“I assume you have to be rich to make that list,” Bella said. “Don’t tell me you have a title, too.”
He shook his head. “No, thank the Lord. I come from a very ordinary small village outside of Glasgow. The only reason I made that bloody bachelor list is because I patented a rescue apparatus that was picked up by the Royal Navy and others. Turned out to be lucrative. That wasn’t why I did it. The money’s still in the bank. I’m jabbering. I’ll shut up now. In my defense, I’m not very good at small talk.”
Bella stared at him, feeling her heart do a funny flip. Clearly money wasn’t the only reason Ian Larrimore had landed on the eligible bachelor list. Either he was being modest, or he truly was as endearingly humble as he seemed. Surely a man as smart as he was could take an honest look in the mirror.
“Where do you live now?” she asked.
“London. And you?”
“North Carolina. In the States.”
“I hear it’s lovely there.”
“It is.”
Good grief. Nothing like two introverts to get a conversation buzzing. This was exactly why she liked being alone. People were so much work, especially people of the opposite sex. She ran her hands through her hair. “Where is your luggage?”
His cheeks reddened. “I abandoned my car on a side street in town. I’ll sneak out after dark and retrieve it.”
“Okay.”
Ian shifted from one foot to the other. He was so tall he dwarfed the low-ceilinged space. Finley had inherited this quaint and cozy house from its previous owner, an old man who needed help with chores. He had given Finley room and board years ago in exchange for an able-bodied young man’s help with things that were too difficult for him to manage.
Ian picked up his high-end leather backpack. “I’m assuming Finley has Wi-Fi. If you’ll point me to my quarters, I’ll get out of your hair.”
The man’s Scottish accent was a delight. Now that Bella was surrounded by the speech patterns of the Highlands on a daily basis, you’d think she would have become immune to the wonderful cadences of the native tongue. But it wasn’t so. Hearing Ian’s mundane words was like listening to poetry.
Bella nodded. “Of course. Follow me.” As she led him up the narrow stairs, she was ruefully aware that her days of wandering around the house each morning in a T-shirt and undies were over. If she wanted to get up and read at three in the morning, she’d have to be careful not to let the stairs creak when she tiptoed down to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
Darn Finley and his careless hospitality! Already, Bella had begun to feel a sense of ownership in this delightful house. With her brother gone for an entire month, she had plenty of time to play tourist and write and dream.
Now it wouldn’t be the same at all.
She stepped aside to let Finley enter the immaculate guest room. Although not luxurious, the space was comfy and appealing. “You’re lucky Cinnamon wasn’t here,” Bella said suddenly. “She’s at the dog groomer, but she wouldn’t have been too happy about me letting a stranger through the front door.”
“Cinnamon?”
“She’s a beautiful English Cocker.”
“Ah, yes. I met her last year… when I came to pick up my bike.”
Bella’s brother built one-of-a-kind, incredibly expensive motorcycles. His usual clients were movie stars and royalty. Ian must be extremely comfortable financially to be able to afford such a toy. That fact didn’t impress her in the least. She’d had plenty of opportunities to discover a man’s bank balance wasn’t a good indicator of his character.
She held out her hand. “I think you’ll find everything you need. I’ll dig out a spare house key for you later on and leave it on the hall table.”
Her guest nodded, making her feel unaccountably guilty. His green eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thank you.” He paused and grimaced. “I assume your last name is Craig? But I don’t know your first name.”
“It’s Bella. Short for Arabella. That was too much of a mouthful, so my parents shortened it.”
He tested the mattress with one hand. “Bella. The name suits you.”
There was no overt flattery in his tone or expression, but the words were definitely a compliment. Which left Bella flustered and out of sorts. “I have work to do,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”
She fled to her room, remembering for no particular reason the miserable day before her senior prom when Dusty Bennett decided at the last minute to take a date who was blonder and dumber than Bella. He’d told her guys didn’t like girls who were too smart.
Even then Bella had recognized what a total ass he was. But the careless rejection hurt nevertheless. She’d spent half a decade trying to be smart without letting anyone know. In the end, the playacting had become too much of a burden. She was who she was.
Even so, really handsome men made her nervous. She preferred nerds, as her brother so blithely described them. Male or female, they were her people. It wasn’t that she thought superficial social interactions and pop culture were unimportant. It was just that she had so many other things that interested her.
In the bathroom she splashed water on her hot cheeks and brushed her hair. Staring into the mirror she faced a woman who was average for the most part. Her eyes were large and a nice shade of blue. A nose that was a bit off center. A chin that was more sharp than feminine.
She did like her hair…most days. It was thick and healthy and required little effort on her part to be presentable. Although she had been known to use a curling iron and hairspray on special occasions, most days she simply caught it up in a ponytail and went about her business.
Suddenly, as she sifted through memories of the past half hour, something about Ian’s appearance surprised her. Though he was striking enough to be a film star, his clothes struck an odd note. The tweed jacket he wore was frayed at the cuffs and an inch too short for his long arms. His pants were wrinkled. Even his socks were mismatched.
It had been a very long time since a man had interested Bella in any way other than cerebrally. Ian Larrimore might have an impressive brain, but it wasn’t his IQ that was getting her all hot and bothered.
This was a very inconvenient time for her hormones to go haywire. She was here to work on her dissertation. To soak up the history hidden in the rocks and the hills, to immerse herself in the magic that was Scotland.
She definitely didn’t need a man to distract her from her goals.
Fortunately, Ian seemed set on making her dislike him from the start. When she went downstairs at six that evening to make herself a sandwich and a cup of tea, he showed up in the kitchen with an envelope in his hand. “This is for you,” he said, prowling around the small room with the old-fashioned appliances.
The envelope was full of twenty pound notes. She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
The man with the supposedly stratospheric IQ shrugged. “I don’t know how to cook. In London I order take away. That’s not really much of an option here in Portree. I can’t expect you to absorb the cost of feeding me. So I’m compensating you for your trouble and expense.”
Bella’s ire began to simmer. “You want me to feed you?”
Ian’s green-eyed gaze was guileless. “Well, if you’re going to prepare meals for yourself, I assumed it wouldn’t be that much of a bother to double the recipes. I’d be ever so grateful.”
Bella pushed her chair back from the table and stood, wishing she were half a foot taller so she could spit in his eye. “Unbelievable,” she said. “I’m a woman, therefore I must be willing and able to cook. Is that what you’re implying?”
“I meant no disrespect. The ability to cook is a valuable skill.”
“But a feminine one.” He should have been alarmed by the ice in her voice, but the poor man forged ahead anyway.
“Aye. It’s often the lasses who are best at it. I wouldn’t know. My own mum ran away when I was a young child. My father hired a combination nanny/housekeeper to look after us. She was no dab hand
in the kitchen, I’ll tell you, but at least we didn’t go hungry.”
The fact that Ian had lost his mother at a young age just as Bella had lost hers slowed her down for half a second, but she was too riled up to make peace now. She shoved the puffy envelope against his chest, forcing him to grab for it. “Well, I suppose you’ll go hungry, Mr. Larrimore. I’m not your mother, your nanny, nor your housekeeper. So I’d suggest you learn how to fry an egg.”
Chapter Three
Ian winced as the kitchen door slammed hard enough to rattle the glassware in the cabinets. What had he said to upset her?
Slumping into a chair at the table, he drummed his fingers on the scratched wooden surface. This was his punishment for trying to run away from the insane press attention in London. Now here he was, trapped in a small house in the back of beyond with a woman who thought he was an idiot.
He never had been very good at personal relationships. His father raised him mostly in absentia, and the old man definitely hadn’t believed in coddling children. Ian had spent a lot of time on his own, particularly after he was old enough to dispense with the babysitter after school.
His stomach growled loudly, dragging him back to the present. He pondered his choices. There were a number of nice seafood restaurants in Portree. But after today’s harrowing sprint, he wasn’t yet ready to tangle with the paparazzi again. That meant invading lovely Bella’s refrigerator without an invitation. He had already incurred her displeasure. Surely this would be a minor infraction.
Even after raiding the fridge, his choices were limited. Either Bella subsisted on yogurt and Swiss cheese, or she went out for many of her meals. Fortunately, she had apparently brought her own stash of peanut butter, which Ian had learned to love while in the States. In the end, he fixed himself two PB&J sandwiches with strawberry jam and washed them down with a large glass of milk.
When he was done, he decided to go for a run. It was almost dark. No one would bother him. Then he remembered that his gear was still in his car. Hell. Now he had no choice but to retrieve his things. He would need to go and come on foot. To move the car to Bella’s driveway would be the equivalent of a huge neon sign announcing his presence.
Even accessing his car in the dark was taking a chance.
Fortunately, the cluster of reporters who had followed him from Inverness must have been convinced he had left by boat or else they were too tired to venture out at night. Ian was able to unlock the boot of his car and grab his two bags without incident.
He trudged back up the hill to Finley’s house wondering why the man hadn’t bothered to tell his lovely sister he had issued an invitation to the most hunted man in the UK at the moment. Ian snorted aloud, incredulous that his life had come to this. He should have stayed in London, perhaps, but he was tired of holing up in his flat. He missed the days when he could run and bike and walk in pleasant anonymity. One bloody magazine article and now his whole ordered existence was shot to hell.
The house was dark when he returned. He had left the front door unlocked, since he didn’t yet have a key. His hostess’s room was on the third level of the dwelling, so he had no way of knowing if she was still awake or not.
The structure was built into the side of a hill. At one time it might have been two separate houses. Now it jumbled together drunkenly, as if trying to climb the incline on its own.
He changed clothes and laced up his shoes. Despite the hour, adrenaline surged in his veins. He felt as if he could run a marathon.
The small town of Portree was built like an elongated bowl, sliding from higher ground all the way down to the harbor. Ian pushed himself hard, relishing the punishing elevation changes. Sweat dampened his shirt. His heart pounded in his chest. Every bit of accumulated frustration he’d endured in the days since the article was published gradually winnowed away.
In the dark crystal-clear night, he found a measure of peace.
When he was spent, he made the climb back up to Finley’s house. It didn’t take a genius to know that part of his earlier mood could be attributed to sexual frustration. He wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed one-night stands. They left him feeling empty inside, despite the physical release.
On the other hand, he rarely had the time or the inclination to invest in a relationship with the kind of woman who might stick around. That meant he usually immersed himself in his work until he was too exhausted to do more than fall into bed and go to sleep.
Staying in Finley’s house presented a new problem. In many ways, it was perfect. He had managed to elude reporters for the moment. Unlike London, the Isle of Skye was peaceful and charming, a low-key environment that lent itself to serious endeavors.
But what was he going to do about Bella?
His reluctant hostess was prickly and argumentative and sexy as hell. Already, she fascinated him. Was there a boyfriend in the picture?
After he showered and eventually climbed beneath the covers, he found himself fixated on the image of his housemate upstairs in her own bed. Was she nude? Did she sleep in frilly, feminine nighties? Her skin was fair, smooth as a magnolia blossom. The faint hint of a southern belle accent made him wonder what her husky voice would sound like in the throes of passion… calling out his name.
He shifted on the mattress and cursed. With one snippet of a fantasy, he had erased all the benefits of his run. He was hard now… everywhere. And he ached for a woman. One particular woman with the face of an angel and the personality of a cactus. Taking matters into his own hands, he found release and drifted at last into a restless sleep.
* * *
Bella awoke at dawn feeling guilty. The fact that she felt guilty made her mad. Every morning since her brother and McKenzie had left on their honeymoon, Bella had awakened in perfect harmony with the world in general and the little hamlet of Portree in particular.
She had sipped her tea and jotted notes and played with the adorable Cinnamon. Now everything was ruined.
An apology was in order, though there was a good chance it might stick in her throat. Finley had invited his friend to stay. Fair or not, that was the reality. In Finley’s absence, Bella was the de facto host. She had been touchy and rude yesterday, and she needed to make amends.
By the time Ian appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, yawning and stretching, she had rehearsed her speech a dozen times. When she saw her houseguest, her stomach curled and she caught her breath. Holy Queen of Scots. He was all warm and rumpled and sleepy-eyed. She wanted to gobble him up or wrestle him to the ground and kiss him from head to toe.
The man was a walking, talking romance hero. That was saying a lot coming from a woman who didn’t believe in romance. She cleared her throat and tried to ignore the way his faded jeans rode low on his narrow hips. Today’s soft Henley shirt was baby blue.
“Good morning, Ian,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve fixed sausage and eggs. There’s plenty for two. May I serve you a plate?”
He blinked owlishly. “Umm…”
“Oh, sit down,” she said impatiently. “I’m trying to apologize. I wasn’t at my best yesterday. I’m sorry. Of course I’ll feed you. But I don’t need your money. The number two bachelor in Great Britain is safe from me.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re not a warm fuzzy woman?” He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands with a little groan.
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She tapped his shoulder. “Tea?”
“Do you have coffee?” he asked, the words muffled. “I went to the States for one of my degrees, and I picked up the habit.”
“No problem. Did you hit the pub last night?” she asked, wondering if he really had a hangover.
“No.” He sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I had a hard time sleeping. The bed was perfectly comfortable,” he said quickly, “but I’m a creature of habit. I never rest as well on the road as I do at home.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Bella said. “It took me a full week to get over jet lag and to feel at
ease in Finley’s room. Now I love it, though.”
Ian was quiet as she poured his coffee and prepared his plate. She had made an early morning run to the market for supplies. If a woman needed to grovel, a hot breakfast seemed an auspicious way to start.
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she joined him at the table. “Here’s the thing,” she said. “I have a chip on my shoulder about the whole women-as-homemakers thing.”
He shot her a sideways glance and gulped down half of the coffee. The man must have asbestos lungs.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?” she asked.
“Okay, nothing. You made a statement. I let you know I heard it.”
“Don’t try to handle me, Larrimore.”
He held up one finger, still drinking from his coffee cup as if he had found the elixir of eternal life. “I wouldn’t dream of it. And for the record, I don’t have a mother or sisters, so I plead not guilty to having preconceived notions about the female sex.”
“What about babies?”
He choked on his drink and coughed until his face turned red. “Babies?”
“You know. Loud. Poopy. Impossible to predict. If you and your wife had a baby, would you expect her to drop everything and play mama, or would you take an equal role?”
Ian set down his cup with exaggerated care and gave her a narrow-eyed look that indicated she might have gone a wee bit too far. “I’d say it’s a bit early in our relationship to be discussing something so personal, lass. For the record, we Scots are a hospitable people, but not that hospitable. All I need is a bed and breakfast. I’m not expecting you to bear my children.”
Bella gaped. It was her turn to blush. “We were having an academic discussion,” she muttered, unable to meet his eyes. “I was curious about your opinions.”
It seemed she has misjudged Ian Larrimore rather badly. Apparently, he was neither passive nor sexually repressed. The light in his eyes at the moment made her toes curl.
Scot on the Run Page 2