Okay. Sloane took a breath. First things first: find the right guy.
She turned to review the bar patrons for potential Jamies. There was the really big guy, a daily regular, who sat like Jabba the Hut on the same barstool every day, his brogue so thick that Sloane never understood a word he was saying. That could come in handy. Then there was Mr. Andrews, who had stopped by her table the first day to say hello. He was old enough to be her grandfather so he was out. Ned, the lech-y one, leered at her breasts every chance he got and, if she hadn’t imagined it, reached for her ass on one occasion. The thought of giving him any license to get grabby made her cringe.
No, no, and definitely not.
Down at the other end of the bar, washing mugs, was the annoying bar owner. Sloane cocked her head to one side to consider him. He didn’t have classic good looks; he was more rugged than that. His hair was never combed, his face shaved only every third day or so, and he had an undeniably smoking hot body. He looked like what she envisioned the Vikings who invaded Scotland a million years ago to have looked like—rough and manly. She pictured him in a fur, carrying a sword, his wild hair sporting a braid like a Viking, and the tiniest shiver shot through her.
Even better, she could actually understand him when he spoke, which she couldn’t say for everyone in this village. She very clearly understood him when he told her this wasn’t a restaurant with a fancy tea service. Or, as far as he knew, loos needed only a throne and a wee bit of paper to be considered “functional.”
And…considering the sorry state of the bar, she figured he could use some extra money. She couldn’t help the slight curve upward at the corners of her mouth. Yes, this just might work.
She swung all the way around to face the bar and crossed her legs, examining the bartender on a scale of one to ten—Jamie Fraser being a ten, and your average guy a five—and this guy was a nine. He might need a little polish, but he could work. The problem would be convincing him. He struck her as stubborn. More so than the damn cow outside.
She really didn’t have time to debate it. Desperation was driving her now, and Sloane stood up and sauntered over to the end of the bar where he was working.
He spared her a glance as he set soapy mugs on a drain board. “Tea’s brewing, lass. Afraid we’re fresh out of china, however.”
He’d definitely had his nose out of joint since the first day she’d refused his offer of whisky. “I never drink that,” she’d said, as if he’d been offering her a can of oil. She hadn’t meant to offend; she’d just meant she’d be on the floor if she drank it.
“That’s okay,” she said airily. “I didn’t think china had miraculously appeared on the supply boat. But I still think it’s a good idea to have some around. You know, just in case a woman ever steps foot in here. Which is why I still think flowers and scented candles in the bathroom are a good idea.”
“And the luncheons,” he said. “Donna forget what a brilliant idea you thought that was.”
Well? She got hungry and there was nothing to eat here during the day but a communal bowl of nuts.
“So what helpful suggestion do you have for us today, your highness?”
“No suggestion. I thought I would…have a whisky,” she said brightly.
He paused, up to his elbows in sudsy water, and looked at her. “A whisky,” he repeated skeptically.
“Yes, please.”
He withdrew his arms, folding them across his chest without concern for getting wet. “What kind, then?”
There were kinds? “Jameson,” she said, grabbing at the first thing that came to mind.
“A fine whisky I’m sure, but an Irish one. I donna serve Irish whisky here. Try again.”
“Umm…McAllister?”
“I’ll assume you mean Macallan.”
“Yep. That’s the one.”
“Hmm.” His gaze flicked over her. He said nothing as he walked down the bar and lifted a bottle off a glass shelf. He picked up a highball glass, poured some of the contents into it, then walked back and slid the highball across the bar to her. “Slàinte,” he said and turned away.
“Wait—”
The bartender sighed and shot her a droll look. “I told you, lass, sandwiches only after five.”
He reached for the bowl of nuts, but Sloane quickly threw up her hand to stop him. As if she’d ever dip her hand into a bowl that had seen the hands of every Scotsman this side of Inverness. “No, thank you. I was hoping…the thing is…”
He arched one dark brow high above the other.
She swallowed as heat crawled up her neck. Jesus, this was going to be harder than she’d thought. She nervously fidgeted with the short strand of pearls around her neck. “I have a proposition for you,” she said quickly, before she lost her nerve.
“Do you, now,” he said and turned fully toward her, his gaze slowly moving down her body, to her chest.
She refused to acknowledge the tingling in her belly and lifted her chin. “Not that kind of proposition.”
“Pity,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “What’s the proposition, then? Bangers and eggs for a breakfast crowd?”
She sighed, slightly annoyed. “What I said was that you could get a breakfast crowd that way. But no, not that.”
“Dancing in the evenings?”
His gray eyes, she noticed, were actually lovely when they were shining with sarcasm. “I never said that, but it’s not a bad idea.”
“It’s as barmy as the rest of them. Let’s have it—what’s your proposition?”
Sloane took a drink of the whisky and tried not to wheeze as it burned down her throat. “An offer to help you,” she said hoarsely.
“Donna drink it like water,” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “More help, is it? You’re quite full of it, are you no’?”
Sloane squirmed a little and put down the glass. “I have a lot of money,” she blurted.
He looked stunned. She felt stunned. Who said something like that? It had come out all wrong. “That is not what I meant,” she said with a shake of her head. “I am trying to say that maybe we can help each other, and I’m good for it. My name is Sloane Chatfield.” Boy, she was butchering this every which way. Was it the whisky that was settling like fire in her belly?
He looked at her blankly.
“As in Chatfield paper products?” Surely he knew the name on every ream of paper sold in North America and the UK.
But the bartender made no sign of recognition. He looked at her as if he suspected she was crazy. Which, admittedly, was a fair assessment thus far. “Maybe you’ve heard of the Chatfield Foundation?” she asked hopefully. “We grant hundreds of thousands to worthy causes every year.”
Nothing. The man gave her nothing.
“Well, okay, I guess that’s not important,” she said, waving her hand at her family wealth. “My point, which I am obviously making very badly, I think because of your whisky, is that I need help, and I think you can help me, and if I paid you, you could put the money to good use—”
“I will ignore your slight of my whisky one time. And what do you need help with?” He leaned against the bar, crossing his arms across his broad chest again. He smelled like freshly mowed grass and horses and something that made her think of sex.
Sloane shook the annoying scent from her head and tried to find the words to explain her predicament without sounding desperate. “Here’s the thing. I have these friends coming to Gairloch. There are four of us and we all go waaaay back,” she said, gesturing lamely behind her, as if he could see her past stretching out like a ribbon of awkward moments, bad hairdos, and a few face plants into pints of ice cream. “Like their parents know my parents and we practically grew up together. At least Paige and Tori and I did, then we met Dylan at Mount Holyoke and—”
“Hurry it along, lass.”
She fidgeted with her necklace again. “Fine. This is going to sound weird,” she said, conceding that point before he could make it, and took a last, desperate sip o
f whisky and wheezed, “but I need someone to be my boyfriend.”
His eyes widened.
“And then break up with me,” she quickly added. “A big, splashy break-up. Just for a few days. See? Not so bad.”
“No’ so bad?” He cocked one brow in disbelief. “No. Bloody hell, no.” He shook his head emphatically and started toward the other end of the bar.
“What if I offered you two thousand dollars?” Sloane offered hastily.
That certainly caught his attention. He slowly turned back and stared at her. “Are you mad? Have you escaped from a lunatic’s asylum? Or are you just daft?”
“I most certainly am not. I have my reasons, but you really don’t need to understand them to agree to this.”
He suddenly strode back to where she stood and leaned across the bar, his gray eyes boring into hers. “No,” he said. “No’ now, no’ ever. Take your madness somewhere else, lass.”
Wow, he was so adamant. “Is it because you have a girlfriend?” Sloane asked curiously. “It’s the redhead, isn’t it? The girl who brings bread?”
He stared at her in bafflement. “No.”
“I’m just asking,” Sloane said. “She seems totally into you.” That girl was so into him, she’d probably kill a unicorn to get him naked. “So if that’s not it, why won’t you help me?”
“By God, you are mad. What, then—you propose that I magically wake up one day in this wee bit of village with a new girlfriend, and a foreign one at that?”
“Come on, haven’t you ever heard of love at first sight?” Sloane tried.
“Aye, and I’ve heard of trolls and fairy tales, too.”
“I’ve been in here every day. We could explain it that way, right? Who knows what happens after hours?”
“I know what happens after hours. I work after hours. We willna be explaining anything,” he said, gesturing between them. “I donna have time to play act with a rich American girl with nothing better to do than think of barmy lies and waste everyone’s time.”
“I am going to let that go,” Sloane said, her ire only barely controlled. She hadn’t suggested they rob a bank for heaven’s sake. “Because I get that this must seem a little cray-cray to you. But all I’m asking is a couple of appearances as my boyfriend,” she stubbornly continued. “Act lovey-dovey with me after my friends get here, and then, after a couple of days of make believe, I dump you.” She thrust her arms out, palms up, to indicate how simple it was.
He stared at her. He opened his mouth to speak. Then closed it. Then managed to sputter “Why?”
“Why?” She thought about that a moment. “I think the easiest reason would be to say that you cheated.”
“I donna mean why—” His face darkened dangerously as her words sank in. “I donna cheat.”
“Okay,” she said quickly. “I’ll think of a plausible reason to dump you. Maybe you drink too much.”
He stared at her, his gaze piercing her so completely that he could probably read the tag on her bra. “Forgetting for a moment that I’d never do such a thing, no’ in your wildest dreams… Who says you are to dump me?” He sounded as if he was trying very hard to keep from shouting.
“Obviously because I am the one paying for it,” Sloane said. “Two thousand dollars at that.”
“Only two?” He snorted. “Have you looked in the mirror, then, Miss Prim?”
Sloane gasped. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think you’re some great prize?”
His mouth curled up in one corner, and Sloane couldn’t help noticing that in addition to lovely eyes, he also had some very nice lips when they weren’t smirking. The bastard.
“Sorry, love—but if we were the last two people on earth, I’d definitely dump you.”
Sloane tried not to take offense. But she did. He was so adamant that an old wound in her opened a little, and she was more than a little self-conscious. She took another burning gulp of whisky and felt the fire spread through her veins. And still, it didn’t burn away the image of Adam. “You’re too hard, Sloane.”
While that unpleasant memory danced around in her brain, the bartender cocked a brow, silently daring her to disagree with him.
“All I’m asking for is a few days of your self-proclaimed superior company in exchange for some cash,” she said curtly, all business. “It’s not that hard.”
“It appears I’ve ruffled the bird’s feathers,” he said lightly. His gaze drifted to her mouth, and to her neck, and down to her breasts, which Sloane liked to lock up tighter than Fort Knox with her clothing. “Desperate, are you?”
She snorted. “I wouldn’t say I’m desperate…”
He frowned skeptically.
“Okay, only a little.”
“Aye, as I thought. What do you want, exactly?”
“I told you. A boyfriend-girlfriend situation. You’ve at least had a girlfriend right? You sort of know how it goes?”
He chuckled. “I’ve had many, lass,” he said in a voice that dripped like honey down her spine. “How lovey-dovey?” He leaned over the bar and reached for her hand. “Is there hand-holding?” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Is there kissing? Anything to make it a wee bit pleasurable for me?”
The touch of his warm, wet lips to her skin turned Sloane’s mind to mush. She couldn’t take her eyes from his mouth, his enormous hand holding hers. “Umm…some of that,” she said uncertainly.
The bartender was clearly beginning to enjoy himself. He let go her hand, folded his arms on top of the bar, and fixed his sultry gaze on hers. “Some of what, exactly?”
“Some of what you said.” Why couldn’t she look somewhere other than his mouth?
“Perhaps we ought to start with the basics, aye? How much are you willing to pay for a kiss?”
“What?” She had an insane urge to touch his lips. “Two thousand dollars.”
“You offered two thousand dollars to dump me. It will cost you more if you want a kiss.”
He smiled. Not completely, but in a way that made Sloane feel a tiny bit overheated. It was bananas, but she could almost feel his kiss, the press of that lush mouth against hers, especially when he was looking at her all Highland sexy and totally kissable. “I have to pay you more?” she repeated, a little dazed.
“Aye. One hundred ought to do it.”
“That is outrageous,” she said, dangerously distracted by his broad chest. “What if I kiss you?”
He chuckled. “You willna kiss me.” He made a vague gesture to the back of his head. “A little too prim for it, aye?”
Was he talking about her hair? She clipped it back to keep it out of her eyes, thank you. “I’m not prim,” she said, defensively, and all the mushy softness in her began to firm up.
“Well then, if you’re no’ as prim as you look, you may kiss me for free. I’ll allow it once or twice. But if I must put forth the effort to kiss you, it’s one hundred.”
Sloane thought she ought to feel outraged by the idea that she would have to pay someone to kiss her, but she recognized that her bargaining position was not great. “One hundred dollars?” she said incredulously. “For a stupid kiss?”
“My kisses are no’ stupid, lass—they’ll melt your knees. And no’ dollars, aye? Pounds.” He leaned across the bar. “And if I use my tongue, it’s one fifty,” he added with a roguish wink.
A shock of anticipation raced through Sloane’s veins as she imagined his tongue in her mouth. And in her… “You’re unbelievable,” she murmured. His eyes were the gray of the mist that settled on the hills every morning. Why hadn’t she noticed that before?
“I’m unbelievable?” He laughed. “Have you no’ heard a word you’ve said, lass? Now then—what about sex?”
Another, stronger shiver raced up Sloane’s spine. This man was actually making her blood run hot. Boiling hot. And yet, she heard herself say, “There won’t be any sex,” like a Puritan.
“No? No’ much a girlfriend then, are you?” He smiled.
�
��It’s all pretend, remember?”
“Ah, so pretend sex as well,” he said, nodding, clearly enjoying making her squirm. “Let’s suppose that I desire to peek under the hood,” he said, gesturing to her buttoned up blouse. “And let’s suppose that you enjoy it—which really goes without saying,” he added with alarming confidence. “How much do you propose to pay me then?”
“Oh my God.” Sloane was feeling completely flushed now. She was surprised she wasn’t openly perspiring. “Do you honestly think you’re all that? Newsflash, Braveheart, guys like you are a dime a dozen. Just forget I said anything. I’ll find someone else.”
He shrugged. “Be my guest.”
“I will.”
“Go on, then. Find your Prince Charming.”
“I’m not looking for a Prince Charming. I’m looking for a fake boyfriend. Those are two vastly different things.”
He laughed and picked up a towel. “Whatever you say. Good luck to you, Miss Prim.”
“Stop calling me that.” Sloane turned away from him and surveyed the other patrons—the three men at the bar, and a couple who had wandered in and taken seats at the table beside Sloane’s. Damn it, this was never going to work. She hadn’t seen anyone in Gairloch who could possibly do this. The bartender was her only alternative on such short notice.
She stared hard at the lech at the bar who was openly gazing at her chest. Hell. She glanced over her shoulder at the most annoying man in the world. “All right,” she said.
“Pardon?” he asked, without looking up from drying his mugs. “Did you say something? I donna believe I heard you properly.”
“I said all right.”
He winked at her and grinned. “They always come round, aye? Very well then—how much for sex?”
Sloane was fairly certain she hated him in that moment. “In the extremely and highly unlikely event that happens, I will add one hundred,” she snapped.
He chortled at that. “You’re a funny one. Do you know how many women want to bring me to their bed? Five hundred pounds and no’ a pence less.”
“Fine, all right, all right,” she said, not wishing to humiliate herself further by negotiating the price for him having sex with her. “How many, anyway?”
The Perfect Bargain Page 2