He lay as though dead to the world.
Aela pushed away the dreadful thought…then it slammed back. Was he still breathing? It was more than six hours since they’d laid him down on the bed. The last thing she wanted was to be alone in a strange castle with a corpse. Way too imaginative. All she wanted was a job for a few weeks, but the darned man needed to be still alive.
“Mr. Malcolm,” she whispered as she bent over, her hand tentative on his forehead.
His arm shrugged off the thin bedcover.
“Mmm…”
Aela tried not to breathe too loudly. His breathing was shallow though it didn’t seem too pained. Battered as he was Nairn Malcolm was compellingly masculine, yet at present also vulnerable. She grinned. She could do anything with him, within reason of course, till he woke up and realized what might be happening. She didn’t mind him like this when he was unaware of her.
An unexpected yank at her camisole pitched her down on top of him. His lips curled up before she made contact, and promptly squashed him. A gigantic moan blasted her eardrum, his body jerking in agony. Talk about hitting a man when he was down? Slipping completely from his grasp, Aela vowed she’d not touch him again.
“Not tonight, Casanova!” Her whisper echoed as she left the room.
Walking back past the kitchen, she left him a brief note on the easy-wipe board that hung near the refrigerator, and then went to bed determined to sleep.
***
A sense of wellbeing flooded Nairn as he woke up, the remnants of an arousing dream still hovering behind his closed eyelids. Trying a deep breath, pain slashed across his torso. Ah. Still there, though not nearly as bad as it had been the day before. He moved his head from side to side and waited. The persistent headache and concussion wooziness seemed to have gone.
In progressive stages, he opened his eyes and found moonlight filtering into the room since the curtains hadn’t been drawn across the small window. Reckoning it must be the wee small hours, he flicked on the lamp beside the bed. The clock read one-twenty a.m. Amazing. He’d no memory of coming to bed.
Shutting his eyes again, he forced recall of the previous day. It’d been such a bloody awful morning. What with his staggering around like somebody smashed, and then the news of the friggin’ maniac wrecking the morning at his London headquarters. His buildings security needed a huge ruddy shake-up if it was so simple for someone to access the energy systems and shut them down. Just like it had been too easy to instigate the other incidents, but he had engaged a company to do a full security audit…hadn’t he? Starting Wednesday? Was that today? He wasn’t sure. He felt he’d had a good sleep but was convinced it hadn’t been any longer than a few hours. His good hand rubbed across the fuzz at his chin. There was a good growth there, but he wasn’t exactly Rip Van Winkle. He hazarded a laugh. Life was more like a friggin’ nightmare than a fairy tale.
Ah.
The afternoon.
That was even hazier.
Aela Cameron had come to be interviewed. Nebulous details flashed around. He vaguely remembered asking her questions and finding the answers she’d given panned out, regarding her qualifications. He was fairly sure he remembered being fixated on her lips…though maybe that was just in the erotic dream he’d had? Was the woman he’d dreamt about Aela Cameron – Aela of the lava black hair, cocoa brown eyes and weird pink lips?
Bloody hell!
Had what he dreamt taken place? With a woman who had come to interview for a job? Nairn groaned, his pain entirely unrelated to his broken body. Now well awake, he looked around the tiny room.
A wheelchair sat beside the bed, an object of his derision the morning before when Ruaridh had suggested it, but since it was the only transport he could operate himself he reckoned he might as well try it. Shuffling awkwardly off the bed and into the seat, he wheeled himself one-handed to the nearest bathroom. A few minutes later, left-handed-splashed-water was a token-gesture to cleanliness. Then he headed for some food since his stomach rebelled, loud and clear.
The dents he made in his hallway walls he ignored as he entered the kitchen, the first real humour for days breaking free. The wheelchair was infinitely better than the one-crutch-lurch he’d been trying to perfect earlier. Fumbling the paella into the microwave, he waited for it to reheat as he nibbled on the side-salad and bread Ruaridh had left for him. He’d consumed every last scrap of food and had scarfed down a mug of coffee before the note written on the wipe-board drew his attention.
‘I’m staying over in the office apartment. If you need anything, let me know – Aela Cameron’.
Nairn’s invectives were explicit. Why the hell was the woman staying the night? He tried to remember the end of the interview – but couldn’t. Damn. Had he given her a job as pilot, captain, driver…? Had he employed her as his PA as well? Surely he should remember?
Wheeling himself to the office apartment, he found the entry door wide open.
Deliberate?
He imagined so because it had a lock should it be required. The wheelchair hissed as he crossed the sitting room carpet and entered the open bedroom door.
Double-damn again.
It wasn’t Sleeping Beauty of the golden hair lying in the bed, but the occupant was a dead ringer for Snow White and even more like Cher of the Sultry Voice.
His memory hadn’t failed him. Long dark hair spilled across the pillow in ripples, an ethereal shine reflecting in the moonlight since she hadn’t closed the blinds. Her pale face was mesmerizing, her eyelashes a black curve below each eye. She lay in total relaxation on her back, her mouth closed. Her chest rose almost imperceptibly, outlined under thin material. She was the woman he’d dreamed about though she’d been annoyed at him – about on par with the way he’d felt about her too, at times. She’d derided his battered body: he’d felt gutted by her dismissive treatment.
When the hell had he seen white underwear?
His groan escaped before he could muffle it. He couldn’t employ her. His wheeled exit was silent, glad the woman hadn’t wakened.
The end of the afternoon remained unclear. Someone had removed his sweatpants and put him to bed. He hoped to hell it was Ruaridh because it would be too humiliating if it’d been Aela Cameron. He wasn’t averse to women removing his clothes, but only when he was able to do something about it.
Resolute he could do nothing till the morning he entered his office, booted up his computer and went to work, needing to get to grips with everything that had been neglected during the previous three days.
The phone bleeped. He debated not answering, yet knew it would just increase the stack of calls still to be attended to. He lifted the receiver, listened, and then made an arrangement to make contact later when his PA was available. Because the call had originated in South America the response was routine – given time differences, though who the PA would be Nairn didn’t yet know. He started on the stack of emails awaiting his attention.
A couple of hours later he was relieved to find the concussion headache and wooziness hadn’t returned. His concentration should have been good, yet a vision of Aela Cameron kept intruding. Her hair was an ebony river he wanted to thread his fingers through as she bent between his knees. Startled, he’d a memory of her doing exactly that very thing, but when? What the hell had he done?
His professional conscience cringed.
Forcing recall of the interview, he remembered asking her to tell him about his floatplane and jet. He remembered thinking her Uncle Harris had given her a cushy job, a nice wee sinecure, because she was his niece. However, she’d been very snippy when he’d asked how many hours a week she’d worked. Now he couldn’t recollect her answer. The image of deep pink lips popped into his head, yet during the interview the pink had vanished. He’d been annoyed that his battered face had merited a wipe-off of the lip gloss but it was so unprofessional to fixate on a candidate’s lips. He also had a niggling feeling that he’d spoken way out of turn, even if he’d no recall of the exact words.
<
br /> His father had put him to bed.
Only partial relief came with the memory since Nairn now suspected it wasn’t only Ruaridh who’d got him there. Serious damage control seemed to be hovering on his horizon.
His ribs ached like fury. Knowing it was stupid to push himself too much, he collected his tub of pain killers and headed for bed. He considered turning right instead of left as he wheeled out of the office but Aela Cameron would still be asleep. As he rolled along the corridor, multiple questions bugged him. His swearing was ripe as he wheeled into the small bedroom.
***
Six thirty-five?
Aela peered at the clock again, memories of the evening before slamming in. She had intended to check on Nairn during the night, but it was well past the time for that.
Bacon was crackling and crisping under the grill. She was finishing the last of a stack of pancakes, having found some maple syrup in one of the well-stocked cupboards, when she became aware of someone entering the kitchen.
“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes, lass.” Ruaridh’s voice boomed in the near silence. “It’s about time someone as beautiful as you made something smelling so good in this kitchen.”
“What? No blonde bunnies cooking for your son?” The tart comment slipped out.
Ruaridh’s chuckle was infectious. “Och, no, Aela. Nairn’s blonde bunnies wouldn’t have a clue about which end of a wooden spoon to use.”
She gurgled along with him as he came over to the cooker and inspected her gelling pancakes, the current batch blowing bubbles, just ready for turning.
“Nairn’s lady-friends aren’t Scottish island mentality. They’re more inclined to baking themselves in the sun at his Corsican villa than whipping up a batch of pancakes.”
Mentally filing away the snippet of information, she avoided further banter about Nairn’s women friends. “Well, this is no culinary feast, but there’s plenty if you haven’t eaten yet.”
“You’re tactful, too,” Ruaridh praised before he asked for an update on Nairn.
Aela’s hearty laugh pealed out. “Nope. I’m not too good at tact, but I know when to keep my mouth shut which isn’t exactly the same thing. It’s just the two of us again. Your son sure likes the land of nod.”
Bacon slices and a stack of pancakes were placed in front of Ruaridh before she sat down with a full plate for herself. His chuckling continued as he complimented her on her cooking initiative.
“I hope you don’t mind me doing this. You did say to make myself at home, and making breakfast seemed fair since you cooked for me last night.”
Ruaridh answered around a mouthful of syrupy pancake. “No problem at all, lass. Glad to have you on board.”
***
“On board what?” Nairn’s question had their heads whipping around. It was obvious neither Aela Cameron nor Ruaridh had heard the whisper of the wheelchair, but his enquiry interrupted their conversation.
“On board the company flagship, of course. Morning, Nairn. I see the long sleep improved your temper.”
His father continued to eat, his mumbles coming around mouthfuls of bacon, his sarcastic wisecrack accompanied by a wink first for Aela, and then one for him. A reaction typical of Ruaridh. What the hell did he mean? Company flagship? He must have given the woman a job, but he remembered not a blasted thing about it, and now his father and Aela Cameron were tucking into food at his kitchen table. He snagged Aela’s gaze. Her molasses-rich eyes were twinkling, but not at him. Ruaridh was the source of her good spirits.
“Good morning, Miss Cameron.” Turning to Ruaridh he ensured his voice was saccharine sweet. “Morning, father.”
“Oh, my word, lass. Do you hear that?” Ruaridh laid his hand theatrically over his heart. “Somebody in this room must have got out of the wrong side of the bed.”
Aela Cameron laughed again. The woman was far too flippant. Something about disrespect niggled at Nairn. He was sure he’d felt it the day before, as well as finding her too inclined to laugh at the state he was in. None of the banter shared with Ruaridh made him feel any better. Even the cosy sight of them sitting at his table aggravated him. It had been his father’s hearty laugh and a gentler tinkle of female amusement that had wakened him. Though he couldn’t hear what they’d been saying, it was obvious Ruaridh and Aela were getting along very well.
With a scrubbed face and still drying hair hanging straight down her back – a black shimmer trailing almost to her waist – the woman was striking. No doubt she’d ensnared Ruaridh’s attention from the sound of the charm oozing out of his father. The thought of his old man flirting with Aela Cameron held no appeal. At fifty-seven, Ruaridh was very popular with the local ladies even though he’d never shown signs of wanting to remarry after the divorce to Nairn’s mother more than a decade ago. Yet Nairn knew Ruaridh was more than capable of acquiring a new woman, or wife.
“Would you like breakfast, Mr. Malcolm? I’ve made plenty.”
She’d made herself at home in his kitchen? Bloody hell! Had he given her a job as his cook as well? She’d soon learn he cooked for himself when he was home, though, maybe not right now since his injuries were a damned nuisance. He swallowed his pride, with difficulty.
“I would. Thank you, Miss Cameron.”
Aela jumped up and removed a chair to make room for his wheelchair, her movements efficient.
“So you’re making use of the chariot then? Just think, Nairn, with a bit of practice you’ll be doing wheelies on the quay side, and you’ll have forgotten your stookies.” Ruaridh’s chuckled comments were interspersed by pauses, as he mowed his way through his plateful.
Nairn made no initial comment, Aela cutting pancakes and bacon into small pieces before placing the plate in front of him. Did she think he was incapable of feeding himself? Annoyance stirred again as he focused on his father’s remarks and grins but much as he tried, he couldn’t quite suppress the twitch at his mouth because his father often managed to make awkward situations light hearted. “Thanks for fetching it. Wheeling around, strangely enough, is much easier on the ribs.”
“All joking aside, how do you feel this morning, Nairn?” Ruaridh flicked open the syrup bottle, added some to the residue of his pancakes then waved it, asking a silent question.
After receiving a liberal sprinkling of tawny maple syrup over his breakfast, Nairn picked up his fork with his less than expert left hand. “The headache and disorientation have finally gone, thank God.” He deliberately sought out Aela’s eyes. Eyes he thought were maybe hiding something? “Miss Cameron will be delighted to know, like a good boy, I’ll take the painkillers on a regular basis till the ribs heal and not be stupidly macho about it.”
He watched Aela suppress a grin, didn’t break a smile himself, but he remembered more of her barbed words of the previous afternoon – because what he’d just stated was a sanitised version. There was no hint of remorse or embarrassment in her expression as she attacked her stack of pancakes with enthusiasm. He’d expected his comment to ruffle her, but there wasn’t a hint of discomfort showing.
A bit of pancake was shuffled around before he managed to spear it properly. He just caught Aela Cameron’s full blown beam in his peripheral vision as he lifted the fork to his mouth. She was laughing at him again, looking as though she knew something he didn’t, but he’d turn the tables on that soon enough. Only good manners prevented him from throwing her right out on her ass. Out of his kitchen. Out of his castle. He gulped over a mouthful. Out of his jobs. Out of reach of…Ruaridh…who was behaving as though Aela Cameron belonged at his table, as if she’d been a fixture for ages.
Ruaridh must have asked the woman to stay overnight.
The sweetness of the syrupy pancake was suddenly sickening. What had happened before she’d gone to bed in the apartment? The pile of pancake and bacon pieces slowly found their way to his mouth as he deliberated how to achieve her expulsion, because the woman was a thorn in his already aching flesh. He laid down his fork to fumble for th
e napkin Aela had set beside his plate and used it to mop the sweat from his brow. The room was so damned hot now he wished he’d not squirmed his way into his towelling robe. Maybe he was running a temperature? When he looked at his table companions it seemed he was the only one to feel the excessive heat.
The meal progressed, Ruaridh and Aela dominating the conversation. Ruaridh chattered about sights to see down in the town of Mariskay; Aela responded she’d been delighted with her short foray down to the harbour. Nairn found Aela’s voice husky – not a figment of his imagination, and just what he remembered from his erotic early-morning dream. Replies he gave were minimal as he concentrated on attacking his food, making sure it reached his mouth and not the floor.
“No, lass, I’ll tidy up.” Ruaridh intervened as Aela started to clear the table when all three of them had finished. “Nairn will want to formalize your job, now.”
“Formalize her job?” His comment spat out along with a bit of pancake. He tried to interpret the statement as Ruaridh continued to stack the dishes.
“Aela needs to get started on the backlog of your calls as soon as possible, Nairn. You know how your inquiries build up.”
“Your timely reminder is duly noted, Father. Since you’re so up to date with my business, maybe you should be the one to formalize Miss Cameron’s job?” He knew Ruaridh’s sigh was for effect…and as a blatant prod since his father’s expression and body-language indicated he was being obtuse.
“Nairn. Appropriate documents weren’t ready yesterday. You only dealt in the verbal. Do I have to remind you that you were not compos mentis? Aela needs to sign her contract.”
“Her contract?” Nairn stared, a tense silence lingering. Ruaridh muttered as he stacked the dishwasher. He glared at Ruaridh’s obdurate back because his father was up to something, though he didn’t know what.
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