Isabel’s sigh signaled her defeat. Not knowing what to say, Alasdair stacked plates and carried them into the kitchen. When he returned, she was sitting slumped with her chin propped on her palm, fingering the wildflowers. They already looked worn, and he regretted stealing their beauty.
A wilting purple flower dropped two petals and Isabel picked them up. “I love wildflowers, but they never last long once you pick them. They can’t survive away from the land.”
The fanciful bent to her tone captured his imagination. Before he could help himself, he asked, “Like you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her cutting glance sheared away any softness.
He blinked and stumbled to find his footing. “Have you ever been to Scotland?”
“Not yet, but I’ll go someday,” she said defensively before her shoulders rounded once more. “I want to see Edinburgh and London and Paris. Someday.”
“Why not now? Go book a ticket to Paris. It’s lovely in autumn.”
“My job has limited vacation, and I have to save it all for the festival.” Although her voice was matter-of-fact, he could sense a trickle of frustration underneath.
In that moment, he understood her driving force. Understood it because he wrestled with it himself. Duty to tradition and family. Gareth and Alasdair’s presence had thrown her off course.
“Are you sure I can’t help in some way?” No doubt she’d turn him down flat again, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to ease her burdens even as he added to them.
Her brown eyes searched his. “You don’t know me and I don’t know you. Why offer to help?”
What she was really saying was that she didn’t trust him, which was fair. “Consider it repayment for room and board.”
“There’s no need. You’re our guest.” She rose and with brisk movements wiped the crumbs off the table.
Obviously, Isabel didn’t ask for or accept help often. He could relate. Lightly, he said, “Just a thought. I believe I’ll retire to my room now.”
She nodded. “Sleep well.”
“I will.” He wouldn’t though. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in ages. Stress had become a constant companion whose nagging got worse at night when there was nothing to distract his brain.
He yawned, the long day of travel wearing him down. Maybe tonight would be different. He’d open his window to the cooling night, and sleep would slip inside and claim him. With any luck, he’d dream about a woman with brown hair and laughing eyes seducing him in the middle of a field of flowers.
The vibration of his mobile sloughed away hope of sleep. Tension pulled at the muscles of his neck and shoulders, and acid churned his stomach. Unable to ignore his duty any longer, he unlocked the screen and went to work.
Twenty missed calls. A hundred emails. Some from his mother. Most from various people in both the London and New York offices. He briefly considered stuffing the mobile under the mattress, but he opened his email and scanned for an answer to the inquiry he’d sent requesting information on Stonehaven. Nothing yet.
He tapped his mobile on his knee and then shot an unsatisfactory text to his mum, unable to let her know when he’d be home with Gareth. But then again, anything less than disclosing when he ate, shat, and slept would be too little detail for his mum.
He got ready for bed, pulling on athletic shorts and a faded Coldplay concert T-shirt from the days he had the time and energy to enjoy music. Sleep played hide-and-seek, never allowing itself to be caught. Finally at two o’clock, he scooped up his mobile and made his way downstairs, taking the steps slowly, the creaks loud in the silence.
It was seven in the morning in London, almost time for the office to fill with worker bees. Might as well put his insomnia to good use. He slipped into the office and closed the French doors. One wall was covered in corkboard and pictures were tacked up, some curling at the edges from age. There were so many, they blurred together.
Two desks were set up with laptops. One desk was neat with a pretty stained-glass lamp on top. The other was covered in piles of paper of varying heights and a rustic lamp of carved and polished driftwood. He didn’t have to check whose was whose. The chaos on the desk matched the thoughts Alasdair could sense whirling in Isabel’s mind at all times.
As he returned several calls to relay instructions on current projects, he stood and studied the closest snapshots. A history of past festivals was on display. Everyone was smiling and framed by mostly blue skies. Men in kilts, dancers caught mid-leap, children eating cotton candy with their arms thrown over one another’s shoulders.
Many of the same faces made an appearance, aged slightly, from one year to the next. A sense of community emerged. It felt like the festival was more than a means to support Stonehaven. It was a way to connect. His mind wandered down Highland’s streets, and he recognized the same sense of community there. The festival brought people together who might otherwise never cross paths.
“What do you say, Alasdair? Shall we move forward?” The disembodied voice on the other end of the line brought him out of his trance.
“Have the nnumbers worked up, and we can meet next week when I’m back.” He signed off with a clipped good-bye and sat back down in Isabel’s chair.
He eyed the nearest pile of papers, his heart picking up its pace. Surely a peek wouldn’t constitute a crime. He opened the folder as if he expected a booby trap. He skimmed the first page of what appeared to be a manuscript with the heading “Chapter One.” The page was littered with red pen marks. He read a few more pages, then thumbed through the rest. The material was dark and took itself very seriously, which wasn’t the Isabel he was acquainted with. Fascinating.
He moved on to the next pile, opening the top folder with more confidence. A printed spreadsheet was on top. This was more his language. Adept at translating the columns of numbers into summaries, he scanned the sheet. It detailed yearly, recurring expenses for Stonehaven.
His eyes widened at the taxes—not as expensive as he’d thought—and at the yard maintenance, which was much more expensive. In a messy scrawl, Isabel had added a few items, like roof replacement. One-time, high-cost fees added up to an intimidating total at the bottom of the page circled in ominous red pen. Under the spreadsheet was a copy of an application for a loan, signed by Rose Buchanan.
He closed the folder, feeling icky, even though he’d learned something important and possibly damning for Buchanan’s motivations. He didn’t want to prove his mum correct; he wanted to find information that bolstered his uncle’s faith Rose and Isabel.
He turned his attention to the one framed picture on the desk. A young girl with tangled brown hair and a big, open grin stared at the camera. She had an arm thrown around a man who sat in a wooden chair with his legs crossed. Although the man was looking at the girl and not the camera, the family resemblance was apparent in the shared strong line of their jaws and chins and uninhibited smiles. His legs were long like Isabel’s, and Alasdair had a feeling Isabel had inherited her father’s eyes as well.
The happy photo filled him with melancholy, and he set it down. A flash of metal caught his eye and he plucked a letter opener from its hiding place half under a manila file folder. He ran his finger down the blade to the wickedly sharp tip. The handle was an intricately molded puckish pixie under a toadstool. Made of silver, it was whimsical and polished to a shine with no hint of tarnish. He smiled thinking of Isabel wielding it.
“What are you doing?” As if Isabel had spirited herself into the office, she stood in the opened door, rubbing one eye with the heel of her hand.
He slipped the silver letter opener into the pocket of his shorts. The tip poked his thigh uncomfortably. The instinct to hide his snooping was like cramming pilfered cookies into his mouth as a child. Now, no matter how innocent his actions were, if he was caught with crumbs on his hands, so to speak, he’d never allay her suspicions.
“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get some work done.”
She
blinked. “It’s two thirty in the morning.”
“Not in London.”
Her mouth formed an O of understanding. Her white tank top and pink short shorts emphasized curves and long legs. Her loose hair fell to her shoulders and was disheveled in a way that made him think of waking up next to her or taking her back to bed. She looked soft and sweet and sexy as hell.
He could almost see her mind spool up from sleep to perform an inventory of her desktop. He needed three seconds max to replace the letter opener.
“Are you almost done?” She took a step farther into the office.
“Yes, I’m headed back to bed.” He stood.
The sharp tip of the letter opener shifted lower to a small tear in the pocket of his old athletic shorts. The fabric, weak after repeated washings, didn’t stand a chance. It happened so quickly he could do nothing but register the slide of cool metal against his leg as the opener slipped out. Instead of a clatter against the wood floor, pain like a stubbed toe had him cursing in Gaelic.
“Mhac na galla!”
“What happened?” She was in front of him now, holding on to his arms.
Blood oozed from a cut along the outside of his foot. It could have been worse. The damn letter opener could have impaled his foot like a dagger. Instead, it lay with the sprite on the handle grinning up at him.
“It’s nothing. Nothing.” He pulled out several tissues from the box on her desk and slapped them over the cut.
She knelt in front of him, pulled the tissues away, and examined the cut. Taking more tissues, she folded them into a pad and pressed them against his foot. She looked up at him. “It’s not terribly deep.”
He stared down at her, their suggestive position firing synapses that hadn’t been activated in a good long while. He could imagine tangling his fingers in her hair while her hands pulled at his shorts and—
“Is that my…” She picked up her letter opener and looked from it to him and back to it.
“I—” The vibrating buzz of his mobile saved him from bumbling out an explanation. The truth seemed silly enough. His waggled his mobile toward her as if needing to prove he wasn’t making up an excuse to leave. “I have to get this call.”
He answered with relief in his greeting. “Alasdair Blackmoor, here.”
“Why in bloody hell haven’t you returned my calls, Blackmoor?” The gruff impatience of his boss’s voice had Alasdair tensing. Richard was intimidating and unlikable and impossible to please. He was generous with criticism, miserly with compliments, and made every decision with regards to promotions. And firings.
“I’ve been busy, sir.”
“Yes, I got the report from George first thing.”
“What report would that be, sir?”
“The one on the property in Georgia.” The rustle of papers sounded on the desk. “Stonehaven, is it?”
The blood drained from his head, and he prayed it wasn’t all gushing out of his foot. “One second, sir.”
He pressed his mobile against his chest. “I’m going to take this outside so I don’t bleed all over your floors. It’s not a mortal injury. You can head back to bed.”
Still kneeling, she shifted so he could brush by her, walking awkwardly on one heel. Once he’d slipped out into the darkness, he put the mobile back to his ear.
“That report wasn’t ready, sir. It’s preliminary.” Alasdair grimaced and fisted a hand in his hair. It hadn’t been meant for Richard at all.
“But interesting nonetheless. A certain Saudi I know would be very interested in investing in such a property. Work up the details and have it on my desk in a week.”
Alasdair mouthed a curse, but tried not to let the agitation into his voice. “Actually, I’m attending to a personal matter, sir.”
“Perfect. You can attend to this personal matter while you assemble a report on this place. Two birds and all that. Sound good?”
He was going to strangle George. No, strangling was too good for the little git. He’d devise something positively medieval for the arse-kisser. The rack. Surely he could order one off the internet. “Actually, I’m busy and—”
A rustle on the other end of the line signaled Richard had taken him off speakerphone, never a good sign. A sharp pain in his stomach made him feel slightly nauseous. “Blackmoor. The next VP of acquisitions must display an unwavering commitment to the company.”
“Yes sir.”
“I thought you had such a commitment.” Richard let the assessment hang with an unspoken question.
“I did—do, sir. It’s just the personal matter I’m dealing with is more like a family emergency.”
Richard was silent for a long, telling moment. “You’re a smart lad. You can surely juggle a family emergency with a deal that could make your career. I’ll expect the report next week.” The clang of the receiver hitting the cradle reverberated like a gunshot.
Family was more an inconvenience than a priority for Richard. He was married with two daughters, yet beyond the requisite photo on the man’s desk, Alasdair couldn’t recall the man ever leaving early for a school function or to celebrate a birthday or anniversary. On the contrary, Richard had used work as an excuse to get out of going on holiday with his wife and daughters.
At one time, Alasdair had considered Richard’s single-minded focus a strength, but the thought of betraying Gareth, not to mention the Buchanans, by spurring on Richard’s single-minded interest buoyed by the strength of Wellington was unconscionable. While Richard wouldn’t engage in anything illegal to obtain his goals, neither was he known for his politesse.
On the flipside, retreating to London with nothing to hand Richard made Alasdair feel weak and almost physically ill. His mobile vibrated in his hand. Richard’s number again. He’d probably decided his threats were too subtle.
A pressure built in Alasdair’s chest. An explosion ready to detonate. As if the mobile was a grenade with the pin pulled, he heaved it into the darkness with a bellow. As quickly as the mood came upon him, his vexation faded and he wanted his mobile back. Ghosting Richard wasn’t going to solve his problem. Now that Richard knew about Stonehaven, he would send another minion and another until he got what he wanted. Alasdair leaned over and pressed the heels of his hands to his brows.
Gaelic and English curses strung themselves together until he ran out of breath. He’d retrieve his shoes and begin a search of the field. Straightening, he turned toward the house.
A light from inside illuminated Isabel in the glass door. Her hip was cocked and she had her chin propped on her hand. Had she heard him talking with Richard? He rewound the conversation and wondered what he’d given away, if anything.
Stepping gingerly on his injured foot, he made his way toward her. The door was cracked, and she pushed it fully open.
“Everything okay?” she asked. Before he could reply she added, “Of course it’s not. Come over here and sit.”
He took a seat at the table where an assortment of first aid supplies was laid out.
She sat in a chair across from him and without preamble, picked up his injured foot and set it in her lap. She dabbed the cut with an antiseptic that burned enough for him to jerk his foot away.
“Sorry.” She massaged the arch of his foot in apology. He slumped in the chair, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. The drumbeat of a headache marched closer, and he rubbed his temples.
“Take these,” she said.
He lifted his head and dry-swallowed the two pills she held out. If was only afterward that he thought to ask, “What were the pills?”
“Arsenic.” Her face was so deadpan, it took a minute for him to recognize the teasing sparkle in her eyes.
“Putting me out of misery might not be such a bad thing.” He groaned. “My mobile is somewhere in the middle of the field, and my boss is not going to be happy when he can’t reach me.”
“Judging by the entertaining litany of curses you unleashed, maybe the two of you need a break.”
“Pardo
n me if I offended you. I assumed you had gone to bed and I was alone.”
“I didn’t want your cut to get infected or for you to bleed all over the floor.”
She put an adhesive plaster over the cut. “There you go.”
“Thank you, Isabel.”
She smiled but didn’t let go of his foot immediately. Her hands were warm and deft, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken care of him. He couldn’t look away from her even though guilt and suspicion churned.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked softly as if she too was loathe to break the intimacy of the moment. At his brusque nod, she asked, “Why did Rupert fall out of your pants?”
Chapter Five
“Rupert?” Alasdair asked with a blank look on his face.
The letter opener was one of Izzy’s favorite things despite the fact she rarely needed to use it. Everything was electronic these days, but even the act of polishing it made her smile. Because its silver molded face had been mischievious, she had named it Rupert and had made up an origin story that involved magic and quests and queens.
She picked up the letter opener and held it up. “Meet Rupert.” Then, she addressed the opener. “Rupert, meet Alasdair. I’m sure there’s a good reason he stuffed you in his pants, although I can imagine it was quite traumatic for you.”
“I’m hurt that you think being in my pants would be a traumatic experience.” Alasdair gave her a lopsided grin.
Her gaze dropped to the pants in question—a pair of worn athletic shorts that were thin and left little to the imagination. What popped into her head came straight out of her mouth. “I pictured you sleeping in a pair of fancy pinstriped button-up pajamas with cuffs and a collar.”
“Actually, I usually sleep in the buff.”
Great. Now her brain was going to have to contend with that image when she went back to bed. She was never going to get to sleep. Or worse, she would dream about him naked on the other side of the wall from her.
Her blush didn’t contain itself to her face, but superheated her entire body. She stood and his foot thumped from her lap to the floor. “Do you want a snack?”
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 6