Operation

by Barbara Bretton

  “Love at first sight? You must be reading women’s books, old man.”

  Gordon ignored the remark. “She walked into the pub with her brother and ordered a cup of tea. ‘And would you like whiskey with that?’ I asked, and she gave me one of those looks that the lasses give and my heart was no longer mine.” His expression softened with the memory. “We were wed three months later.”

  “A nice story,” Duncan said, “but it has nothing to do with me.”

  “You have the look of one who’s seen the light.”

  “I’ve the look of one who wants to eat his meal.”

  “And I’ll leave you to it,” said Gordon, rising to his feet. “You may be right at that, laddie. Some men are best left on their own.”

  Duncan ate the rest of his meal in silence. The pub was filled with people old and young, all of them happy and laughing and glad to be out and about on an evening in early summer.

  They were all couples, he realized, looking about. Two by two like the animals on Noah’s ark. He was the only one who sat alone and he wondered if it would always be that way.

  The stout turned to sludge in his mouth and he tossed down his money and left the pub.

  * * *

  Houston

  THE REALTOR had told Sam that the two-story town house would be a great investment. “Four percent per year, guaranteed,” he’d coaxed before she decided to sign on the bottom line. “A little paint, some curtains, it’ll be just like home.”

  That was three years ago. New paint and curtains had prettied up the place, but she was still waiting for it to feel like home.

  She slipped on her bathrobe then padded downstairs to make a late supper. She’d stayed at the office until nearly nine o’clock, reworking facts and figures, delaying the moment when she entered the quiet apartment and closed the door behind her. Had it always been so deadly quiet in there or was she listening with new ears?

  She switched on the tiny television set that was suspended beneath one of the kitchen cabinets. Seinfeld was on. She listened absently to their banter while she made herself a bowl of cereal for dinner.

  She’d planned to bring home Chinese food but the thought of that explosion of flavor made her queasy and she’d opted for cornflakes instead. In point of fact, she seemed to be queasy a lot lately. All sorts of things turned her stomach inside out—the smell of fresh paint, bacon sizzling, fountain pen ink. Actually she hadn’t been right since she had the flu the week before leaving for Scotland.

  She ate her cornflakes at the kitchen table while checking her To Do list. Martie’s surprise bridal shower was tomorrow, and Sam had easily sixty high priority items lined up and ready to go.

  “I wish you’d bring someone with you, Sammy,” her sister had said to her when she finalized the guest list. “What about Judd Simon? He seems like a nice man.”

  “Will you stop?” she’d pleaded with Martie. “If I wanted to bring someone to the wedding, I would, but I don’t. I’ll sit with Cousin Will during the reception.” Will was a groomsman and would be her partner during the recessional.

  “Will’s bringing a date,” Martie said. “You’ll be the only one there without one.”

  “Maybe it’ll start a new trend,” Sam said. “And, for your information, Estelle never brings a date anywhere.”

  “She is this time,” Martie said smugly. “Deno Accardi from Accounting.”

  It was well-known around Wilde & Daughters Ltd. that Estelle Ross was head-over-heels in love with Lucky. Estelle had worshipped the ground he walked on for as long as Sam could remember.

  “I can’t believe she’d bring a date when she could just grab a ride with Daddy.” They’d be spending most of their time together, as always.

  “I think she’s trying to make him jealous,” Martie said. “Maybe that will wake him up.”

  Sam had said nothing. Romantic strategy had always baffled her. Given his marital track record, why on earth would anyone want Lucky to try again? The odds were certainly against a happy ending.

  But then why would her sister be so willing to leap into marriage? Martie and Trask had been separated for ten long years, the years that took Martie from girl to woman. Trask came back into her life and bam! One month later and they’re walking down the aisle.

  Martie and Trask were different people now, Sam thought. Adults with histories and needs and expectations. It was like marrying a stranger, and yet Martie glowed with a happiness and contentment that baffled Sam. Where did her sister get the optimism, the courage, to join her life with Trask’s when she barely knew him? Certainly she didn’t know the man he was now.

  And yet it didn’t seem to matter. When the heart told you it was right, all the cool logic in the world didn’t stand a chance.

  Her little sister understood that. Why couldn’t Sam?

  Chapter 4

  Scotland

  Old Mag stormed into Duncan’s studio on the first morning of July.

  He was standing by the window, nursing a tumbler of whiskey, when he heard the sound of her leather slippers against the tile floor.

  “’Tis a crime the way you’re behavin’,” she railed in a tone of voice that dared him to argue. “Have you lost your mind or is this the way it is to be now?”

  “You’re daft, old woman,” he said, pouring more single malt down his throat. “Nothing’s changed.”

  The wagging finger brushed against his nose. “Keepin’ secrets, that’s what they say about you in town. That another bonny lass has broke your heart.”

  “As if a man could keep a secret in Glenraven,” he said, looking at the fierce old woman who stood before him.

  “Is it love, laddie, or hot blood?”

  “I’ll not answer that, you nosy crone.”

  The lines on Old Mag’s road map of a face rearranged themselves into a smile. “’Tis love, I’d be thinking.”

  “You don’t think,” Duncan said, “or you wouldn’t come to that conclusion.”

  “Love,” Old Mag repeated. “Your fancy talk can’t hide the truth from my old eyes.”

  “Not love,” he said, more quietly this time then looked out the window. “Not love.”

  She placed a gnarled hand on his forearm and patted him. That hand had rocked his cradle and wiped away his tears. “’Tis my fondest wish that you find a lassie to love you true.”

  “In this world, Old Mag, I don’t know if such a lass exists.”

  “Then look for her,” Mag roared from the depths of her warrior’s soul, “for she will not come lookin’ for you.”

  * * *

  DUNCAN TOLD HIMSELF he was flying to Glasgow on business that afternoon.

  And when he could not find out what he needed to know in Glasgow, he told himself it was business that took him to St. Andrew’s.

  And from St Andrew’s to Edinburgh, to every dealer and collector his beautiful American might have questioned.

  The Circadian Gallery was closed. Ronald Penwirth was in London for the week. Laura McVeigh of Renko’s remembered meeting Samantha but hadn’t bothered to get her name. “I told her nothing about you, Duncan,” she said proudly. “Our clients’ privacy is of paramount importance to us.”

  He went through every dealer and collector he could think of until only Margaret Sinclair was left. Margaret had mounted one of his first shows and considered him her discovery. She was in her early eighties now, but still active in the art world.

  “What a grand surprise!” Margaret greeted Duncan warmly with a kiss to both cheeks. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again until the show in April. With the time you’ve been having, I thought you’d stay in the castle.”

  “I have a favor to ask of you, Margaret,” he said. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

  Margaret’s lined face lit up with amusement. “Ach, lad, if only that were true. In my youth, I’d have met you measure for measure.”

  “And I’d have considered myself a lucky man.”

  “You can be a sweet tal
ker, Duncan Stewart, when you’ve a mind to be.” She took a sip of Scotch. “So tell me, what is it you’re looking for?”

  He met her eyes. “A woman.”

  Margaret’s cheeks reddened and she laughed. “You’re a bold one, make no mistake about it. Any particular woman?”

  He pulled out a folded piece of paper then handed it to the woman. “Her name is Samantha. She’s American, maybe from Texas. I drew this picture of her. If you’ve seen her—” He clipped the end of his sentence rather than betray himself any further.

  Margaret smoothed out the paper as she studied the pencil study he’d sketched in the Land Rover. “This doesn’t do her justice. She had lovely coloring—taffy blond hair and cornflower blue eyes.”

  He could hear his pulse beating in his ears. “Then you’ve seen her?”

  “Aye.” She folded the paper then handed it to him. “She came looking for you, laddie, the day of your crash, but I told her nothing. I would not help anyone invade your privacy.”

  “I know that, Margaret. She found me through her own means. It’s her name I want.”

  “I do not remember her name,” Margaret said. “And look at the face on you, my friend. I’ll remind you not to kill the messenger. I do not remember her name but I do remember where I filed her business card.” Her sweet expression darkened into a scowl as she flipped open a long wooden box and removed a card. “Is this the woman who turned the dogs of Fleet Street loose on you?”

  “Aye,” said Duncan grimly. “She’s the one.”

  “And wouldn’t I like to give her a piece of my mind,” said Margaret, handing over the card. “’Tis a terrible thing to do to an innocent man.”

  Not all that innocent, Duncan thought, but Margaret’s unwavering loyalty touched him. There had been little enough of that in his lifetime.

  “The nerve of her, leaving you alone at the scene of a plane crash. Has she no heart?” Margaret declaimed. There was something of the actress in the elderly Scotswoman. “Has she no compassion?”

  Duncan managed to ease his way from the gallery before Margaret saw to it that he was returned to the throne as ruler of Scotland.

  Minutes later he was behind the wheel of his Land Rover with the small card propped on the dash.

  He had Samantha’s name, her company’s name, her address, phone number, fax number and e-mail address.

  He wondered if she was the one who had his heart.

  * * *

  Houston, July 4

  THE DRESSMAKER knelt in front of Sam and frowned. “Darlin’, I don’t know what’s wrong,” the woman said through a mouthful of pins. “This gown fit you two weeks ago and now you’re bustin’ out all over.”

  Sam looked at her reflection in the long mirror and winced. The dressmaker was being kind. Even her cleavage had cleavage. She felt like a refugee from Baywatch.

  Her sister Martie, already coiffed and dressed in her wedding gown, leaned close to Sam and lowered her voice. “Did you get a boob job, Sammy?”

  Sam’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “Of course not!” She tried to laugh, but no sound came out. “I—I bought one of those push-up bras. I guess it does a better job than I thought.”

  “Well, take it off right now,” Martie ordered. “You can’t walk down the aisle looking like that.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I look?” Sam demanded. “I’m…busty.” A statement she never thought she’d make in her lifetime.

  “Busty?” Martie’s voice rose sharply. “Honey, you’re beyond busty. I don’t know what on earth is going on, but this is my wedding day and—”

  “Martie, listen to me.” She grabbed her sister’s hands in hers. “I’m having a problem with PMS. I’m as bloated as a sea sponge. You know I would do anything on earth for you, especially today, but there is nothing I can do about my breasts.”

  “I know, I know,” Martie said. “It’s just—well, honey, I have to tell you the truth. With that low-cut gown you look like a stripper.”

  The idea was so ludicrous that they both started to laugh. “You can rest assured I won’t bump and grind my way down the aisle,” Sam promised.

  The dressmaker, who had been silent during this exchange, spoke up. “I have an idea. It might not work but it’s worth considering. Why don’t I cut a length of cloth from the skirt and make a little insert for the bodice?”

  “Anything,” Sam said, desperate to divert attention from the size of her breasts. “Cover me with a pink sheet. I don’t care what you do.”

  “No need to get testy,” Martie said. “I certainly never suggested anyone cover you up with a sheet.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Sam said, instantly contrite. “PMS, remember?”

  “Maybe you should go see Dr. Bernstein. There might be something he could give you.”

  The conversation was going from bad to worse. “Great idea,” Sam said. “I’ll make an appointment.”

  Thank God the photographer chose that moment to make an appearance.

  “Time for those candid shots we’ve been practicing,” he said with a booming laugh. “We want the bride over there, right by the window. No mother, right? How about the aunts, then? Where are they?” His gaze landed on Sam. “Va-voom! We better have fireproof film for you, sweet thang.”

  It’s your sister’s wedding day, Sam told herself. She could blow up at that horse’s butt of a photographer after the reception, when Martie and Trask were on their way to the airport. Just because she looked as if she had two beige beach balls stuffed under her dress was no reason for him to be sexist and rude. So she’d put on a little weight. Was it her fault she’d gained it all in her breasts?

  The photographer snapped shot after shot of Martie posed by the enormous Palladian window while the dressmaker worked a miracle with the bodice of Sam’s maid-of-honor gown.

  “Last time I saw anything like this, I was four months gone,” the woman said with a merry laugh. “I swear to you, I could see my boobs getting bigger by the second.”

  A wave of dizziness swept over Sam, and it took all of her strength to pretend it wasn’t happening. “I have PMS,” she stated loudly for all to hear. “That’s all. PMS.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t implyin’ you were preggers, darlin’, just—”

  “Pregnant?” Martie’s voice carried clear from the other side of the room. “Who’s pregnant?”

  “Nobody,” Sam shot back. “Nobody!”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and it occurred to Sam that she might have sounded a tad harsh, but it needed to be said. All of this talk about her pneumatic breasts was making her very uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t considered the possibility that she might be pregnant, because she had. She was an intelligent woman with a logical mind and she knew about cause and effect. She’d taken an enormous health risk, but thank God she was on the Pill.

  She absolutely, positively could not be pregnant Normal stress could turn a woman’s cycle upside down. Imagine what a plane crash could do. This was probably nothing but some kind of delayed reaction to everything that had happened.

  Get real, Sam. Admit it. All roads lead straight to Duncan Stewart.

  Sometimes, late at night, she found herself reliving that interlude in his arms. She could feel the strong, warm pressure of his mouth against hers, the way his powerful body responded to her touch, how she’d actually believed—if only for a moment—that she’d found her mate.

  What a fool she’d been. Gullible, vulnerable, everything she’d sworn she never would be. Yet, despite everything, her anger battled with a desire so fierce and primal it challenged every belief about herself she’d ever held. How could she possibly want him after what he’d done? He was a manipulative lowlife who’d withheld his identity in order to pry information from her, and she’d played right into his hands, telling him all of her hopes and dreams for Wilde & Daughters Ltd.

  He didn’t plan that plane crash, Sam…or what happened afterward. That was fate,
pure and simple.

  Their lovemaking had had nothing to do with Sam Wilde and Duncan Stewart. Their lovemaking had been between a man and a woman who had faced death together and triumphed. A celebration of life.

  Her hand rested briefly against her belly and she shivered.

  Not possible, she told herself. Not in a million years.

  Last week she’d picked up a home pregnancy test at the supermarket, but the second she got it home, she realized how foolish she was being. But she hadn’t returned it—or even tucked it away in the hall closet. It was still sitting on the dressing table in her downstairs powder room. And she was still ignoring it.

  “Sam.” Martie placed a hand on Sam’s forearm. “The photographer wants you to pose with me.”

  Sam snapped back to the moment. Martie’s beautiful face looked pinched and worried, and Sam was instantly contrite. The last thing Sam wanted to do was cast a shadow on the proceedings. The road to this day had been long and rocky enough for Martie and Trask.

  She summoned up her widest, most photogenic smile. “I’m yours to command,” she said brightly. “This is your day.”

  Sam stood and smoothed the skirt of the sleek oyster pink gown. Martie linked her arm through Sam’s.

  “Thank you,” Martie said.

  “For what?”

  “For not giving me the lecture.”

  “Lecture?” She was starting to feel like a parrot. “What lecture?”

  “The one about Daddy and his marry-or-else ultimatum.”

  “I came down pretty hard on you when you were engaged to Jason, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did,” Martie said. “And you were one hundred percent right. I never loved him. The only reason I said I’d marry him was to keep my place in the family.”

  “I know,” Sam said, remembering. “I wanted to shake some sense into you, but you were so afraid of losing Daddy’s love that you would have married a total stranger in order to hang on to it.”