His gaze shifted to the painting. His sister had once possessed a similar personality to Kristin; long ago, she’d been a free spirit, too. A free spirit crushed was a horrible thing. That wouldn’t happen to Kristin—not if he could help it.
Damn it. He paced his small, window-lined office, tearing his hands through his hair. He hated that Kristin had affected him, hated that he’d let himself get close to her, and that the thought of her had prevented him from doing his job with his normal, brutal efficiency.
He was being tested, literally, and his feelings for her were making him fail.
He picked up the letter and placed it in the front pocket of his dress shirt, beside his necktie. He had come up with a solution to his problem, and the letter was it. By now, she would have learned the news. She wouldn’t see it—people never did—but the closure would be the best thing for her.
Kristin was talented. She was smart. And she wasn’t fulfilled where she was—even he could see that, and he’d only known her for one day. His proposal would nudge her into doing something better for herself. Bring her out into the wide world.
And he could help her with that.
He pressed his palms into fists. He hated needing this so much—this desire to see her do well. It wasn’t safe for him. It was a threat.
But, the smile on her face when he’d recited the Burns poem to her couldn’t be forgotten. That little moan in her throat when he’d kissed her had stayed with him.
The sweetest hours. He returned to them again and again. In his life, he didn’t have a whole lot of times like that to rest with and think of.
He retrieved his suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Even on a Friday afternoon, Malcolm had a long stretch of meetings ahead. He pulled together a folder containing the financial reports that the company officers had requested of him. It would be another extended evening of discussing numbers with his uncle. The discussion would eventually be carried to a restaurant in the Old Town, but all would be business.
There would be no more “sweetest hours” for him, unless, maybe, his letter could convince Kristin to forgive him. Now that the deal was closed and he could speak truthfully with Kristin, he’d swing by the mail room on the way to his meeting and see that his letter to her got off safely. That was the best that he could do for her within the rules of his business dealings.
“Mr. MacDowall?” One of the pool secretaries met him in his doorway. Malcolm didn’t use secretaries; he took care of all his own administrative work and travel arrangements. Confidentialities were better kept that way.
“Yes?” he said, walking around her and down the hallway as he spoke.
The secretary hastened after him. “Sir, I’ve been asked to make an appointment in your calendar for Monday.”
He glanced sharply at her. “What about?”
“Ah...you were recently in America, correct? At the Aura Botanicals plant?”
His feet slowed, stopped. He turned to her. She was smiling nervously. He had a terrible foreboding about this.
“Who is asking?” he said.
“There’s a lady...an engineer, Jean says...in the reception area asking to schedule some time with you.”
For a long moment, Malcolm couldn’t move. Didn’t dare to breathe.
But it couldn’t be Kristin. She didn’t yet know his real name, for one thing.
He thrust the folder containing the financials for the meeting with his uncle into the secretary’s hands. “Please, take this to the fourth floor conference room and give it to Mr. Sage’s assistant. Tell the group I’m delayed, but will meet with them shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Malcolm kept walking. He strode through the “sheep’s pen,” the field of cubicles containing their support staff. He marched into the reception area, hoping upon hope—
It was her.
Kristin Hart’s curling, rich blond hair was the first thing he saw, because her back was to him. He swallowed, his heart seeming to pulse in his chest.
She seemed thinner, or maybe that was just his recollection. She wore a heavy coat, but it was short, and he could see her legs from her knees down. Really nice legs.
She was just...beautiful to him. In his shirt pocket, he still had the letter he’d written her. He would have mailed it weeks ago, but there were agreements and red tape he’d had to go through in order to carry out his offer to her. He’d explained it all within the text, and now it was too late to mail.
The letter would have to be delivered in person.
He wiped a sweaty palm against his pants. This was what he’d been hoping to avoid. She might not take it well, not at first. He was more comfortable dealing with numbers than managing sensitive communications.
And, oh, bloody hell, he’d kissed this woman.
Without warning—with no time to figure out his strategy, Kristin turned to him. Maybe she’d known he was staring at her, because her first expression didn’t seem to be shock.
A flicker of pleasure brightened her face.
He felt hope, because pleasure had been his first reaction, too. A huge part of him was damned happy to see her.
“George...?” Kristin’s voice was throaty. Normally, it would have thrilled him, but...
I’m not George. If Malcolm never heard that damned name again, it wouldn’t be too soon.
But he couldn’t think of where to begin. How to say...everything he felt toward her? How had he phrased it in the letter? He suddenly couldn’t remember a word he’d written.
She tilted her head toward him. Her eyes, so green and clear, stared into his. “What are you doing here, George?”
“I...was about to ask you the same thing,” he said, stupidly so.
The receptionist hung up the phone she’d been speaking into and looked up at him brightly. “Hello, Mr.—”
Stop. Don’t say another word. Don’t speak my name. Malcolm shook his head at her.
The receptionist paused, her mouth pressing closed.
Malcolm strode forward and clasped Kristin’s elbow. “Please,” he murmured. “Come inside with me.”
“But...I’m making an appointment to see a Mr. MacDowall on Monday.”
“Yes, I’ll help you with that.”
She nodded and followed him without question. He steered her inside, past the row of cubicles.
But the small conference room he’d had his eye on was occupied. He didn’t want to bring her to his office, because a nameplate was clearly posted on his door, indicating just who he was....
Kristin slowed, staring at him, confusion sinking in. She stepped back. “George, what’s going on? I don’t understand.”
“I just want to talk in private with you.”
“But...Jay said you had nothing at all to do with Sage. That you work for a consulting firm in New York.”
So many agreements had been made between Malcolm and Jay. The lies they’d agreed to tell had all been related to security. Malcolm smiled nervously at Kristin even as he glanced toward the other conference room—the bigger one, with all the windows.
It appeared to be open. Maybe he could draw the blinds for privacy.
“Er...we’ll discuss this in a moment,” he said.
“Malcolm?” Their accounting assistant, a phone to her ear, beckoned to him from her desk. “Mr. McVicar is waiting for you in the boardroom. The call just came down from the fourth floor.”
“Tell him I’m busy just now,” Malcolm said.
He turned to Kristin, but her face had drained of color. She seemed to be breathing with difficulty. Her eyes were huge and glistening.
“Malcolm?” she whispered. “You’re Malcolm?”
Oh, hell.
“Er, technically,” he said.
“Why did you call yo
urself George?” she asked. “You lied to me. Why?”
He couldn’t tell her the truth—not like this, not out here, with everyone gaping at them. “Kristin, please, let’s...”
But she was blinking rapidly all of a sudden. She appeared to be swaying on her feet. He gripped her arm tighter.
One of the support staff stopped before him in passing. “Mr. MacDowall, I found a shop that will copy the large drawings for you.” Without even glancing at Kristin, the busy assistant stretched out the two familiar, huge, blue schematics.
He shook his head at her, incredulous that this was happening to him now.
“You can take them with you to Byrne Glennie next week,” the assistant chirped. “Here they are.” She thrust them at him, pleased with herself.
This was why Malcolm usually handled such tasks himself—privacy and discretion were extremely important.
A strangled noise came from Kristin’s throat. She pulled her arm away from him.
Malcolm put his hand to his head. He had no idea what to do.
Nothing could have gone worse for him. Nothing.
* * *
THOSE WERE HER BLUEPRINTS. She had made them, and not for him to steal. “What are you doing with my drawings?” Kristin demanded.
“I...er... Kristin...” He took her arm again, but she shook him off.
“Please, let me talk to you.” He held open the door of an empty conference room, and Kristin followed him inside only because she needed answers.
Upset, still feeling the shock of the situation, she sank into a padded chair.
He walked to the windows and closed the blinds as if it was more important to hide her from everyone than it was to explain to her why he was at Sage Family Products and why people were calling him Malcolm.
“I thought you were helping us,” she said. “George.”
“I was,” he muttered. “I am. Kristin, please, trust me.”
He looked at her with panic etched on his face, and Kristin wanted to believe him, but how could she?
Then the door opened, and a beautiful blonde woman poked her head inside.
“Mr. MacDowall,” the woman said, “I’m sorry, but your uncle is calling down from the fourth floor for you.” She looked pointedly at Kristin. “Is everything all right here?”
“His uncle?” Kristin asked the woman, pointing to George...Malcolm...whoever he was. “Just who is he, exactly?”
A pinched line grew in the woman’s smooth forehead. The model-like creature flicked a gaze at her, up and down her body as if judging her. She seemed to regard Kristin with pity.
Kristin bit her lip. Yes, she knew she appeared rumpled. She likely had dark circles under her eyes from the transatlantic flight, and she certainly wasn’t dressed as well as the sophisticated city women in the Sage Family Products office. And then there was the fact that she’d been duped by George—or whoever he was.
“This is Malcolm MacDowall,” the woman said calmly. She smiled brilliantly at him and then raised a brow at Kristin, as if Kristin was the one who was crazy.
Kristin glanced to George—to Malcolm. But Kristin had trusted him as George. She had brought him home to her family as George.
He had kissed Kristin as George.
So much for the magical day she’d spent with him. So much for the respect she thought he’d had for her. It had all turned out to be just another mistake on her part. An adventure with disastrous consequences.
“Kristin,” Malcolm murmured. “Please, allow me to explain.”
But her ears were buzzing harder. She couldn’t hear so well anymore. Malcolm was saying something to the blonde woman, ushering her out, closing the door behind her.
“Tell me the truth,” Kristin managed to whisper to him, once they were alone. “Why were you at Aura that Saturday? You were planning on buying us out and shutting us down all along, weren’t you?”
His Adam’s apple moved up and down. He sat heavily at the conference table, regarding her, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth before speaking. “John Sage is my uncle,” he said quietly. “I work for the family.”
She felt numb all over. Maybe she was in shock.
He really had betrayed her. He’d lied to her about who he was and why he was in her plant, and at her home. He had made a fool of her in front of everybody who mattered to her.
And then, he had kissed her. Stirring romantic feelings in her that were false on his part.
It always came back to that kiss....
She clutched her stomach. So many emotions rose in her that she was overwhelmed by them all. She had wanted to believe in him. She had always wanted to believe in everybody. She had wanted to believe that he was good and that people were good and that she was safe with him....
She was so naive. The tears were burning in her eyes. She couldn’t control it any longer. They were going to come, betraying her, too, rolling down her cheeks if she wasn’t careful.
No. She wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction. In the past, no matter what had happened to Kristin, she had never cried in public about it. She had never lost control that way.
And she wouldn’t now.
With her hand to her mouth, holding in the sobs, she got up and fled the conference room. Rushed out of the office and past the reception area. Pegged the button for the elevator until it came and then got in and headed down. She didn’t stop until she was outside on the street.
The cold, damp air struck her face, invaded her lungs. Made her feel as crushed as George had.
She moved blindly. Clutching her purse across her coat, she ran to the big boulevard. She looked one way, toward the great castle up the hill over the city. Then the other way, down toward the blue sea in the distance.
Her decision made, she headed up the hill and around a winding corner. Almost crashed into a huge, imposing man wearing a kilt and holding a set of bagpipes. “Be careful, love,” he admonished.
But she pushed past the bagpiper. She didn’t want to hear from any more Scotsmen who called women “love” and didn’t even mean it.
Oh, God, George was a Scotsman. But he wasn’t “George” anymore, he was “Malcolm.” And he had played her for an utter fool.
She turned inside the closest shop, an ancient place with steps that led below street level to a business that sold tartans. It smelled like new wool. Rows and rows of colorful woolen kilts were displayed on industrial metal racks.
Plaid kilts reminded her of her Nanny, and thoughts of her Nanny comforted her, so Kristin stayed inside the cramped quarters, sniffling uncontrollably, her eyes burning.
Two female shoppers stared at her. Kristin must have been a sight—teary-eyed and snotty-faced, her makeup running—so she hurried into a back room that was currently empty.
Bolts of tartan fabric were stacked everywhere in rickety piles, making the place seem like a homey rabbit’s warren.
Perfect. Kristin found a private back corner and sank to her knees, hidden from everyone. If only she had friends here, family. But she didn’t. She was alone, in the big, bad world again. Just as she’d been alone those weeks, years ago, when she was in New York City. Yes, Arlene might still be her roommate tonight, but Arlene couldn’t be let in on the secret with Sage. Kristin didn’t want anyone from Vermont to get their hopes up that she might possibly have what it took to save the Aura factory.
And if she wanted to save the factory, she realized she had no choice: she had to work with this man. But how? How could she trust him, knowing that if he’d duped her once, he could easily try it again?
Kristin scrubbed her hand over her gritty eyes. Footsteps were approaching.
For the hundredth time, she wished she had never left home...
And then, she saw it. Directly before her, right in front of her eyes, at the very bot
tom of the towering stack of woolen plaids.
“Nanny,” she whispered.
That familiar tartan that her Nanny had worn as a winter scarf. Red and green with a hint of gold and beige. Autumn colors. A hunting plaid, Nanny had called it.
With all her energy, Kristin focused on the bit of cloth, conjuring up the image of her Nanny, smiling at Kristin, encouraging her to be brave and have faith.
Nanny had been born here in Scotland, so in a sense, this was Kristin’s home, too. Wasn’t she entitled to be here, as well?
I am a McGunnert. I will not be afraid.
She ran her palm over the bolt of wool plaid and then wrestled it out of the towering pile. When she at last had it free, she held it to her nose and sniffed, as if to internalize and be part of all of its essence and the strength it represented.
The shopkeeper stood beside her. He was a pleasant-faced man with twinkling green eyes. “Well, miss, those colors do suit you.”
Kristin smiled giddily at him. She stood, the bolt of fabric still clutched in her arms. “It does suit me, very much. Can you tell me the name of this plaid, please?”
“Let us see.” The shopkeeper strode over and found a three-ring notebook binder on a side shelf.
Kristin followed him, peering over his shoulder as he flipped through the homemade pages, each encased in a protective plastic cover. The collection looked like years’ worth of personal research on the shopkeeper’s part.
“Ah. Here it is.” He tapped on the image of the plaid she held. “McGunnert. A rare tartan to be sure, miss.”
Kristin stared. On the page, along with an image of the plaid was a pencil drawing of a very distinctive bee.
She gasped, then opened her purse and dug through it until she found the box she’d brought containing Nanny’s gold, bee-shaped brooch.
Exactly like the bee symbol on the clan’s card.
“This is it,” she said excitedly. She held out the bolt. “I would buy some of the cloth, but I don’t sew well. Can you help me find something in exactly this McGunnert tartan?”
“Aye, miss, we sell custom-made kilts and ship them worldwide.” He handed her a business card. “Now, where are you from?”
The Sweetest Hours (Harlequin Superromance) Page 9