“So MacDonald’s a dilettante?” He swiveled on the stool and leaned back against the bar, arms crossed over his chest. Repressed laughter flashed in his expression.
“Frankly, I don’t know the first thing about him. I’ve never seen his show, I certainly don’t cook, and I can’t fathom why anyone with a successful career in London would want to open a hotel on the Isle of Skye.”
“Now that just sounds like bigotry. We Scots have an overabundance of national pride.”
Andrea’s cheeks heated again. How could she not have noticed? His accent, while refined, had a distinct Scottish burr. She was really off her game if she had failed to pick up something that obvious. Still, he had needled her about both her clothing and her professionalism, and she had to pry the apology from her lips. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “You’ve got bigger problems if you know so little about your client. Though you’ll do fine if you avoid the pejoratives about his native land. I do think you have one thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
“You both think work is a terrible reason to cancel a trip to Tahiti.”
A reluctant smile crept onto her face. “I can drink to that.”
“Slàinte, Andrea.” He clinked his glass to hers, took a long pull of the ale, and hopped off the stool. “I should get going now. I would suggest you do the same, Ms. Sullivan. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”
She blinked at him. “How did you—”
“Night, Ben. Her drinks are on the house.”
“Night, James.”
Mac—or the man pretending to be Mac—winked at her and sauntered out of the pub.
“That was . . . He was . . .”
Ben seemed to be fighting a smile. “Mr. MacDonald, yes. I daresay that’s the first time not only has a woman not fallen all over him, she’s actually insulted him to his face.”
Andrea’s heart sank to the soles of her Jimmy Choos. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. I rather think he liked you.”
Right. She glanced back at the door, but James MacDonald had already gone. Why, oh why, did this happen now? She had to hook this account if she had any hope of getting back into her boss’s good graces, and now she’d be spending the next few days trying to placate a celebrity ego.
She’d never been particularly proficient at groveling.
Andrea hopped off the stool and reached for her purse before she remembered Mr. MacDonald had taken care of her bill. She found a couple of one-pound coins in her change purse and set them on the bar as a tip, even though Ben had done nothing to signal her impending disaster. Would it really have been so difficult to give her a shake of the head, a raised eyebrow? But of course he’d stay out of the matter when his boss was involved.
“Thank you, Ben.” For nothing.
“Good night, Andrea.” He slipped the coins beneath the bar and added, “Don’t think too badly of Mr. MacDonald. He’s a good man, beneath it all.”
Andrea forced a smile and hiked her handbag onto her shoulder, then escaped onto the dark London street. At nine o’clock on a Sunday evening, traffic had tapered off, and the usual haze of diesel fumes faded into the musty scent of damp concrete. She made a left and strode toward the Ladbroke Grove tube station, irritation speeding her steps.
How many times had she lectured her junior account managers on the importance of maintaining professionalism at all times? Every contact was a prospective client or referral. She’d just proved her own point in a particularly embarrassing manner.
Not that she excused James MacDonald for his role in this debacle. She knew his type. Wealthy, good-looking, famous. He expected women to fall at his feet, and God forbid one had a mind of her own. She’d probably be dodging his advances for the next three days while she tried to convince him she was more than a pretty face. He was lucky she hadn’t smacked him for commenting on her clothing in the bar.
Truthfully, she hadn’t been in much shape to do anything but put her foot firmly in her mouth. It had been years since she’d let a man rattle her, and it had taken only a smile and a lingering handshake to do it. Heaven help her.
She only made it a few blocks from the pub before the stiletto pumps began to rub blisters on her heels. She gave up on her plans of an indignant walk to the tube station and raised a hand to the first black cab she saw. She climbed into the rear and gave the driver her destination.
She could salvage this. She’d spend the rest of her evening with her laptop, finding out everything she could about the man. From here on, she would act with the utmost professionalism. She hadn’t gotten this close to VP through years of seven-day weeks and grueling round-the-clock hours to blow it now. Her boss may have given her this assignment as some backhanded punishment—after all, it had been years since he’d wasted her on a barely five-figure deal—but there had to be some sort of cachet to landing a celebrity client like James MacDonald. Surely she could turn it into bigger accounts. But first she had to repair the damage she’d done with her big mouth.
The cab pulled up beside the imposing Victorian brick edifice of the Kensington Court Hotel. Andrea paid the driver and climbed out with a wince, once again regretting her choice in footwear. She limped into the richly decorated lobby and rode the lift to her fourth-floor room.
The lush carpeting muffled her footsteps to a whisper when she let herself in. She certainly couldn’t complain about her accommodations. She had stayed in the hotel dozens of times over the years, and each room was impeccably decorated in its own style. Her current space featured an enormous tester bed, framed by blue silk brocade draperies that spilled from a gilded corona above the headboard. She gingerly eased off her shoes, sank onto the luxurious mattress, and heaved a sigh.
She was tired, and not the kind of tired a good night’s sleep in a fluffy bed could solve.
She lay there for a long moment, then threw a glance at the clock and calculated back five hours. Her sister should just be getting supper ready in Ohio. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed.
Becky answered on the fifth ring. “Andy! Why are you calling me? Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane right now?” Something sizzled in the background, punctuated by a child’s scream.
“Did I call at a bad time?”
“No more than usual. I’m frying up some chicken for dinner—Hannah! Leave the cat alone!”
Andrea smiled. Becky was almost eight years older than Andrea, and she had three children: a nine-year-old son and three-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. “I can call back later—”
“David! Don’t hit your sister! I’m sorry, what were you saying? Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Tahiti?”
“Change of plans. Michael booked me a consultation with some celebrity client while I’m here. I’m flying to Scotland tomorrow.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I’d rather be in Tahiti, for sure.”
“No, I meant—”
“I know what you meant. I’m okay. What’s one more, right?”
“Oh, I don’t know, the difference between a luxury vacation and a padded room, maybe?”
Andrea chuckled despite herself. Even from Ohio, Becky couldn’t resist the urge to mother her. “It’s my job. What am I going to do, say no?”
“That’s exactly what you say. ‘Michael, I’ve planned this vacation for over a year. Find someone else to do it.’”
“I know.” The smile faded from Andrea’s face. Had it not been for the disastrous outcome of her last appointment in London, she would have said exactly that. She’d gotten away with plenty of attitude in the past based on her unmatched sales record, but in this business, she was only as good as her last deal. “I’ll be fine. Really. I’m meeting the client in Inverness tomorrow, and then we’re driving to Skye. I should be back in New York on Wednesday.”
“Maybe you should take a few days off while you’re in Sco
tland. 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 singsong 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.
Andrea 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 wannabe 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 cabdriver 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 e-mail 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 fiftysomething 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.”
“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 e-mailed you the change confirmation and your passw
ord. 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?”
“One shudders to think. 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.
Five Days in Skye Page 2
