Why was he calling?
Hours ago he’d had a reason. He’d intended to tell her he was still working, that he wouldn’t be there in the morning. Nothing important really, but he’d intended to be polite. Conscientious. That was then.
“Where were you?” he demanded now, not answering her question.
“Out to dinner,” she said. “Is something wrong, Lachlan?”
He ploughed his fingers through his hair. “No. Yes. I—with who?”
“David,” she said brightly. “Lord Grantham.” As if he didn’t bloody know! “We went to the Sand Dollar.”
“The Sand Dollar?” It had taken the name from the old inn that had once been the Moonstone. In its new incarnation it was a flashy joint that appealed to the young tourists. Hardly the place for a low-key island girl. Lachlan gritted his teeth. “Is he there now?”
“At the Sand Dollar?”
God give him patience. “With you?”
“No. Did you want to talk to him? He just left. I showed him some of my other work.”
Oh Christ! “You didn’t!”
“What?” Then she seemed to realize what he meant. “No. Of course not. He wouldn’t have known it was you anyway, would he?”
Lachlan didn’t know. He didn’t care. He breathed a very small sigh of relief. Not much relief. He didn’t feel much relief. He felt—he didn’t know what he felt. Annoyed. Irritated.
He’d worked his ass off all day, trying to do all the things that Dooley would have been doing, and at the same time trying to find someone to replace Dooley to oversee the operation while he was gone. Likely candidates weren’t thick on the ground. And he’d been doing his best to be conscientious, to call and say he didn’t know when he would be back.
Why bother? Obviously she didn’t give a damn!
“Going to sculpt him next?” he snarled.
“What? Sculpt David? Oh, no. I don’t think so.” She gave a light laugh.
Because David Lord Bloody Grantham probably wasn’t as big a sap as he was, Lachlan thought sourly. He cracked his knuckles and scowled out into the darkness.
“But we did talk about what I’m going to do next,” Fiona went on.
“Oh? And what’s that? More naked men? More trash?”
Fiona ignored his sniping as if he were a bad-tempered child. “David thinks if I’m serious about becoming a sculptor I ought to go away to school.”
“Go away? Go away where? What the hell does Grantham know about it?”
“I don’t know where yet for sure. It’s just that there’s no one I can study with on the island. When Carin was learning to paint, she had a mentor at least. But there isn’t anyone on the island who can do that for me.”
“So find one and bring one in.”
“Oh, sure. Right. Get real, Lachlan.”
“Well, why do you have to have someone?”
“It helps if I want to learn more. You went to university. You played soccer for coaches. You had mentors. There’s just so much a person can do on their own. You reach a certain level and you stop. I was going to go once,” she confided.
That surprised him because he thought she’d given up the idea when she’d said earlier that she couldn’t afford it. “You were? When?”
“Before my dad got sick. I know, that was eons ago. But I had applied. I was saving my money. I don’t know if I’d ever have got accepted, but I was going to try.”
He heard a wistfulness in her voice he didn’t think he’d ever heard before. It made him uncomfortable.
“I was thinking I was too old to give it a shot now. But David says why not? He says he knows a school in England. He’s going to get them to send me some information.”
David says…David says…
“Bully for him,” Lachlan muttered under his breath. “Well, that’s interesting,” he said gruffly. “And I guess that’s something to think about. Long way from home, though. You might get homesick.”
There was a pause. Then, “I might,” Fiona allowed. There was an even longer pause during which he hoped to hell she was thinking about that—about missing the island, missing her family, her friends.
Missing him.
Then she said, “Why did you call?”
“To be polite. I’m still working at the Sandpiper,” he told her brusquely. “I didn’t want you expecting me tomorrow either.”
“Not a problem,” Fiona said. “Like I said yesterday, absolutely no hurry.”
“Yeah, well—” Lachlan wasn’t so sure about that.
DAVID WAS AS GOOD as his word. He came by the next evening and brought her information about the art school in England he had mentioned.
“Actually there are three schools you might want to apply to,” he told her as she poured them each a glass of iced tea, then motioned him to go back out into the shade of the front porch. The overhead fan picked up what there was of a breeze and made sitting on the porch the best place to be.
Besides, the more people who saw her with a man other than Lachlan the better, Fiona thought. Last night’s dinner had given a few people pause for thought if the looks they’d given her were anything to go by.
“I e-mailed my secretary and she contacted the admissions people at all of them,” David was saying as he spread out some sheets on the wicker table. “Look here. I printed out their requirements. Sit down and I’ll show you.”
Obediently Fiona sat on the glider and David sat next to her. Their knees brushed. She moved hers away slightly.
David smiled at her. “There aren’t too many hoops to jump through. They want letters of recommendation, primarily. I’ll write you one, of course. Being a featured artist on a Grantham tour can’t hurt.”
“Certainly can’t. That would be nice.”
“And I’m sure Carin will write one for you. Nathan, too. I can show your work to a sculptor friend of mine in Edinburgh. He’s a good judge. I’m sure he’d give you a good recommendation. And you can send those in along with your portfolio.”
Her portfolio.
Of course she would have to send in a portfolio. As she’d told Lachlan, an artist had to have a portfolio. And what would she include in hers?
The seashell miniatures? The metal cut-outs? The sand castles all the tourists loved? The King of the Beach?
“Well, I—”
“It’s late, of course, to be accepted for the autumn term. But sometimes there are openings due to cancellation. You can fill out the applications tonight. I’ll take digital pictures of the sculptures and drawings you want to submit. Then you can send them out in the morning. The sooner we get you to England the better.”
He was smiling at her. And there was something in the way he looked at her that said that “the sooner” and “the better” she got to England had nothing to do with her studying to be a sculptor.
Fiona flushed and took refuge behind her glass of tea. “I’d like to see England,” she said as neutrally as she could. “And Scotland,” she added. “My dad was from Scotland. He taught me to play the bagpipes.”
“Bagpipes?” David looked perplexed.
“I don’t play much anymore,” Fiona told him. Only every once in a while, like this past spring when she’d still had hopes of driving out Lachlan.
“Well, I can show you Scotland, too,” David said cheerfully. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, then put his hand on her knee.
Suddenly the front gate crashed open and a harsh male voice drawled, “Well, isn’t that sweet?”
“Lachlan!” Fiona jumped up, knocking David’s hand away, spilling her tea everywhere.
Lachlan gave David a hard look and her a mocking smile. “Just thought you’d like to know I’m back.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE COULD HAVE LOOKED happier to see him.
He’d practically busted his butt to hire a replacement for Dooley, clue the man in on things and get back to Pelican Cay.
It hadn’t been easy, and in the end he’d even had to
bribe his damn brother to come and get him. Hugh had had “other things” to do that afternoon.
“What other things?” Lachlan had demanded.
“I met this redhead last night…” Hugh began lazily.
The last thing Lachlan wanted to talk about was redheads.
“Forget her! Just get the hell over here,” he told his brother, “and I’ll make your next helicopter payment.”
At least Hugh had his priorities straight. He had arrived two hours later.
“So what’s the rush?” Hugh said when Lachlan had flung his overnight bag into the plane and scrambled in after. “Fiona missing you?”
“What?” Lachlan stared at his brother, openmouthed in astonishment.
Hugh gave him a narrow look. “I said,” he repeated slowly, “is Fiona missing you?”
Not at all sure where the conversation was going, Lachlan answered a question with a question. “What if she is?”
“I told you not to mess with her.”
“I’m not messing with her!”
“Yeah, right.” Hugh scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Well, as long as she’s happy. She has a right to be happy, damn it,” he muttered almost to himself. Then he turned and leveled a hard look at Lachlan. “All I’ve got to say, bro, is you hurt her and you’ll have me to answer to—and Mike and Paul and half the damn island.”
“Why me?” Since when had Fiona Dunbar’s happiness become his responsibility?
“Because you’re the one having the affair with her!”
Oh yeah?
Not that he’d said so to Hugh, of course. He’d stone-walled Hugh totally. All that goalkeeping experience—where a guy didn’t give anything away ever—had stood him in good stead.
Besides, far be it from him to protest that he wasn’t sleeping with Fiona. It wouldn’t be gallant. Especially not if she was the one who had said he was!
Had she said he was?
As soon as they’d landed, he’d headed straight over to Fiona’s place to find out. His mind had been brimming with half a dozen fantasies on the way, all of them involving him stripping off his—and her—clothes the minute he got in the door.
He hadn’t counted on finding Lord Bloody Grantham with his hand on Fiona’s knee the minute he opened the gate!
Or Fiona scrabbling around mopping up iced tea and looking panic-stricken at the sight of him. So much for fantasies.
“Ah, McGillivray! Welcome back!” Trust Grantham to stand up and offer a gentlemanly handshake as if the two of them were at some blinking garden party. “Wondered where you’d got off to.”
Lachlan gave Grantham’s hand one quick shake and dropped it. “Some of us have work to do. I can see you’ve been busy.” He turned the sarcasm on Fiona.
She blinked, puzzled, then managed a quick dazed smile. “Oh, you saw The King of the Beach? Yes, he’s back up and overlooking the cricket field. I even added some new bits today. What did you think of the inner tube?”
Lachlan, who hadn’t seen the inner tube and hadn’t been talking about The King of the Beach at all, scowled. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?” She looked momentarily blank again, then said brightly, “You mean the school applications?” She picked up the papers that she’d dropped when she’d spilled the tea, waving them cheerfully. “I’m just getting on them. David brought these over for me to fill out. Isn’t that lovely? He’s found three schools in England he thinks I should apply to.”
“Has he?” Lachlan said through his teeth.
“Indeed,” David agreed cheerfully. “Two in the south and one up north. I was just about to offer to help her fill them out and get her portfolio together…” He smiled and let the sentence dangle unfinished, waiting expectantly for Lachlan to do the polite thing and leave.
Lachlan looked at Fiona. She wasn’t inviting him to stay, either.
“Fine,” he said through his teeth because he was damned if he was going to beg to be invited to stick around. “You do that. I’ll be back,” he promised her. “At the regular time.”
Grantham’s brows shot up.
“See you then,” Lachlan said flatly. It wasn’t a question.
They both knew it.
IT WAS JUST AS WELL David stayed until nearly midnight helping her get together her portfolio. It kept her occupied, kept her focused, kept her from thinking about Lachlan every second.
As it was she thought about him every other second.
What was she going to say to him in the morning?
Should she say something before morning? Should she call him and tell him the rumor that was going around? Tell him he should stay away or he’d be feeding it.
But she couldn’t call him right away because David had been there. And after David left it was too late.
All she could do then was pace the floor or go to bed and toss and turn. She did first one and then the other. Neither helped. Neither banished him from her mind.
Nothing banished him from her mind because, heaven help her, she was in love with him.
The tossing and turning stopped abruptly and Fiona lay very still and stared at the ceiling and made herself say the words out loud. “I’m in love with him.”
And how foolish and stupid and senseless was that?
Very. But it was also very true.
The truth of it had hit her right in the gut when the gate had opened tonight and Lachlan had strode into the yard and announced he was back.
Until that moment she’d told herself what mattered was moving on, developing her talent, getting a life, meeting a man to fall in love with. A man like David, perhaps.
David liked her. She liked him. If she went to England, who knew where it would lead?
And then the gate had opened and Lachlan had walked in, and Fiona had known the answer to that: it wouldn’t lead anywhere.
She’d already met the man she was in love with—for all the good it did her.
LACHLAN HAD NEVER HAD TO WORK very hard to get a woman’s attention. He had certainly never had to compete for it.
And why should he? He was healthy, wealthy, and not half bad looking if the enthusiasm of the women of the world was to be believed.
And that was just the point! There were plenty of bloody women in the world who would be only too happy to be pursued by the likes of Lachlan McGillivray.
But there was only one Fiona Dunbar, damn it to hell.
And all Fiona Dunbar wanted him to do was stand still!
Lachlan didn’t want to stand still!
He wanted to grab her and kiss her senseless when she opened the door to him that morning. He wanted to yank her T-shirt over her head instead of shedding his.
He wanted to strip those clay-streaked shorts off her and learn all the secrets of her body—secrets that had been plaguing him ever since the night he’d spent watching her sleep.
And instead here he was, stripping his own shorts off and preparing once more to let her stand there and stare at him. He ground his teeth, caught a glimpse of his wild-eyed countenance in the mirror and drew a quick desperate breath.
Cool it, he told himself and willed his libido into temporary hibernation. Just for now. Just for the moment.
Because this was something he’d agreed to do, he’d do it. He’d see it through as he always saw everything through.
But he was done pretending Fiona could just look her fill with no consequences. This wasn’t the academic exercise she was trying to pretend it was.
She could look. She could touch.
But he wanted her naked, too.
“Are you coming?” an impatient voice called through the bathroom door.
Trying not to, Lachlan thought wryly.
“Be right there,” he replied, and hoped he didn’t sound as ragged as he felt.
When he ambled into the studio a few moments later, Fiona had already set the sculpture on her worktable. It looked a lot different from when he’d left. Much more detailed. She’d done a lot of work on it since he’d
been gone. Curious, he went closer to take a look.
“The sooner you get on the stand, the sooner I can get to work,” she said, barely glancing his way, rubbing at something on the sculpture’s hip.
He studied it, impressed. “You missed me,” he said with a grin.
Her gaze jerked up. “What?”
He nodded at the sculpture. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him. With me,” he added and was pleased to see her cheeks flush.
“I’ve been working,” she said tightly.
“When you weren’t schmoozing with Grantham?” He hadn’t meant to bring that up. He didn’t need her thinking he was jealous of any bloody earl.
“He’s been very encouraging,” she said and looked from him to the model stand and back again expectantly.
Lachlan took the hint. He padded across the bare floor and got up on the stand. “I’ll bet,” he muttered.
“He’s a nice man,” Fiona said absently as she studied him. “I’ve enjoyed talking with him. I’ve never met a man quite like him before. Thank you for introducing us.”
“I’m a nice man, too,” Lachlan pointed out.
“Mmm.”
Whatever that meant.
She worked in silence for a while, and Lachlan, silent too, simply watched her.
He’d missed watching her work. He’d expected that once she was out of sight, she’d be out of mind. God knew it was what he’d been hoping for. And with Dooley quitting, it should have been true. He’d had plenty of work at the Sandpiper to occupy him.
And yet all the time he’d been there, he’d felt as if something was missing.
A good contractor, he’d told himself. A competent foreman.
And that was true. But once he’d hired Sylvester, he’d been desperate to get away, to come back to Pelican Cay. Because he couldn’t get Fiona Dunbar out of his mind.
And it was nice to see she’d missed him, too. The sculpture was coming right along. Right now, for example, she was adding a chunk of clay to the front of the sculpture below the waist.
Lachlan sucked in his breath. Carefully he swallowed when Fiona looked up and studied him dispassionately for a long moment, then wet her hands and began using the clay slip to blend the addition in, adding fullness to the groin, smoothing, stroking…
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