Claire sniffed and wiped away her tears as she stood. Everything would be okay. Emma was here with her now. And Dominic wasn’t a fisherman; he hadn’t drowned tonight. She willed herself to breathe steadily.
“But where is he?” she said to the potatoes and the empty storeroom.
The answer came to her in a flash and her temper flared. The pub.
Anger and jealousy burned behind her eyelids, red and hot.
She stomped out, snatching her nightgown from the floor as she passed. “The women of Gandiegow had better keep their oven mitts off my husband. Dominic belongs to me.”
* * *
The next morning, Emma roared awake—literally. A Hoover—no, an army of Hoovers—rumbled in the adjacent bedroom and down the narrow hallway. She jumped out of bed and opened the door.
Deydie ran over her foot with the infernal vacuum cleaner. The old woman shut off the machine and looked contrite. “Sorry, lassie. Impromptu quilt retreat. We just got word that Cynthia from Iowa Star Quilts can pop in for a long weekend to teach the Top Method of Foundation Paper Piecing.”
“Paper what?”
“Paper piecing. It’s a great way to make detailed quilt blocks. Aye, it’s a lot of fun.” Deydie grabbed Emma’s arm. “Run to Claire’s now and get us some scones. We’ve no time to stop for breakfast. My Caitie put a notice on the Internet and thirty women will be coming on the chartered bus from Edinburgh this very evening. It’s a lot of stress for me ole bones, but I’m right happy to be doing it. Come now. Hurry.” She shoved Emma toward the door.
She only took a moment to slip into her Dolce & Gabbanas. Whoever said small-town life was quiet and lazy had apparently never stayed in Gandiegow.
Deydie leaned out the door and shouted to her, “And tonight I’ll be giving ye your first quilting lesson. I have a plan. Aye, I do.” When Emma glanced back, the ancient woman had a secretive smile on her wrinkly old face.
“What plan is that?” Emma hollered back.
The old woman pointed a gnarled finger at her. “Scones. Go on with ye now.”
Emma hurried along, first worried about what Deydie might be up to, and then upset she’d left Claire in the lurch by sleeping in. Another of Claire’s rules rang in Emma’s head: The scones wait for no one.
But Emma’s main preoccupation and worry this morning was that she could still feel Gabriel on her lips, assaulting her in the most delicious way. She had to admit that from the day she’d met him, she’d wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his kisses. She’d known even back then that his pheromones made her a little dizzy. But she’d imagined his kiss to be engaging and tender; in real life, his kiss had been demanding and consuming, and she’d gone from surprised to on fire in two seconds flat. To have his body crushed up against hers was the most passionate experience she’d ever had. In that moment, she wouldn’t have cared if he’d stripped her naked and made love to her against the wall for all of Gandiegow to walk by and see.
Though it was bitter cold this gray morning, she unzipped her jacket to cool off. She had to put the steamy Gabriel MacGregor out of her mind. That kiss had been a fluke. He had even apologized for it, looking so terribly sorry to have kissed Egghead Emma. He must be pretty hard up here in this small town—his options not what he was used to in the big city. She would’ve felt sorrier for him if she wasn’t already sorry for herself; that kiss had been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her in her whole, unsatisfying life.
At that, she made a deliberate effort to switch off all thoughts of him and put her thoughts on Claire.
Emma wondered if Claire and her lingerie had gotten lucky last night. Of course she had. Claire always got exactly what she wanted. Always.
When Emma arrived at the restaurant, everything looked under control. Another woman was there, helping, taking orders. Claire stood at the cash register, waiting on a couple of fishermen wearing black wellies.
“Sorry I’m late,” Emma said, stepping behind the counter.
“Don’t fash yourself over it.” Claire had dark circles under her eyes, confirmation that the lingerie had worked.
Emma didn’t approve of Claire manipulating her husband. But if Dominic and Claire had worked things out and were back together, then bully for them.
The fishermen left, and Claire lit into her. “Why didn’t you come back last night? I didn’t know where you were until this morning, when I came down to warm the ovens.”
“I assumed you were busy with Dominic.” Emma raised an eyebrow to get her meaning across.
“I wish.” Claire grabbed a rag and wiped down the counter, not meeting her eye.
“What do you mean, I wish? What happened?”
“You mean what didn’t happen.” She looked up, and this time Emma saw the rawness of rejection in her eyes.
Emma had the childish urge to say Told you so. Instead she wrapped an arm around her friend. “Are you all right?”
“What you do think? I miss my husband and I want a baby.” Claire crumpled. “And I have no idea where Dominic slept last night. He wasn’t here. He could’ve been in any woman’s bed. I checked the pub, hoping he was drinking alone, but he wasn’t there.”
“Did you see if he went to Gabriel’s?” Emma hoped that’s where he’d gone.
Claire’s face lit up. “Yes. That has to be where he was.”
Emma gave her a squeeze. “What can I do to help? I mean with the breakfast crowd.” Then, “Oh, damn. Deydie needs me to bring scones over to Thistle Glen Lodge. A retreat is coming this evening.”
“So I’ve heard.” Claire grabbed a pastry box and started filling it. “Moira stopped by to tell me. And stayed,” she added. She looked up at Emma. “Stop feeling guilty. It was just a wee morning rush.”
“I’m a terrible friend,” Emma said.
Claire rolled her eyes and filled an insulated carafe with coffee. “Only if you don’t help me make Dominic fork over some sperm.”
“You know I can’t. This is between you and him.”
“I know, I know. Don’t worry. I’ve come up with a foolproof plan. Just you wait and see.” Claire shoved the box and carafe at her. “Here, get these to Deydie before she takes her broom after you.”
* * *
Dominic took the money from the last customer and thanked him. The lunch crowd had been a tad larger today. He pulled out the receipts and scanned them.
With the sudden quilt retreat this weekend, the restaurant’s fate didn’t look nearly as grim as yesterday. Maybe there could be a stay of execution; maybe they wouldn’t have to pull up and move back to Glasgow or Edinburgh and work for someone else. “If only the town would support the restaurant more.”
If he could hold on to the few regulars he had and grow them little by little, and no more retreats were canceled, Pastas & Pastries might just make it. Maybe in three to five years, if things kept improving, he could give Claire what she wanted.
Claire. God, how would he appease her in the meantime?
The restaurant stood empty, with tables that needed to be cleared. He grabbed a rubber container and bused each one. Using his hip, he pushed open the kitchen doors.
And froze, coming close to dropping all the dishes.
Claire bent over the sink, with her backside to the door, her buck-naked ass facing him. She turned around. From her fiery red hair to her bare feet, the only cloth she wore was an apron. When she shifted, one of her big, luscious breasts fell out.
He set down the dishes and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Oh God.”
“No, it’s just yere lusty wife. Come over here and give me and the girls a squeeze.” She jutted her chest out to emphasize which girls she meant.
He took a step toward her, then another, but when he lifted his foot the third time, he stopped midstride. It took everything in him to utter the next words.
“No, Claire. No baby. Not yet.” He breathed heavily. “Why can’t you understand? We’ve got no money for a babe.”
Claire untied the apron from around her neck and let the front flap fall. She spilled out, and he almost fell to his knees.
“You’re too damn beautiful for your own good.”
With a sly grin, she reached behind her to undo the tie at her waist. He licked his lips in anticipation. He had to have her. He took another step toward her.
But when he did, he saw the look of triumph cross her face. She had him by the balls and she knew it. Normally, he didn’t mind being weak for his wife. But more lay in the balance than making love to her.
“Dammit, Claire, I love you,” he yelled. He gestured to the kitchen. “But this isn’t going to happen. The restaurant isn’t standing on its own legs. It’s still a babe.” As he said it, her face fell, and her pain devastated him. Her seductive tricks were much easier to sidestep than her eyes welling with tears.
“Dammit,” he muttered, stomping from the room and straight out the front door, not caring about the cold weather outside.
Claire had done it. Made the decision for him. He would stay indefinitely at Gabe’s. The farther away he stayed from Claire and her raw emotions, the better.
* * *
Claire pulled herself together and tied the front of her apron back up. She wouldn’t fall apart. She came from stronger stock than that. The Douglases were a clan of warriors. She held her head high and made her way to the steps heading up to the flat.
She’d just have to pull out the big guns. “I love you, too, you big idiot. I didn’t want to have to do this to ye,” she said to the walls while ascending the stairs. “Ye’ll not like it one bit, either.”
It was one thing to be in Glasgow, where she had to take care of herself. But she was home now and Gandiegow had her back. It was time to bring them into the fight.
Chapter Seven
Gabe drove the Land Rover over the hill to the old factory that sat less than a mile out of Gandiegow. He hadn’t gone into the restaurant this morning because he couldn’t face Emma. He’d been a cad last night, kissing her the way he had, and he was a coward this morning. Instead, he’d called Lachlan McDonnell and told him to expect him after morning office hours at the newly dubbed North Sea Valve Company.
The McDonnell, as he was known, was a renowned engineer for these parts, and had decided to give new life to the sixty-plus-years-empty factory and turn it into a budding enterprise for the town. It was a tall task, but Gabe could see the genius of it. The North Sea was right outside Gandiegow’s doorstep, and with the North Sea oil fields growing like they were, an oil-valve company close by was perfect. At Gabe’s first glimpse of the factory, though, he thought the McDonnell would definitely have his work cut out for him. The building was ancient, with missing windows here and there. The roof could use a few shingles in spots and seemed to slope oddly on one side. Gabe pulled into the parking lot and retrieved his toolbox from the back of the Land Rover.
He walked into the factory, confident that working with his hands was just the thing to keep his mind off how he’d taken advantage of Emma’s sweet lips last night. Of course, he’d left a note on the surgery’s door, explaining where he was today, along with his mobile number in case he was needed.
The McDonnell met him inside and pounded him on the back. “So good of you to come. I really need the conveyor motor up and running today. Are you up for the task?”
“Aye.” Gabe knew nothing about making valves, but he knew a hell of a lot about repairing motors and engines. Working at the factory today was just what the doctor had ordered: an afternoon of being useful.
The McDonnell led him through the double doors to the factory floor. The place was a mess, but it looked grand to a mechanic like him. “Here it is. If you need anything, Ross and Ramsay are just over there.” At that the McDonnell left him with the crippled conveyor.
Three hours later, Gabe lay on his back under the motor, sweating. The motor had seized up and he’d done everything in the book to get her back in working order. He grabbed the wrench near his head and ratcheted down a bolt. For the hundredth time, he told himself he wasn’t hiding out from Emma. He just needed time to get his head screwed on straight after last night’s debacle and before seeing her again.
Gabe’s hand slipped and the wrench cracked his knuckles. “Dammit.”
“I heard that all the way over here,” Ross said. Ross was one of the fishermen, brother to Ramsay, whom Gabe had dehooked the other day. “Did you break anything, Doc?”
“Nay. Just my pride.” He put the wrench on the bolt one more time and torqued it. “So, Ross, are you going to give up fishing and work at the factory when she’s up and running?”
“Fishing’s in my blood. Ramsay might, though, as clumsy as he is.”
“Och, brother.” Ramsay stood in the middle of the room with a piece of molded sheet metal propped on his shoulder. “We can go outside and settle once and for all who’s the clumsier of the two.”
Gabe shook his head at these lads, who were always blustering for the position of top Scot, though Ross was older by a year.
The McDonnell came up beside Ramsay. “Back to work, lads. There’s too much to do for all this chitchat.”
Gabe agreed and grabbed another bolt. He’d had a sleepless night and it was all Emma’s fault. He must really be hard up, because he couldn’t stop the replay in his mind—pushing her up against the wall, kissing her, possessing her. Why in blazes had he caved and sought out her lips? He was a man with principles now, not some horny wanker.
He put his mind back on his work, grateful he had something to occupy him. This job was doing triple duty. It helped keep his mind off Emma and built up his social capital with the natives, and, hell, he loved working with his hands.
Unfortunately, that thought brought him full circle back to the reason he’d come here today. Emma. He shouldn’t want to get his hands on Emma Castle. And see what magic he could work there.
“It’s four o’clock,” the McDonnell said. “Put your tools down. It’s time to go home and clean up.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay and work,” Gabe said.
The McDonnell shook his head. “Nay. It’s all hands on deck. The quilters from Edinburgh will be here shortly. They’ll need every one of our strong backs to get their things to the quilting dorms.”
The quilting dorm. Emma. Gabe wondered if she had anywhere to go tonight. But he had to stay out of it. Emma’s sleeping arrangements had nothing to do with him.
* * *
Emma sat in Claire’s parlor and was in no hurry to get to Quilting Central. When she’d returned with the scones that morning, Deydie had been too busy to talk but promised to get with her later. Emma had a bad feeling about it.
Claire came out of the loo. “Get a move on, lassie.” She looked too calm and confident for a woman whose world was crumbling all around her.
“What are you up to?” Emma asked, watching her friend closely.
Claire flipped her hair. “Don’t worry yourself.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I have everything under control.”
A shiver, and not a good one, traveled up Emma’s spine.
“Come now. The ladies of Gandiegow are expecting us to attend their retreat. I don’t want to let them down.” Claire handed Emma a box filled with goodies for the quilting ladies.
“Fine.” But they would talk about this later.
They arrived at Quilting Central just as the Edinburgh ladies were trooped in, several of the village men hauling luggage behind them.
Emma stepped inside and saw Gabriel lingering on the other side of the room. “What’s he doing here?”
Claire gave her a sly grin. “What’s that tone I hear? Are you crushing on poor Gabriel?�
��
“Rubbish. Proper Englishwomen do not crush.”
“Are proper English women supposed to blush when they are lying through their teeth?”
Emma turned away from Claire, taking her blazing-hot cheeks with her. “Where do you want this box?”
Claire pointed to the table where the other food had been laid out. “After all the women are gathered, Father Andrew, our Episcopal priest, will kick off the retreat with a prayer. He’s over there by the fire. He’s new to town, too.”
Father Andrew was young, in his late twenties, with sandy blond hair. He was talking with Rhona, Gandiegow’s only schoolteacher. Emma wondered how he was faring, being new to town, too.
Deydie waddled over to them and took Emma’s arm. “Good. I’m glad ye’re here. How are you with straight stitches?”
“Pardon?” Emma asked.
Bethia joined them. “Emma, how are ye adjusting to life in Gandiegow? It’s a far cry from London, but we have loads to offer.”
Emma opened her mouth to tell her that she was only here for a visit, but Deydie yanked her arm, wanting her attention.
“Yere straight stitching? With a machine?” Deydie pointed to one of the sewing machines on the table.
Bethia cleared her throat.
Emma felt like a doll being tugged back and forth. “My straight stitches are fine, I guess. Claire’s mom taught me how to sew.” She eyed the old woman cautiously. “Why?”
“Good, good.” Deydie broke into a smile, which was almost as frightening as her scowl. A terrible gleam of mischief played in her eyes. She leaned around her to speak to Bethia. “I have an idea.”
Emma saw her wink at Bethia before she spoke again.
“We’re awfully busy with the retreat,” Deydie hedged. “Christmas is coming up faster than a rising tide.”
“Nay, Deydie,” Bethia warned.
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