Fortunately he wasn’t gazing at her hair, only her leg, her ankle, and the heavy granite slab that held her prisoner.
“What did you think of my home?” he asked, pushing her pant leg up far higher than he probably needed to as he analyzed the tight spot she was in.
“It’s… intriguing.”
“What intrigued you the most?” His gaze flickered toward her for an instant, then focused back on his work. “The ghost stories? Tales of Black Andrew’s escapades?”
She laughed, partially from the ticklish feel of his fingers sweeping over her ankle, partially from nervousness, partially because she was tongue-tied. Finally she got hold of her senses and tried to answer like a competent businesswoman instead of a giggling teen. “I thoroughly enjoyed the tales of Black Andrew. Of course, I didn’t know any one family had such a dark past.”
“You’d find the Dunbar family even darker if you heard all the stories.”
“Are there a lot more?”
“Hundreds.”
Oh, what she would give to hear every last one of them and print them in the pages of her cookbook! The sensationalism would send her book flying to the top of the charts.
After several attempts to maneuver her ankle so it would slide out easily, he gave up and tried to push the slab, and she tore her mind from best-sellers to flexing muscles.
“Did you enjoy the maze as much as Gillian’s stories?” he asked, hitting her with a quick grin before concentrating on the stone again.
“You didn’t really see me inside the maze, did you?”
“Aye.”
This bit of news was really too much, and she felt her muscles tightening in outrage. “You let me roam around that blasted maze for hours on end and didn’t bother to come out and help me?”
“I had work to do, and you were trespassing on private property.”
“That’s beside the point. I could have died in there.”
“But you didn’t. Besides, I kept an eye on you.”
“And for that I should be grateful?”
“You should be grateful that I’m here now. If I weren’t, you’d have to spend the night with your foot stuck in Robbie Dunbar’s crypt.”
“You haven’t rescued me yet.”
He frowned, and she could easily see him gritting his teeth as he shoved the slab one more time and finally budged it a fraction of an inch.
Freedom at last. She pulled her ankle out of the grave, and she would have bent down to rub some circulation into it, but Colin Dunbar, voyeur, whisky maker, and muscleman, lifted her from the ground and sat her down atop the raised tomb. Then, as if she wasn’t already edgy enough, he lifted her leg in his hands and gently massaged her tender ankle.
Their eyes met, his intense sapphire ones staring down at her. He made her nervous. Made her tremble inside, but somehow she managed to smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He’d rescued her; now he was stroking, rubbing, and all but caressing her ankle. She assumed he’d stop at any moment, but he didn’t. Instead he held her leg in the palm of one hand and her heel in the other and pressed his thumbs and fingers lightly into her muscles. She tried to hide her deep intake of keep-yourself-under-control breath and braced her hands behind her on the crypt.
“Tell me, Emily,” he said in that Sean Connery voice of his, while his dark sapphires blazed a hole through her, “are you a spy?”
What an odd question. “Why would you ask that?”
“I watched you trying to break into my distillery.”
“I did no such thing.” She’d been accused of being a ruthless businesswoman, but never a thief. “I was trying to find you, and since I heard that you spend most of your time concocting new brews in the distillery, that seemed the perfect place to look.”
“Witches concoct brews. I distill the best whisky in the world.”
Oh, what an ego he had. “So I’ve heard.”
A wry grin touched his face. “You’re awfully petulant for a trespassing spy.”
“All right, I admit to trespassing, but only because I wanted to meet you, not because I’m out to steal any secret recipes.”
His brow rose, questioning her words. A moment later he stretched a hand toward her, fumbled with her navy blue linen jacket—of all the nerve!—reached into her pocket and pulled out her tape recorder. “What’s this for
She’d been caught. “Nothing cloak-and-dagger, I assure you. I didn’t want to miss a word of what Gillian said on the tour. I didn’t take any pictures because we were told not to, and I didn’t have anything to eat or drink. But I don’t remember anything being said about tape recordings being forbidden.” She turned her intense eyes on him now. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to confiscate it.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m already overfamiliar with the stories.”
As if that subject was over and done with and he’d tired of rubbing her ankle, he lowered her foot to the side of the crypt, applied the heel of his hiking boot to the slab of granite, and inch-by-laborious-inch shoved the cover of Robbie’s tomb back in place.
“So,” he said, dusting his hands off on the thighs of his jeans, “what did you want to see me about?”
Finally they were getting down to business. “I have a proposition for you.”
His grin was wicked. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been propositioned by such a beautiful woman.”
She should have known that typical male response was coming, but she couldn’t keep from asking, “How long?”
He studied his watch. “Forty-six hours, give or take a few minutes.”
Unfortunately his answer was probably the truth. Why it annoyed her was anyone’s guess, but she forgot her irritation when his powerful hands wrapped around her waist and he lifted her down from the crypt. He watched her as she tested her weight on her ankle, then tucked her hand around his arm, and hit her with a smile. “Why don’t we go inside and talk about propositions over a drink.”
It wasn’t an offer, it was a statement of intent, one she couldn’t refuse, considering that one drink might lead to a tour of the castle and Colin Dunbar’s acceptance of her proposition. That was what she’d come here for. Wasn’t it?
“What do you do when you’re not spying?” he asked as they hiked up the hill from the graveyard to the castle.
“I write cookbooks.” How unglamorous that sounded on the surface.
“You’re a chef?”
“That’s what I trained for,” she told him as they strolled through the moonlit gardens and bailey. “Before that, when I was in my early teens, I barricaded myself in my bedroom and wrote lurid love stories.”
“Sounds… intriguing.”
“They were awful. Nothing but romantic drivel.”
“I thought all women were romantics.”
“A disastrous relationship cured me forever.” It was ridiculous to tell him that, especially when he had no need to know. “When I was nineteen I got interested in photography and cooking.”
They made their way through the great hall, past the drawing room and the library, the click of their heels and the sound of her voice echoing through the cavernous chamber. “A few years back I decided to combine all my interests—lurid love stories, photography, and cooking— into a cookbook. Three best-sellers later—and now I’m embarking on my fourth. That’s what I want to talk with you about.”
“I’m a lousy cook, so I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”
“It’s a business deal I want to talk about.”
He removed the fat gold cord that had barricaded the game room when the tour had gone through earlier, and led her inside. “I don’t usually talk business after working hours.”
“This won’t take all that long.”
He angled his head toward her—a long way down, considering his height and her lack of it. “Later, maybe. First we’ll have some whisky.”
A ploy to get her drunk? she wondered as he crossed the room in
a few long strides, opened a cabinet, and took out a sparkling crystal decanter and cut-glass tumblers. As much as she enjoyed watching him, she turned her fascination toward the room. It was massive and masculine and a little intimidating, just like its owner, but she’d managed to get inside and she’d managed to get an audience with the laird himself, and she was darn well going to enjoy the experience.
She caressed the fine, highly polished woodwork scattered about the room, marveled at the exquisite oriental carpets, and was again drawn to the big black leather sofa in front of the fireplace, a fixture in the room that she assumed was used as much for sport as all the gaming tables.
“Is it true that one of your ancestors played chess with the devil?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the chessboard and its pewter playing pieces.
“The story has gotten skewed over the years,” Colin said, walking toward her with two crystal tumblers half full of dark amber whisky. “Andrew was the devil, and many women sold their souls to play with him.”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting something so badly that they’d sell their soul.” Unless, of course, they were stuck in a haunted cemetery.
“It’s not all that uncommon. I’ve had people ask to know the recipe for my whisky, and considering the prices they’ve offered, they might as well be selling their souls.”
“It’s in that much demand?”
“Enough for people to send spies here, people who’ve had as much success breaking into my distillery as you. The more secretive the recipe, the more value is placed on it.” He took a swallow of whisky. “This isn’t the high end of what I produce, but it’s still one of the finest single malts you’ll find anywhere. It’s expensive, it has made me a fortune, and there are big corporations anxious to know what I put into it that gives it its distinctive flavor.”
Curious now, she sipped slowly. She’d never had whisky straight before, and she understood why. Flames licked her insides as the liquor slipped over her tongue and down her throat.
“What do you think?”
“That it’s hot.” She took a deep breath. “That it lives up to its nickname: the Devil’s Own.”
“You know about my whisky then?”
“I’d heard stories, and naturally I did my homework to learn more about your company and your secretive ways. But it was the lady who owns the place where I’m staying who provided the extra details.”
“Meg sells a lot of Dunbar whisky. She’s proud that she’s the only one in the world allowed to sell one certain mixture, and she likes to brag.”
Emily frowned, uncomfortable with the fact that he’d watched her on the cameras, and now he seemed to know who she’d been talking to and where she’d found accommodations. Most people would have assumed she was staying in Inverness, not in a tiny hamlet with only one bed-and-breakfast-slash-pub.
“How do you know I’m staying in the village?”
“Gillian told me when she came to say you weren’t on the tour bus.”
“Is there anything you don’t know about me?”
“Dunbar’s a small village.” He casually leaned a shoulder against the stone hearth. “The people who live there take great interest in anyone passing through. Tourists are always a prime topic of conversation. Stick around long enough, and they’ll want to run your life.”
“I only plan to stick around long enough to do business with you.” It was about time she made her intentions clear. Of course, looking at the intriguing man over the top of her glass as she sipped his whisky, she had the dreadful feeling that if she stayed too long in his company, her intentions might stretch to wanting him as well as photos of the rooms in his castle.
Crazy! She had to remember that she was here for business, and for no other reason.
Suddenly he became the businessman, too, no longer leaning casually against the hearth but setting down his whisky and clasping his hands behind him as he stood straight, tall, and almost invincible. “Now that we’ve talked about whisky, the village, and the fact that you’re not a spy, why don’t you tell me your proposition?”
She didn’t see the need to mince words. “I’d like to photograph the inside of your castle.”
“No.”
Obviously he didn’t want to mince words either.
“You could at least hear me out before you say no.”
“All right.” He looked down at her from his lofty height and smiled. “I’ll hear you out, and then I’ll tell you no.”
The man had ceased to be intriguing. Now he was merely a pain.
“While you make the finest whisky in the world,” she said, throwing out a halfhearted compliment that might hopefully gain some points, “I create some of the finest, most sinfully decadent desserts in the world.”
“Have you been given awards for your desserts?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know they’re the best?”
“Because I’ve received thousands upon thousands of letters from people telling me they’ve never tasted anything so rich, so luscious, so—”
“All right. I believe you.” He grinned, and she wanted to smack him for being so smug. “So, what do your desserts and the interior of my castle have in common?”
“Your castle abounds with legends, with mystery, deceit, passion—”
“Lust.” His gaze swept over her body, up, down, sideways. “Do your desserts cause people to feel these things? Mystery? Deceit? Passion?”
“I haven’t taken any surveys.” She took a swallow of whisky to quench her thirst and drown her annoyance and immediately began to cough.
Colin shook his head and plucked the glass from her hand. “I think you need something not quite so strong.”
“What I need—” She coughed again. “What I need is the opportunity to present my proposal without interruption.”
Colin handed her another glass of whisky, this one lighter in color. “This is from my private reserve. No one drinks it unless I pour it.”
She took a tiny sip, and it tingled in her throat rather than burned. It wanned her all the way down to her toes. Suddenly she realized Colin’s sapphire eyes were bearing down on her, and she went from warm to sizzling.
“Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you.” It was a lie. She was burning up inside, and her heart fluttered. She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself, then looked up at his handsome, grinning face, and asked, “May I continue?”
“Be my guest.”
The man was maddening. Gorgeous—but infuriating.
“What I’d like to do is photograph my desserts inside various rooms in your castle. When the cookbook is compiled, the photo of each dessert will be accompanied by a recipe and a story, a vivid retelling of one of your family’s legends, leaving out the more sordid details, of course.”
He frowned. “I believe someone already wrote to me with a similar proposal.”
“That would probably have been me. I sent you several letters—none of which were answered.”
“Did you call, as well?”
“Several times in the past month.”
“I think my secretary might have mentioned your calls.”
She wanted to scream, but she had to be a professional. “So why didn’t you respond?”
“You’re not the first one who’s wanted to photograph the interior of my home. If I responded to the letters, I would have no time to distill my whisky. I’d have no time for other pleasurable pursuits, either.”
“It’s not my intention to waste your time. I thought by coming here I could expedite things. Now that we’re together, now that you know what I’d like to do, maybe you could give me your answer.”
“I already gave you my answer.” He lifted his glass from the table and swirled the whisky around inside. Slowly his gaze fixed on her eyes, and he smiled smugly. “No.”
Somehow she managed to keep calm and businesslike, although she was raging inside. “I’m more than willing to pay for the privilege. Just name your pri
ce.”
He hit her with that sapphire stare again, crossed the room and took his time pouring himself another whisky, then stared out the window at the moonlight on the loch. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“I came all the way to Scotland to see you.” She walked toward him, seeing his tall, handsome reflection and questioning look in the window. “I trespassed on private property. I sneaked out of a gift shop when I knew security cameras were aimed at me.” She raised her glass close to her mouth. “I’m determined to get the pictures.”
“All right, then.” He turned and fixed her with a smile as she sipped her whisky. “Spend the night with me.”
She choked on his words and began to cough all over again.
“Take another sip of whisky,” he said calmly. “It’ll make your cough go away.”
A few more sips of whisky, and she’d pass out on the floor. Still, she did what he told her to do, and slowly the coughing eased. She took a deep breath and aimed a deadly glare at him.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, hoping I’ll give you the price you want?”
He plucked the glass from her hand and set it down on a table. And then he did the last thing she expected. He curled his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “I prefer my women sober and in complete control of their senses. It’s not my intention to get you drunk, Emily, no matter how much I want you.”
She tried to gulp down the lump in her throat, but it wouldn’t budge. “You don’t know me well enough to want me.”
He smiled enigmatically. “I want you enough to risk getting to know you.”
Oh, dear. “I came here to photograph your bed, not to sleep in it.”
“Sleep has nothing to do with my proposition.”
“You know what I mean.”
“All too well. You want me to make compromises, but you aren’t willing to do the same. In the end it all comes down to who wants what the most, doesn’t it?”
“I want the pictures, but I’m not willing to sell my soul to the devil in order to get them.”
“All right then.” He took her arm and abruptly started walking toward the door. “I guess that puts an end to our bargaining.”
My Scottish Summer Page 10