Bad Boys In Kilts

by Donna Kauffman

  He began to regret less his overlong work hours and neglect of his siblings. They were all doing as he was, trying to make a go of it at their own businesses, all for the sake of keeping the family holdings together. He could hardly be faulted for being a little overly involved in the distillery, seeing as it was the largest concern the family oversaw. At least, that’s what he told himself, anyway.

  But he also knew when he’d been beat. Better to deal with her now and get them all off his back for a bit. He did a quick mental scan of his schedule, rearranging what he could, knowing that no matter what he did, this was going to set him back further. He gave it one last shot. “Silas, can’t you just get her card or something and tell her—”

  “Don’t punish the messenger,” he said, lifting his hands, palms out. “Besides, I’ve already got three people waitin’ for me in my office. It’s only because I had to come find you to give you those estimates that I was elected to deliver the news in the first place.” His smile returned. “What harm is there in giving a pretty lass a few minutes of your time? The rest of your day will sort itself out, and who knows, might put a bit of a spring in your step.”

  Reese just shook his head. “Springtime. I swear, it turns the lot of you into rutting beasts.”

  Silas laughed. “I dinnae think that’s a seasonal condition, lad. But then, what would you know of it, anyway?” He continued to laugh as he moved on past Reese and hurried around the end of the cask row, off to attend his own business.

  Reese was well aware he was the long-standing butt of many a joke, all centering around his workaholic ways keeping him from having any real social life. Not that the small highland village of Glenbuie afforded much of that. But, truth be told, even when he could make the time, he wasn’t much of one to gather with the locals at Miss Eleanor’s in the morning for breakfast, or at Brodie’s pub in the evening. Was it such a bad thing that after dealing with the details of the day, which were always myriad and typically fraught with problems, he sought out his own company in the evenings, where it was peaceful and quiet?

  Tristan certainly understood that for the luxury it was, although Reese couldn’t cut himself off quite to the degree that his brother the sheepherder had. Of course, Tristan did a fat lot more than tend to the Chisholm flocks. He also tended to all their leased farm properties, the crofters, too. But, by and large, the youngest Chisholm was happiest when it was just him and his flock, away from the maddening world and the people who inhabited it.

  As Reese approached his office door, he allowed himself the momentary daydream of joining his brother out on the moors and hillocks for a fortnight, driving the flock down to the valley, as they had in their youth. Of course, now that he thought of it, talk between them during those long hikes had often turned to the fair lassies of the valley ... and how they could convince them to go wanderin’ with them on their way back up into the hills. That fond reminiscence kindled a quick smile, because they’d been successful, often as not. Maybe he had left behind more than one of the better aspects of being a carefree youth.

  The smile lingered as Reese entered his office.

  “Hello!” The young woman, who had been seated in one of the two studded leather chairs arranged in front of his desk, shot to her feet. “I’m Daisy MacDonnell,” she said, extending a slender hand.

  Wow, was pretty much the whole of what went through Reese’s mind at that moment, blanking out everything else. For a wee bit of a thing, she packed quite a wallop where first impressions were concerned. The top of her head barely crested his chest ... but what a head it was. She sported a face as fresh as her name, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks that she did nothing to hide, which disarmed and charmed him all at the same time. Her blue eyes fair to twinkled at him, and her grin was downright infectious. All of that bright, energetic loveliness was topped off by a shoulder-length swing of deep auburn hair that she’d clearly come by naturally. And that he found himself quite uncharacteristically wanting to bury his nose in, wondering if she smelled as fresh as she looked.

  Wow pretty much summed things up.

  Coming to the realization that he was standing there, all but gaping, he cleared his throat—and his mind, while he was at it—and took her hand for a quick shake. Given the slimness of her lithe frame, he’d thought her touch would be cool, but instead her palm was warm when it pressed against his. Delivering another little jolt.

  “A pleasure to finally meet you,” she gushed. “I know what a busy man you are, so it means a great deal that you agreed to meet with me.”

  Disarming and charming, she was all that and more. He found himself reluctant to release her hand. “The pleasure is mine,” he said, surprised at the depth of sincerity there was in that standard platitude. “I can see why the lads are all panting after you.” He blanched. “Did I actually say that last bit out loud?”

  Twin spots of pink bloomed in her cheeks, which only served to set off that scattering of freckles even more endearingly. She slipped her hand from his as she nodded in response, her smile one of amusement. Thank goodness.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said at once, completely at a loss. Which was so unlike him, it flummoxed him even further. “I can assure you I rarely use such poor judgment, especially with a prospective business acquaintance. Or ... well, anyone, really. I’m not one of those boorish blokes who does the whole nudge, nudge, wink, wink, if you know what I mean.” Dear Christ, now he couldn’t shut himself up. What the hell was wrong with him? He sounded like a flaming loon.

  Fortunately she reached for and found the aplomb that had so swiftly abandoned him. He couldn’t remember a time—even as a callow youth—when he’d been so quickly out of step.

  “Not to worry,” she assured him in her crisp Yankee accent. “I appreciate that I’m ... uh ... appreciated.” The bit of pink still coloring her cheeks was most becoming, even as she turned—all business now—and scooped up a trim leather briefcase. “To be perfectly honest, though, I’d rather be appreciated for my business acumen.” She smiled and stepped back to her chair, silently encouraging him to take a seat. “If you have a few moments, I’d love to discuss several marketing ideas I have for both your whisky label and the distillery itself.”

  Reese simply stood there, like a blinking fool. The remaining sliver of his brain that was still functioning finally nudged him forward, simultaneously reminding him about his overwhelming schedule, and that his game plan had been to put Ms. MacDonnell off until a future time. A distant future time. So why he moved behind his desk and took a seat, all attentive, as if he had the entire afternoon at his disposal, he hadn’t the faintest idea.

  Okay, so he had a little idea. He was an admitted workaholic, but he was also still a man, with fully functioning hormones, among other things, if the sudden snug fit of his trousers were any indication. Ridiculous, really, to even consider pursuing this any further. He knew that—of course he did. He had no time for flirtatious banter and even less for starting up anything more involved.

  Daisy was opening her briefcase and pulling out a sheaf of papers, which turned out to be several smaller proposals, each bound separately. Very professional, he noted. Of course, having Maude’s print shop at her disposal certainly made creating business proposals a little easier, but he was impressed with her attention to detail nonetheless. All he’d heard from Brodie, or his own employees who’d gotten a gander at Glenbuie’s newest resident, was how attractive she was, so bright and friendly and outgoing. She definitely lived up to the hype. Made him wonder if any of the lads had made any inroads on their plans to sweep the lass off her feet ... and preferably right onto her back.

  The thought made him frown a little, though he couldn’t exactly say why. It wasn’t jealousy, though perhaps envy might play a bit part. Aye, he could quite easily envision tumbling her back onto his bed, all that stunning red hair of hers splayed across his dove-gray sheets, her pale skin faintly luminous in the early morning light. He absently wondered wher
e else she might have freckles ... and how lovely it might be to while away the morning hours after dawn, tracing them ... with his tongue.

  “I don’t know if Brodie mentioned to you what I’m hoping to do here in Glenbuie,” she said, all brisk and businesslike as she organized her proposals.

  He knew what he’d like her to do, was his immediate thought. But then he was having a devil of a time being brisk in thought or manner, much less thinking about anything having to do with business. “No, uh, I don’t believe he did.” Scintillating stuff there, Chisholm. Deep, too. He’d definitely been off the horse far too long.

  She smiled at him, oblivious, he prayed, to the completely inappropriate thoughts he was having about the nicely tailored blouse she was wearing. The way pale yellow cotton hugged her breasts—which were small, but every bit as perky as the rest of her—just begged a man to reach out and—

  “In conjunction with taking over my late great aunt’s stationer’s shop, I am also hoping to offer a variety of marketing and publicity services to the various businesses in Glenbuie and the surrounding area.” She slid the top proposal across the desk. “Before moving here, I headed up the marketing department for a well known, high-end catalogue company in Washington, D.C. So I’ve had the opportunity to work with a wide variety of products and clients. And though the commercial focus is very different here in the U.K., I think I can be of some service to you, and the other businesses in Glenbuie, if you’ll give me a chance.”

  More to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts, and get them on anything other than the image of what Daisy’s perky breasts looked like naked, than because he had any interest in what she was saying, Reese took the proposal and flipped open the top page.

  Daisy leaned forward slightly, enthusiasm and confidence radiating from her every freckle. “First let me say how impressive it is that you’ve kept Glenbuie Distillery a family-owned operation for over a hundred and fifty years. From my preliminary research, you’re one of very few to have had that kind of continued success without selling out to a corporate entity. So don’t think I’m trying to tell you how to run what is obviously a very successful operation. I just think, if you don’t mind my saying, that your approach to marketing and publicity is a bit ... shall we say, outdated. Or perhaps narrow in focus is a better description. If you’ll look at my proposals, I think you’ll see that there are some simple, but highly effective ideas that you could incorporate at very little cost to you, while providing a potentially huge boost to both your local and global presence. The world is a very small place these days, Mr. Chisholm—”

  “Reese, please,” he said automatically, forcing his gaze back to the proposal. It was that or stare at her like some entranced fool. Not that anything on the page was registering in his rapidly disintegrating brain. What was it about her that had him so gobsmacked?

  It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy the attention of women on occasion. Every time he went to Hagg’s, Brodie’s pub, which he’d admitted was rare of late, but still, on those former occasions, he’d had no problem making small talk or sharing a tale over an ale or two. Of course, most often it was with someone he’d known his whole life, and most of them were spoken for. Friends rather than potential companionship, of whatever sort he might be interested in. But there was the occasional tourist, the occasional passer-through. Although, come to think of it, he couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d done more than grab a casual snog or—

  “Your office manager, Flora, was kind enough to give me your brochures, both from the industrial side of your company and the public aspect as well,” she was saying. “And thanks to your quite charming brother, Brodie, I have your business card. So, after looking at those, you’ll see where I’ve made some preliminary suggestions as to what you can do to emphasize your public persona, both in the business world and in the tourist industry. I’ve also—” She paused long enough to put another proposal on his desk. “I’ve also worked up a schematic for a proposed Web site. Glenbuie whisky has zero Internet presence, and I think you’re missing out on a tremendous opportunity to boost your bottom line. The investment outlay to immediate revenue ratio is very attractive. If you’ll turn to page three, there is a graph ...”

  Reese listened, or pretended to, as she continued on with her excited recitation of how she was going to single-handedly drag Glenbuie Distillery into the twenty-first century. However, the details were floating in one ear and out the other. She really had the most remarkable bow-shaped mouth. He’d read about them, in sonnets and the ancient fiction of the bards, but he’d never recalled actually seeing lips that pursed together like that. Bow-shaped indeed. Sweetly tilted at the corners, with that plump bottom lip and the delectably curved upper one, her mouth managed to evoke the innocent look of a cherub ... while at the same time conjuring up the most carnal, indecent images he’d ever had the pleasure of imagining.

  The very idea of watching her wet those lips before sliding them over and down the rigid length of his—Christ. He rolled his chair slightly forward so he was farther beneath his desk before shifting slightly to ease the sudden pressure of his rapidly growing, rigid length.

  “Mr. Chisholm? Reese?”

  It took several very determined seconds before he could forcibly banish the remarkably inappropriate images of Daisy sliding those cherubic lips over the tip of his now-throbbing cock. It took more willpower than he’d been required to exert in some time. Dragging his gaze from that mouth, he pretended to pore over the proposal in front of him. He hadn’t the faintest clue what she’d said to him. “You’ve put a great deal of effort into this,” he said, struggling to find a foothold in this conversation. And harness his suddenly out-of-control libido.

  “I know this company has a long history here and that it is the lifeblood of the village in many ways. I wanted to make sure you understood that I also take my job very seriously and that I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I could provide a valuable service to you.”

  Reese swallowed a groan. Oh, she could service him, all right. If she had any idea what he’d been thinking these past ten minutes ... she’d either sue him or slap him, or both. Shoot him, even, if suitably armed. He’d have no defense for it, either. Guilty, guilty, guilty. And not particularly upset about it, either.

  Mother Mary, but he needed to get his mind back on his work. Which meant getting her out of here, and blessedly out of his emerging fantasies as well. “I do appreciate all the effort you’ve put into this, and I have no doubt there will be other businesses that will want to take advantage of you—I mean, of what you have to offer.” He knew nothing of the sort, actually, and, in fact, suspected that the village shop owners would respond much the way he had. Set in their ways, it would take a lot more than one intoxicatingly perky, albeit seemingly qualified, Yank to make them consider any real change in the way they conducted business. Many of them were third, fourth, or fifth generation shop owners, as was he. And stubborn when it came to doing anything different from the way it had always been done.

  Sure, as technology had advanced, he’d updated the process by which they made their whisky, but remarkably, those changes had been very few, and made only after protracted deliberation on his part. For the most part, Glenbuie whisky was distilled much the way it had been back at the turn of the nineteenth century when his ancestor, Donnghail Chisholm, had finally gotten a permit from the crown to turn his illegal still operation into a law-abiding, and profit-earning, production.

  “But I’m afraid, at this time,” he went on, forcing an end to this otherwise delightful but untimely interlude, “I’m going to pass on your very kind offer.”

  To her credit, she didn’t reflect even a moment’s disappointment. In fact, she looked as if she’d been almost expecting this exact response. “Mr. Chis—Reese,” she amended, when he lifted his hand, “I know looking at the way you’ve always done things with a new slant is asking a lot, especially from someone you don’t know, who is new to the area. I’ll admi
t there were selfish reasons for approaching you first—”

  “I was under the impression that you approached my brother, Brodie, first.”

  “Not intentionally,” she said, quite sincerely. “Hagg’s is easily the centerpiece of the village, and so I’ve been spending time there in the evenings, meeting the locals, trying to get to know everyone and give them a chance to get to know me. We had a talk over an ale, and he was asking me about what I did back in the States, why I’d decided to pack up and move my life over here, and one thing led to another and I told him I’d be happy to work up a plan.” She smiled then, and those eyes of hers crinkled at the corners, so damn lovely when combined with that splash of freckles. “He shot me down, of course. Seems to run in the family. But I’d asked about the family distillery and he was kind enough to drop off your business card.” With barely a breath taken, she pushed on before he could interrupt. “I won’t lie to you. I targeted the distillery right off, because I knew that if I secured any business with you, that it would make the other townsfolk more agreeable to at least hearing what I had to say. So it was definitely a calculated move. But I spent time on the proposals up front, in hopes you’d clearly see I take this very seriously and that it could be a mutually beneficial partnership.”

  “And I appreciate the time you’ve taken. I do,” he said. Why was he even encouraging conversation? He should be standing and ushering her out the door, even as she raced on with her pitch. It was something he had done a hundred times over with other pushy salespeople, without a twinge of conscience for cutting them off mid-spiel. Well, one of the reasons he hadn’t was the very noticeable bulge in his pants, but that seemed to finally be under some semblance of control. He pushed his chair back. “But, Ms. MacDonnell—”