. Damn, the man was pure male, and her body wanted some of that masculine attention. An entanglement was the last thing she needed. Now if she could convince her body…
He urged her forward.
“Charles,” came a male voice behind them.
He glanced over his shoulder.
A sixty-something man came up alongside McNeil and slapped him on the back. "When did ye get in town?"
“A few days ago,” McNeil replied.
The man glanced at Margot, then looked back at McNeil. His eyes lit with curiosity.
"Margot, this is Alex MacLeod,” McNeil said. “Alex, Margot Saulnier."
She extended her hand and the older man lightly clasped it in both his large, calloused hands. "A real pleasure to meet you, Miss Saulnier. Saulnier," he repeated, "are you French?"
She smiled. "Not completely."
His brows shot up. "Either you are, or you aren't."
"Cajun French," she said.
"Cajun French." He cast a glance at McNeil that said he found the idea and her intriguing.
"You can let go of her hand now, Alex," McNeil said.
The old man looked down at their clasped hands and an expression of surprise so fake appeared on his face that Margot had to bite back a laugh.
He winked, then released her. "Is this rascal taking you to his uncle's place?"
"Alex," McNeil growled.
"Come now, lad, if ye don't go, you know he'll have my hide."
"Your hide?" Margot said.
"Aye, when Clyde finds out I saw his nephew, I'll be the one to blame for not making sure he stopped by."
"Margot and I have a quiet evening planned," McNeil said.
The old man snorted. "No woman wants a quiet evening." He winked at her. "McNeil's is the finest pub on the island, everyone goes there. Don't let him tell you otherwise."
"Alex," McNeil said.
"Don't talk back to your elders," the old man cut in. "Not to mention, your uncle."
"Uncle?" Margot repeated.
Alex nodded. "I'm his uncle on his mother's side. Clyde is his father's brother."
She glanced at McNeil. "A regular family affair."
"You have no idea," he answered in a dry tone.
>
Alex caught her hand, slipped it into the crook of his arm, and started away. "McNeil's has the finest ales." He leaned toward Margot and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "Is he following?"
Margot started to look back just as McNeil stepped up beside her. "Seems so."
"Damn him," the old man said, and she laughed.
Ten minutes later, McNeil opened the door to McNeil's Pub, to the roar of raucous laughter, male voices in open debate mingled with female voices. Margot stepped inside and blinked against the smoke that hung in layers throughout the room. Alex hadn't lied. She didn’t see an empty seat in the small pub.
Alex sidled past tables to the bar on the right. He patted the shoulder of a man sitting on a stool in the middle of the bar. "Move along, lad."
The man swiveled in the chair and faced them. "Alex, you old fool." His gaze caught on Margot, then McNeil. He smiled, grabbed the mug of ale sitting on the bar, and stood. “M'lady,” he said to Margot, and winked.
She settled on the stool and Alex shooed another patron from an adjacent seat, then sat down. Margot glanced at McNeil and shrugged. He gave a good natured shake of his head and stepped between her and the stool to her right. A thrill tightened her stomach when he pressed his chest against her back and called, "What does a man have to do to get an ale around here?"
A man at the end of the bar looked up, his gaze in the mirror that spanned the length of the wall, and Margot recognized the same intense stare belonging to McNeil. Strands of silver lightened the man's sandy blond hair, only emphasizing the crystal blue eyes. He stood an inch shorter than McNeil, but boasted the same broad shoulders and fit arms. Here was a preview of McNeil twenty-five years from now. She could live with that. Margot flushed warm. When had she ever thought of a man beyond mere months?
The older McNeil turned and headed toward them. Clyde reached them and leaned both hands on the bar at shoulder width. “About time you came for a visit.” A soft but distinct Scottish burr, absent in McNeil's British accent, rolled off his tongue.
"Mum called, I take it?" McNeil said, unruffled.
"She did."
"I've been preoccupied."
Clyde’s gaze shifted onto Margot. "So I see."
McNeil leaned closer. "Margot, meet my father's brother, Clyde McNeil. Clyde, Margot Saulnier."
He gave her a nod, then turned his attention back to Charles. "What will you have to drink?"
"I'll have a Celtic Black Ale, if you have any on hand."
Clyde's eyes narrowed, and Margot had the distinct impression McNeil was baiting his uncle.
McNeil leaned on the bar to her side so that he could see her face. "What would you like, Margot?"
"I'll try the ale."
Approval flickered in Clyde's eyes, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. Maybe SAS training wasn't the reason McNeil was so skilled at keeping his thoughts hidden. Seemed the habit ran in the family.
Clyde started to turn, and Alex said, "Don't be so hasty, Clyde. Just because there's a beautiful woman here is no call to ignore family." Alex threw a grin her way, then added, "I'll have an ale, as well."
McNeil slipped a muscular arm around her waist as he leaned close and pressed his mouth to her ear. "They do make a fine fish and chips here. Not quite what I had in mind, but you won't be disappointed."
She shivered at the wash of his warm breath in her ear. His arm tightened enough to say he caught the reaction and another flush swept through her. Thankfully, Clyde appeared, three foaming mugs of beers in hand. Margot nodded thanks and took three long gulps that emptied half her glass.
McNeil again leaned on the bar so that he could see her face. "Are you all right?" The gleam in his eye said he was well aware of his affect on her.
She gave him a deprecating look. "Don't get cocky. This room is filled with attractive men."
"But none of them can do this." He pressed his mouth to her ear again, gently took her lobe between his teeth, and nibbled.
Gooseflesh raced down her arms. His fingers flexed on her waist and memory flashed of Lord Morrison's warm fingers as he slipped a hand inside her pajama top and pulled her against a chest as solid as the one that pressed into her shoulder. Would McNeil be able to bring her to the brink of insanity as the Scottish lord had? Her insides liquefied with the mental picture of her bucking against Colin's finger. The image dissolved into McNeil's long, dark fingers inside her, stroking the sensitive spot as her walls closed round him in a convulsion of pleasure.
Margot jerked back to the present when McNeil trailed a moist kiss downward, flicked his tongue to the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder, then straightened. His gaze lifted and met hers in the mirror as he took a leisurely sip of his ale. She resisted the need to shift on the barstool in order to ease the discomfort that throbbed between her legs. Dammit, if she excused herself and went to the ladies room McNeil would know good and well she'd gone to administer a hard finger fuck. But would he know that was only a primer for what she really needed: him?
Her pulse quickened at the thought of him slipping into the bathroom after her, turning the lock, then backing her against the wall and sliding his fingers past her jeans waistband into her wet folds. Her breath caught at the mental picture of Lord Morrison slipping between her and the wall, his body hard and warm as he thrust his engorged cock against her ass in unison with the in and out motion of McNeil's fingers inside her channel.
Her heart pounded. Sweet Christ, where had Colin Morrison come from in that fantasy? Margot caught sight of McNeil in the mirror, his stare intense, a knowing smile hinted at in the lift of his mouth. A quiver radiated through her stomach. She wanted like hell to see that same look on his face when he pounded into her.
Chapter Eight
A tiny click sounded when the lock pick Margot used to unlock Cat’s door shifted the tumblers into place. She pulled the pick from the door and slipped inside the room. A lone desk lamp illuminated the empty room. She leaned against the door, pushing it shut behind her, and released a breath. It had been too long since she'd met a man as interesting as Charles McNeil, yet she'd had him drop her off at Castle Morrison with only a kiss good night. Her insides still quivered from that kiss. Damn, but it was more than just wanting the man. He made her want to explore every inch of his body with a slow, methodical inspection that would take years.
Margot snorted. She’d lost her mind. She inserted the jiggler pick into the credit card sized case alongside its eleven casemates. Unlike the other doors she’d seen in the castle, Cat had installed a modern tumbler lock on her office door. A fortunate happenstance that made it easy to get past the locked door. She slipped the case into her back pocket, then locked the door and faced the room. The small desk lamp cast a shadow on the eight-pointed Scottish Templar cross that spanned the massive chain mail in the alcove behind the desk. A sudden chime caused her to whirl toward the fireplace. Two more chimes followed. She stared, heart beating three wild beats for every gong the mantle clock chimed. The room fell silent. Damn. The place didn’t need ghosts. A heart attack would get her before Castle Morrison’s ripper did.
Margot blew out a breath, then crossed to the desk and dropped into the chair. What was she looking for? She hadn’t gleaned a single clue as to the real reason behind Cat’s invitation to Castle Morrison. Margot would settle for starting with the real reason she’d bought the castle.
Despite her flashes of anger, Cat had been more like the old Cat than she had been since her marriage. One of those flashes of anger had been when Margot appeared for breakfast this morning. Could the problem with the contractors account for her mood? It couldn't be McNeil, he hadn't shown up until early afternoon. Margot thought back to the moment she’d stepped from the stairwell and Cat’s gaze met hers. Anger had flickered in Cat’s eyes, then gave way to a thinning of the lips. A look Margot had seen many times after Cat married Donny.
When Cat suddenly fell in love with Donny, Margot hadn’t been able to silence the fear that Cat might mar
ry him in order to tear down the barrier she believed barred her from the right side of the tracks. Margot tried convincing herself that her cop’s mentality made her question Cat’s motives, but Cat’s anger fueled the suspicion, and eventually Margot feared Cat had used her marriage to Donny to compete with—and even hurt—Margot. That anger reminded Margot of the reaction she’d observed this morning. It made no more sense now than it did then. Why hurt the one person who’d always stood by her? And why get pissed off when she had invited Margot to Scotland?
Twenty-five minutes later, Margot cursed. Not a single computer file was password protected. Only office supplies filled the drawers. The single oak file cabinet located in the far right hand corner contained invoices, employee records, and the like. This office belonged to a highly efficient businesswoman. End of story, as Chief Hicks would say.
Margot began prowling the room. Had Cat hidden the important information in her bedroom? Where would be the best place to hide sensitive information? Margot paused. Where would a person hide something in an old castle? The dungeon came to mind, but that was part of the public tour. She ran a finger along the mantle. Her gaze fell on the fireplace. She paused. No ashes. Margot snorted. No drafty winter nights for Cat. She’d had heat piped into her office—probably her bedroom too. Unlike her guests, she had no desire to endure seventeenth century life.
As if of its own accord, Margot's gaze shifted back to the armor. How much could the antiques be worth? Had to be a fortune, which meant they belonged in a museum. Of course, Cat had a point. For the kind of money her guests paid, they expected the real thing, not replicas. So why keep an authentic Scottish Templar suit of amour hidden in a private office?
Margot crossed to the suit of armor. Maybe this wasn’t an original. How would she know the difference? Cat had been surprised she recognized the Scottish Templar’s cross. Margot ran a finger along the edge of the shield. She hadn’t noticed it when talking to Cat, but while the metal had been polished to mirror-like shine, nicks on the surface indicated the shield had seen action.