“Maybe you should take a few days off while you’re in Scotland. Your vacation is blown anyway.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m staying at the client’s hotel.”
“Who’s the client?”
Andrea paused. “James MacDonald.”
The squeal that emanated from the speaker belonged to a teenage girl, not a thirty-eight-year-old mother of three. Andrea held the phone several inches from her ear until she was sure her eardrums were safe.
“And here I thought your job was completely boring!”
“Strictly business, Becks. I’ve got less than two days to put together a proposal, and he doesn’t seem like the easiest client to deal with. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“I bet you don’t even know who he is,” Becky said reprovingly.
“Oh, I know who he is.” A self-absorbed celebrity with the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. She yanked her mind back from that precipice before she could slip over. “I need to do some research for my meeting now. I’ll call you from Skye.”
“All right, have fun,” Becky said in a sing-song voice. Andrea could practically hear her grin from four thousand miles away. “I expect an autograph, by the way.”
Not likely. “Love you, Becks. Give the kids a kiss for me.”
Andrea clicked off the line and pressed her fingertips to her eyes, trying to calm the urgent thrumming of her heart. The last thing she needed was to think of her client in anything but a professional fashion. Men like MacDonald were predators—any sign of weakness and she’d never be able to shake him. She knew all too well what could happen if she succumbed to an ill-advised attraction. She’d been there once, and she wasn’t going back there again.
“Strictly business.” The steadiness of her voice in the quiet room reassured her. She took a deep breath and levered herself up off the bed. Enough procrastinating. She still had work to do.
Andrea slipped out of her suit jacket and skirt, hung them carefully in the closet, and ensconced herself in a luxurious hotel robe. Then she chose an obscure Dussek piano concerto from her phone as mood music and dragged her laptop onto her legs.
“James MacDonald chef,” she typed into the search box, and waited. Page after page of results appeared: restaurant reviews, interviews, television listings. Andrea clicked through to his official website first and quickly read through his bio. Born in Portree, Isle of Skye, schooled in Scotland. Completed a degree in business at the University of Edinburgh, followed by culinary training at Leiths School of Food and Wine in London. A long list of assistant- and sous-chef positions at some of London’s most prestigious eateries culminated in his first restaurant, a gastropub in Notting Hill. That first location was quickly followed by smaller, more focused restaurants in Knightsbridge and Covent Garden, then Cardiff, Edinburgh, and Glasgow.
Last year, he had been invited to prepare his take on traditional English food for the prime minister. A few months ago, he had been named a member of the Order of the British Empire for his philanthropic work with at-risk youth.
She blinked at the screen. Wonderful. She’d just insulted a member of a British chivalric order. That was a distinction not many women could claim.
She moved on to the newspaper articles, all of which called him the standard-bearer for nouveau-British cuisine, then scanned a Wiki page listing each of his six restaurants. All of them had received starred reviews in the Michelin Red Guide. The Hart and the Hound, the flagship pub she’d just visited, received one of only a dozen two-star ratings in Britain.
She should have bypassed the wine and ordered dinner instead.
MacDonald couldn’t have accomplished all that by age thirty-five without a sharp mind and plenty of talent. Somehow, that just stirred up her irritation. She’d half-expected to find evidence he had simply ridden his looks and charm to success, but every detail pointed to hard work and sacrifice. For heaven’s sake, the man had even established a vocational cooking program for secondary-school dropouts.
“The perfect man,” she muttered. “Just ask him.”
She scrolled through the search results until gossip sites began to appear. Photos of MacDonald with a string of beautiful women—models, actresses, dancers—at exclusive parties and club openings. So he was that sort. Never with the same woman twice.
Great. Her hand still hurt after the encounter with the last wanna-be Don Juan. Now she had to spend the next three days trying to get James MacDonald’s signature on a contract while keeping things strictly professional. The fact he’d already turned her into a blithering idiot once didn’t bode well for her quick thinking.
But she’d manage. She had to. She hadn’t come this close to achieving her goals just to let a man get in her way.
Chapter Two
Ian was a dead man.
James gave the cab driver his South Kensington address and settled back against the seat. It was just like the man to make a unilateral decision without consulting him. James might be the president and CEO of a multimillion-pound culinary empire, but his older brother still seemed to think he needed guidance. Ian hadn’t even given him the courtesy of a full day’s notice.
A reluctant smile tipped up one side of James’s mouth. He must not have read his brother’s email very thoroughly in his annoyance, because he’d been under the impression he was to meet an Andrew Sullivan at Inverness Airport tomorrow. Even after he’d realized his mistake, it had taken a few moments to reconcile the Irish name with the saucy, auburn-haired beauty at the bar.
No, saucy was an understatement. She was a firecracker in spiked heels. Dancer’s body, fine-boned face, full lips. Perhaps not conventionally pretty, but exotic. Every time she moved, he’d caught the faintest hint of an Oriental perfume, so subtle it made him want to move closer to find out if he’d imagined it.
For one mad second, he’d actually considered trying it.
Probably best he hadn’t. The flash of irritation in those gorgeous caramel-colored eyes said she was used to being in control of every situation and she didn’t appreciate being treated like an object. Or even a woman. Still, he hadn’t imagined the current of attraction between them, and he certainly wasn’t going to pass up the chance to explore it.
Maybe he’d let Ian live after all.
James dug out his mobile phone from his trousers pocket and dialed his assistant. The glare from the streetlights crawled across the tinted rear windows of the cab while the line rang. He didn’t even wait for her greeting after she picked up. “Good, you’re home.”
“It’s nine o’clock on a Sunday evening, James,” came Bridget’s dry voice. “Where else would I be?”
He smiled. The fifty-something Londoner had been his personal assistant for years, and her voice had never wavered from its half-bored tone. She was efficient, though, and she possessed an uncanny way of anticipating his needs before he ever thought of them. “I need to change my Inverness flight to 10:00 a.m.”
“That’s why God invented the Internet, James.”
“You changed my password on the airline’s site. I can’t access my account.”
Silence stretched, until the clacking of keys indicated she was seated at her computer. “All right, you said ten o’clock, Gatwick to Inverness?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“What happened? I thought you weren’t leaving London until tomorrow night.”
“Ian’s consultant happened.”
“Oh, that.”
“You knew? You might have tipped me off.”
“Well, I assumed he’d told you.” More clacking. Then the sound stopped, and he could almost hear her hesitation. “Don’t be too hard on Ian. He’s doing what he thinks is best. You did make him COO of your company for a reason.”
“For the restaurants. Not for this.”
“He’s your brother. You might cut him some slack.”<
br />
“You might mind your own business.”
Bridget chuckled. “If you hadn’t noticed, you are my business. And you’re all set for tomorrow. I emailed you the change confirmation and your password. Oh, and Madeline needs to move the filming of the promos. I’ll call you in the morning when I know all the details.”
“Thanks, Bridge. What would I do without you?”
“God only knows. Good night, James.”
James clicked off the line and sighed as the cab turned onto Exhibition Road toward the Kensington museums. When had this business gone from being about cooking to press releases, book signings, and after-parties? Some days he wished he could just slip on his chef’s whites and spend an evening in the kitchen. But there were always appearances and promos demanding his attention, not to mention the travel it took to ensure his managing chefs were upholding his vision for each individual restaurant. At what point had he become a brand instead of a man?
Ian certainly couldn’t separate the two. The hotel on Skye was supposed to be about family, about a return to the things that had been important to his father before James got caught up in all … this. Instead, his brother wanted to treat it like just another business venture, apparently one James couldn’t be trusted to take seriously. Otherwise, Ian wouldn’t have felt the need to spring the consultant on him the night before his flight back to Scotland.
The cab pulled up outside an elegant five-story Victorian just off the main street. Unlike the restaurant’s trendy Notting Hill location, which buzzed with foot traffic almost every hour of the night, this upmarket residential district rarely saw activity after sundown. It may not be the solitude of Skye, but at least here he could draw a deep breath at the end of a long day.
James let himself into the building’s colonnaded front entrance and paused to collect yesterday’s mail from the post boxes located on one wall of the vestibule. He flipped through the stacks of envelopes—bills, adverts, more bills—until he came to an envelope addressed to him in a flowery, feminine hand. He tucked the rest of the mail under one arm and slid his thumb beneath the flap as he started up the four flights of stairs to his penthouse flat. Who would send a letter here? Most of his friends knew the surest way to get something into his hands was to send it to his office.
He pulled out a battered newspaper clipping with a sticky note affixed to the top, but the lighting in the stairway was too dim to read it. He shoved it back into the envelope and jogged up the remaining steps to the top-floor landing of his flat. He punched a six-digit entry code into the keypad, and the high-tech lock disengaged with a metallic click. Modern conveniences in a historic building. Had to love the contrast.
The door shut with a soft hiss and a click of the lock engaging behind him as he stepped into his foyer. He took the envelope with the newspaper clipping and tossed the rest of the mail onto the entry table without looking. They skidded across the polished surface onto the floor. He didn’t bother to go back for them, eyes already scanning the unfamiliar handwriting on the sticky note.
James, I’ll owe you forever for the introduction! I hope you’ll come see the show when we open in June.
He peeled the note off the clipping to reveal the headline: “Cast announced for new West End production of Top Hat.” Down below, a line had been circled in red pen: “The role of Dale Tremont, originally played by Ginger Rogers in the 1935 film of the same name, will be performed by talented Welsh newcomer Olivia Carey.”
“Good on you, Olivia.” He’d be in Scotland on opening night, but he’d have Bridget send flowers to the theater. An absurdly showy bouquet of roses would do—yellow, not red. The last thing he wanted was to send mixed signals about his intentions. He’d been very clear about the arrangement. He got a beautiful young woman to accompany him to the necessary events. She got exposure in the press and access to people she’d never have met otherwise. They both won, and no hearts had to get involved.
James dropped the clipping onto the countertop and jerked the refrigerator door open, perusing the contents with better humor than they deserved. Just a half-carton of eggs, some milk that looked dangerously close to the expiry date, and a couple of bottles of Guinness. He really should look into one of those grocery-delivery services. He never could remember to go to the supermarket when he returned to London.
He retrieved an open box of Weetabix from an equally bare cupboard and plopped a shredded wheat biscuit into a bowl. He sniffed suspiciously at the milk before drenching the cereal with it. Lovely. Prize-winning chef, and here he was eating cereal for dinner. If he hadn’t taken the joke with Ms. Sullivan so far, he might have talked her into enjoying a pleasant meal with him in the pub. It certainly sounded more appealing than his empty flat.
He kicked off his shoes by the counter and carried his bowl into his impeccably decorated reception room, where he flopped onto a sleek leather sofa. He put his feet up on the glass coffee table and clicked on the enormous television. It was the one concession he’d wrung from his designer. A man needed an obscenely large plasma screen on which to watch sports.
He scanned through his recordings with the remote and found the London evening news. He clicked it on and settled back to eat his pathetic dinner while he watched tonight’s report—a petrol spill on the M1 motorway, a bomb threat at the Israeli embassy, a fare hike for the Underground. Then a story made him sit straight up in his seat. He set his bowl aside on the sofa and turned up the volume.
“—award-winning actress Cassandra Sinclair was married to fellow actor Philip Kane in a private ceremony on Mykonos today—”
James stared at the television as it flashed paparazzi shots of a smiling Cassandra in a short wedding dress, her arm linked with the handsome English actor. His chest spasmed, momentarily blocking off his air. His pulse pounded in his ears so loudly he almost missed the newscaster’s next words.
“—also known for her very public relationship and subsequent break-up with former fiancé, Scottish television personality and restaurateur, James MacDonald.”
He swallowed hard and clicked off the television. Married? After less than two years and to the man she’d left him for? Dampness spread across the thigh of his trousers, and he looked down to find he’d tipped his bowl on its side. He righted it, then stood and strode back to the kitchen, his appetite gone. The remainder of the cereal went into the rubbish bin, the bowl in the sink.
He braced his palms against the countertop and dropped his chin to his chest. It shouldn’t bother him. He didn’t want her back. Not after her lies, and certainly not after the humiliation of finding out she’d been having an affair with Kane the entire time they’d been engaged. It was just a shock, finding out about her marriage on television along with millions of other viewers. Not even the courtesy of a warning after he’d so carefully kept the reason for the break-up out of the press in order to save her squeaky clean image.
Not tonight. He’d already let Cassie poison enough of his life. He wouldn’t let her spoil the lovely glow left from his encounter with Ian’s spunky consultant. He drew himself up and briskly washed the bowl and spoon, then set them in the drainer to dry.
Tomorrow, he was going home. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have the lively Ms. Sullivan with him.
Chapter Three
Andrea woke to the moody chords of Rachmaninoff’s “Second Piano Concerto,” her heart pounding. She grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand and shut off the alarm with trembling hands. Panic rushed in with the silence when the pitch-black room gave no hint to her location. New York? Chicago? London?
London. She was in London. She fell back against her pillows, clutching the phone. This was the worst part of the job, waking up not knowing where she was. This month had been particularly bad, coming off a string of appointments without the advantage of decompressing in her apartment in between.
Andrea’s heart slowly returned to its normal rhythm, but it
was too late to stop the familiar knot of anxiety from tightening in the pit of her stomach. She clicked on the lamp by the bed and squinted in the harsh glare as she fumbled to dial room service. She’d be calm enough to eat by the time her breakfast arrived, but it would take a straight shot of caffeine to the bloodstream before she’d be ready to do battle.
Irish oatmeal with fresh berries and two cups of strong coffee improved her mood considerably, as did a hot shower. She was in the middle of blow-drying her hair when the room phone rang. She raced to the nightstand and jerked the handset off the cradle.
“Ms. Sullivan,” the desk clerk said in her polite London clip, “your car has arrived.”
“My what?”
“Your airport transfer. It’s waiting for you outside.”
“I didn’t …” MacDonald. Of course. He would send a car, just to prove he knew where she was staying. “Thank you. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Andrea returned to the bathroom and flipped the hair dryer back on. She had three hours until her flight left. The car could wait. Once she’d straightened and smoothed her shoulder-length bob into place, she shoved her brush and cosmetics bag into her carry-on and took one last look in the full-length bathroom mirror.
She’d chosen her most conservative outfit today, a subtle gray tweed pantsuit with a ruffled peplum jacket and a lilac silk blouse. She still wore towering heels, but she’d abandoned last night’s scarlet platforms for a stunning pair of Louboutin peep-toe pumps. She checked herself over and smiled. Feminine armor. Clients might pay more attention to her looks than her business sense at times, but she wouldn’t let them force her to dress like a man just to prove she could work like one.
As she turned away from the mirror, the gold cross resting at her collarbone caught her eye. Her fingers drifted to the necklace, and she rubbed the cool metal pendant between her fingers. The symbol felt like a lie now. What would her mother think if she could see what she’d become? Would she be proud of what Andrea had made of herself? Or would she be disappointed that a piece of jewelry was all she retained of her past?
Five Days in Skye: A Novel Page 2
