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’s. 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 breakup 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 breakup 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?
Andrea drew in a deep breath and forced down the unproductive thoughts. Her mother was gone, and whatever hopes she’d had for her daughter had gone with her. Maybe it was for the best. It would have broken her heart to see her younger child abandon the beliefs that had sustained her through her own tria
ls.
She straightened her jacket, extended the handle of her rolling suitcase, and mentally prepared herself for what awaited her. Today was the day she would turn this whole mess around. She’d close this deal, and then she’d be back on the fast track to promotion. She could forget this whole disaster in London and move on with her orderly, predictable life.
The bill had already been settled by credit card, so Andrea breezed through the lobby downstairs, her carry-on bag whirring across the marble floor behind her. The doorman opened the glass door for her, and she stepped outside to find a black sedan at the curb, a uniformed driver waiting casually by the rear bumper.
He strode toward her with a polite nod. “Ms. Sullivan, may I take your bag?”
Andrea handed it to him with a smile and followed him to the curb. Then the car’s back door opened, and James MacDonald stepped out, wearing a broad smile. “Good morning.”
She faltered, her smile slipping at the sudden lurch in her chest. Somehow it had never occurred to her that he would be in the car—the car she had kept waiting for twenty-five minutes.
There went her plan to use the trip to the airport to prepare her pitch. There would be no thought-gathering now, not when those thoughts solely consisted of how attractive he looked in his impeccably tailored charcoal suit and crisp white shirt. Rather than dwell on those details, she focused on the two paper cups he held. “You brought coffee?”
“Call it a peace offering.” He held one out. “After a long night of research, I figured you’d take yours black.”
“Clever.” He would rub in last night’s faux pas. Still, she took the offered cup—no doubt already cold—while the driver placed her suitcase in the trunk of the sedan.
James stepped out of her way and gestured toward the car. “Shall we?”
She slid into the backseat, and he closed the door behind her before circling around to the other side. She settled her shoulder bag on the floor next to her feet and laid her wool overcoat on the seat between them.
The rear of the car seemed roomy enough until he climbed in the other side and shut the door behind him. She slid away an inch or two and jerked her head to indicate the vehicle. “Yours?”
“Hired. I don’t keep a car in London.”
“And I suppose you know my flight the same way you knew my hotel?”
He flashed a grin. “I’m very efficient.”
Andrea sipped her tepid coffee and looked out the window as the sedan pulled away from the curb. She’d have to stay on guard against that smile. He used it like a weapon, and no doubt it slew females by the dozens. She’d already fallen victim to it once. “So, Mr. MacDonald, tell me what you have planned for us today.”
“Mr. MacDonald? Are we so formal? I thought we were on a first-name basis now, after I complimented your legs.”
She whipped her head toward him and then cursed herself for letting him catch her off guard again. “If I recall, you noticed my skirt and my shoes. Legs were never mentioned.”
“They were implied. Just like you implied I was a self-indulgent playboy.”
“You are a self-indulgent playboy.” The words came out before she could think better of them. She softened her tone and added, “But that has nothing to do with your business sense. I did my research. You don’t get to this place in life at thirty-five without hard work and vision. It’s impressive.”
Surprise flickered across his face. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, you didn’t answer my question. This would go a lot more smoothly if I knew exactly what you expected from me.”
“This was Ian’s idea. Frankly, I’ve no idea what you’re doing here.”
Andrea blinked. “Who’s Ian?”
“My chief operations officer. He owns a one-third interest in the hotel, and he took it upon himself to set this up.”
Andrea’s heart sank. Great. No wonder James was so resistant to treating her like a colleague. “If you don’t want me here, why go to all this effort?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want you here.” The twinkle in his eye raised warning flags. “I just said it was Ian’s idea. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you hope to accomplish?”
She straightened in the seat and smoothed her jacket. No chance she would let some internal corporate power struggle ruin this for her. “Morrison Hospitality Consulting is a boutique firm specializing in unique, historic properties. Our clients rank among the most impressive hoteliers in the world, including Excelsior Properties and Hôtel du Soleil, but we also work with other smaller, more focused—”
“I know all that,” James said. “I read the website last night. I want to know why you are here. You, specifically.”
Very well, she could deal with straightforward. “I’m here to evaluate your hotel’s needs, from infrastructure to marketing and competitive analysis. Before I leave, I’ll provide a detailed proposal for the areas in which I think we can help you. I’m awarded 90 percent of the projects I bid on, and my accounts see a minimum 55 percent increase in revenue within nine months. In the eight years I’ve been in the industry, I’ve never had a client go out of business.”
“So if we contracted your company, you would be the one doing the work?”
She searched his expression, wondering if there was more to that question, but he seemed serious. “I work out of New York, but I would be your account manager, yes. It’s my job to make sure our team in London accomplishes what we lay out in the next two days and to ensure your revenue goals are being met.”
Now his expression turned guarded, the perpetual half smile fading. “I’m not in this for the money. This is a personal project.”
Andrea nodded and swallowed her response, but she hadn’t gotten this far in her career by questioning her gut. “May I speak frankly?”
“Please.”
“You obviously know how to run a restaurant. But a hotel is another venture entirely. Most fail within the first five years, many within the first two years. If you’re serious, you need us. Your COO chose us because we’re the best. And out of all Morrison’s account managers, I’m the best. So if this is all just some bed-and-breakfast fantasy, you might as well tell me now, before this becomes a colossal waste of my time. And yours.”
James held her eyes for a long moment, appraising, as if he were trying to see deep inside her. She struggled to keep her breathing even and just barely managed to avoid shifting under his gaze. Then he smiled again, and it felt like the seat had dropped out from beneath her. “All right, I’ll give you a shot. If only to prove I’m not a dilettante.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. That’s all I ask.”
The twinkle returned, a sure sign he was preparing another onslaught of charm, but before he could speak, his phone rang. He shot her an apologetic glance and answered briskly, a smile creasing his face. “Hello, Bridget.”
Bridget? A girlfriend, maybe? A man like him would never be single for long. Which, of course, made his flirting all the more unsettling.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll be back in London at the end of the month. Just change my flight to Cardiff from eight to three.”
Not a girlfriend, then. His assistant. Not that it was her business anyway.
She leaned back into the plush leather seat and watched him arrange his month, his tablet balanced on one knee, notebook on the other, phone braced against his ear. His overflowing schedule eased some of her concern. James MacDonald might like to tease and flirt, but he was serious about his career and the management of his business. He couldn’t fail to recognize the value she and her company brought to his project as long as she could keep their relationship on friendly, professional terms.
When he hung up, Andrea said, “I’m curious. Why Skye? Why not Edinburgh or Glasgow or Inverness?”
“When we arrive, you’ll understand.” His phone rang in his hand again and back to his ear it went. “James.”
Andrea pulled a small notebook from her purse and jotted down a few thoughts
on how to pitch her company—time sensitive, capable, turnkey—while James rearranged his schedule yet again in order to fly to Canada to judge a televised cooking competition.
He hung up his phone as the driver pulled up to Gatwick’s north terminal. “Sorry for that.” He fixed his intense blue stare on her, the businessman gone and the charmer firmly back in place. “There’s no mobile signal at the hotel. Once we arrive, you will have my full and undivided attention.”
It sounded like a promise, but the wicked glint in his eye told her she’d be safer taking it as a threat.
Chapter Four
Andrea Sullivan was handling him.
James followed her through the sliding doors into the terminal. It was subtle, of course, and she was good at it. Most women would have put up an icy shield against him, but she’d probably realized he would see it as a dare. Instead she was cordial, professional, and straightforward, brushing aside his flirtation with the skill of a woman used to being in complete control of every situation.
As much as he hated to admit it, Ian had chosen well. He had no doubt Andrea could do what she claimed. And maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to have an outside perspective on the hotel. It had been closed for over a year now, and his last look at the books had shown it hadn’t been as profitable as it should have been under his father’s management. He had a vision for what it could become. He simply didn’t have the time to implement it. Some outside help could ease his overburdened schedule.
They passed directly through security, where they both underwent the usual dance of pocket-emptying, scanners, and baggage checks with the bored calm of frequent fliers. Andrea shrugged out of her suit jacket, stepped out of her pumps, and laid them precisely beneath her coat in the bin on the conveyor belt. She absently ran her fingers through her hair and walked to the scanner in her bare feet.
How did she do that? He was used to the overt sensuality of the women he dated, perfect figures displayed in body-skimming dresses, their movements calculated to draw the eye of every man in the room. Beautiful and yet somehow plastic. Two-dimensional. Andrea Sullivan, on the other hand, wore a conservative business suit and still managed to make her most mundane gestures worthy of lingering over.
Five Days in Skye Page 3
