Five Days in Skye

by Carla Laureano

  “Sir?” The security officer looked at him impatiently, and he hurriedly put his belt, keys, and watch into the bin on the conveyor. She was definitely a distraction. He reined in his imagination while the scanner did its work. Flirting was one thing. Entertaining thoughts of more was entirely another. Besides, he had plenty of practice admiring beautiful things from afar. Paintings at the National Gallery, for example. He’d never had the urge to caress a Rembrandt.

  He chuckled at the thought of attempting to kiss Andrea, just to be dragged off by security. Unfortunately that brought him around to topics he was trying to avoid.

  By the time he passed through the security barrier, she’d already put herself back together and was waiting for him with one hand on her rolling case.

  “Ready?” James tucked his keys into his pocket and fastened his watch. He followed her gaze to his wrist. “Don’t worry. We’re on time.”

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I should have known it wouldn’t be a Rolex.”

  He glanced down at the timepiece, a moderately expensive Breitling in stainless steel. “What? You don’t approve?”

  Her eyes flicked down him and then back up. “It’s exquisite. Just . . . telling.”

  Telling? What exactly did that mean? “Considering we barely know one another, you seem to have some particularly strong opinions about me.”

  She met his eye. “Oh, I know you.”

  “Why don’t you tell me, then?” He smiled and lifted his eyebrows in challenge.

  “Fine.” She studied him openly. “I think you’re the youngest in the family. Always looking for attention, always trying to prove yourself. But you’d want to do it your own way. Something like banking or law would be too boring and too respectable. Now that you’ve made it, you don’t like to do what others would expect. Custom suit, but no tie. Breitling watch, not Rolex or Omega. I’m sure you could afford to live anywhere you want in the city, but since you’d be expected to live in a hip district, you’d pick something quiet and elegant. Mayfair. Belgravia, maybe. A flat, though. Anything more would require too much upkeep when you’re on the road.”

  He stared at her, unsettled by how close she’d come to the truth. Of course, some of it she could have come by last night in her Internet research, but her tone said she was speaking off the cuff. She did read people well. “So this is how you establish a rapport with your client? By dissecting him piece by piece?”

  Her mouth opened and snapped closed again. A shadow of regret—or was it embarrassment?—passed over her face. “Am I wrong?”

  He let the silence stretch, and only the slight press of her lips hinted at her discomfort. He rescued her. “No, you’re not far off. Except I live in South Kensington.”

  “Close enough.”

  “I suppose it is.” He stole a look at her while they moved toward the departure concourse. Its complement of restaurants and duty-free shops rivaled a high street for variety and expense, but Andrea didn’t give them a second look as they proceeded to their gate. She seemed entirely too satisfied with her evaluation of him. Time to shake her up a bit.

  “My turn now.”

  Alarm flashed over her face. “For what?”

  “To play our little guessing game.” He grinned and gave her a blatant once-over. “Let me see. You grew up someplace rural, probably barely middle class, and you haven’t quite gotten used to having money or living in the city. You’re the only woman at your firm, at least at your level, which makes you feel vulnerable. The men say you only got this far because of your looks, and you resent it, just not enough to wear dowdy shoes or hide your figure. No, I take that back. You dress in open defiance of the stereotype, because, as you say, you could close a deal in jeans and trainers. How am I doing so far?”

  “Pretty close.” She dipped her head, but she didn’t look at him. “I grew up in a small town in Ohio. How did you guess?”

  He softened. “Because you made a point of mentioning my suit, and you treat those six-hundred-quid shoes of yours like you remember every hour of work it took to earn them. You don’t take things for granted.” Like you assume I do.

  She nodded, a faint tinge of pink coloring her cheeks. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. He had actually meant it as a compliment. Then she threw a look in his direction. “How do you know how much my shoes cost?”

  “I spend a lot of time with women. I recognize Louboutins when I see them.” And Cassie owned a couple dozen pairs. He knew how it felt to be walked on by those red-lacquered soles—metaphorically speaking. He quickly shifted the direction of the conversation. “How many of these do you do each month?”

  “This is my ninth one in thirty days.”

  “And I thought I traveled a lot. From how many of those did you walk away with a signed contract?”

  “Five. Two more are working their way through legal.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “I told you, I’m the best.” The glint in her eye was a clear challenge.

  Oh, he’d unsettled her all right. She hated showing vulnerability, and talking about her past made her feel exposed. Interesting. “What happened to the eighth then?”

  “He offered to trade a contract for certain favors. My reply might have been less than diplomatic.”

  “Meaning?”

  The pink in her cheeks deepened. “I hit him.”

  “Where?”

  “In the elevator.”

  James chuckled. “I mean, where on his body?”

  “Oh. The jaw.” She held up her hand ruefully. The faint marks of a new bruise shadowed her knuckles.

  A startled laugh escaped James’s lips. “Well done! Remind me not to become acquainted with your left hook.”

  “That’s entirely up to you, isn’t it?” She threw him a mischievous glance, and he breathed a sigh of relief that they were back on comfortable footing. Though why it should matter to him . . .

  “Wait.” James’s hand shot out and grasped her upper arm before he had time to think about the wisdom of the action.

  Andrea jerked to a halt, spinning to face him. He blinked and let go before she could take a swing at him. That client of hers must have been completely daft not to see the danger in that expression. He inclined his head to his right. “You missed our gate.”

  She glanced up at the sign, and the tension drained from her posture. “Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . after the last time . . .”

  The client had really spooked her. James had figured the man had just propositioned her, but maybe it had been more. Had he tried to force himself on her?

  If that were the case, he deserved far worse than a bruised jaw.

  He realized they were still standing too close to one another on the concourse walkway. In her high-heeled pumps, she could nearly look him in the eye, and that sensual perfume enveloped him again. Amber. Sandalwood. A hint of vanilla, perhaps?

  The distraction made him lower his tone, speak more quietly than he intended. “I assure you. I am very capable of keeping my personal and professional interests separate.”

  Their gazes met and held, and she froze, not even a breath breaking her stillness. James didn’t dare move. He couldn’t have even if he wanted to.

  Then she lowered her eyes and stepped past him. “Good. Please see that you do.”

  James exhaled and watched her walk back toward the gate lounge, stride clipped by the high heels, spine straight. For the first time, he wondered if he might have promised more than he could deliver.

  Chapter Five

  Inverness may have been the unofficial capital of the Scottish Highlands, but its airport more closely resembled an industrial-style chain store than a terminal. Andrea stepped from the plane onto the rolling staircase and tugged the collar of her wool jacket closed against the wind. London had already begun to show a hint of spring warmth, but here the air held a crisp bite despite the bright sunshine. Had she known she was coming to Scotland, she would have packed more appropriate clothing.
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br />   “Allow me.” James took her carry-on and edged past her down the steps. She dug in the pocket of her coat for her sunglasses and slid them on against the glare of the afternoon sun. The dark lenses shielded her eyes and, she hoped, her expression.

  James had been perfectly cordial, even gentlemanly, since that odd, intense moment in the airport. He’d spent the short flight looking over what appeared to be financial statements on his tablet while Andrea distractedly worked a crossword puzzle. Other than to offer a six-letter word for ponderous, he’d spoken little, but she’d still felt his gaze slide over her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  His suddenly serious demeanor was all the more disconcerting because she suspected it was unusual, at least where women were concerned.

  She carefully navigated the narrow steps to the tarmac, where James waited with the handle of her case extended. She took her suitcase with a nod and followed him across the short expanse of asphalt to the terminal entry.

  The interior of the low-slung building was compact, with a few rows of blue-upholstered chairs beside each of the handful of gates, freestanding shops cluttering the center aisle.

  “Do we need to rent a car?” she asked.

  He slowed as they approached the information desk and produced a parking stub from his inside jacket pocket. “I left mine. It’s a fair way to Skye. Too far for a taxi.”

  The redhead behind the desk brightened as he approached. “Mr. MacDonald. Welcome back to Scotland.”

  “Thanks, Marcie.” Andrea couldn’t tell if he actually remembered her or if he had just sneaked a surreptitious look at her name tag. “How’s the weather been the last couple of weeks?”

  Marcie shrugged and gave him a coy smile. “It’s Scotland. Rainy.” She swiped his credit card and handed it back to him, her eyes deliberately finding his.

  Andrea barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The woman couldn’t be sending out clearer signals if she’d been waving semaphore flags. Not that Andrea cared. Why should it matter that women fell all over James MacDonald wherever he went? It wasn’t as if she planned on joining their ranks. If anything, it just proved idle flirtation was as natural as breathing for him. Except he didn’t seem to be returning the flirtation with more than his usual friendly manner, which was obviously just fine with Marcie.

  James finished up the transaction, and Andrea fell into step beside him as they walked out the front entrance to the parking lot, the wheels of their cases humming on the uneven asphalt. She had been so distracted by her client’s charms—or rather, the effort of not falling under them—she hadn’t given much thought to what came next. “My office said you’d arranged a room at the hotel. Does that mean the renovations are finished?”

  “Not the main house. But there are three self-catering cottages on the property. We completed them first so we’d have a place to stay when we came to check on the work.”

  “Good. How long is the drive?”

  “Three hours, give or take.”

  “Give or take what?”

  “Speed. Weather. Sheep.”

  “Sheep?” Her eyebrows flew up.

  “It is Scotland, after all. They’re a complete menace outside the city.” He cast her a curious look. “I assumed you’d been here before. Or is your dislike of Scotland strictly a matter of principle?”

  “I’ve just been to Glasgow, and I don’t remember anything involving sheep.”

  “Glasgow and the Highlands are two entirely different things.” He stopped abruptly. “Here we are.”

  “Where?” Andrea looked around the nearly empty lot, but she saw no vehicle she would have expected him to drive.

  He dug his keys from his pocket and threw her that half smile as he unlocked a battered green Subaru wagon. “Disappointed?”

  “No. But I admit, I didn’t see this one coming.”

  “I’d never leave a nice car at an airport for weeks.” He popped the hatch and loaded their suitcases in the back. “Besides, the roads here can get pretty bad in the winter.”

  He slammed the hatch with a rattle of the license plate and then opened the passenger side for her. When they were both settled in the car, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

  She was, but she hardly wanted to do something as social as have lunch with him. Besides, she only had thirty-six hours to concoct a proposal that would sell her company’s services to a somewhat disinterested client.

  Well, he’s interested. Just not in the same thing I’m proposing.

  She gave a little internal laugh. Then she noticed his quizzical look and realized she still hadn’t answered his question. “I’m fine. I’d rather get started on the proposal tonight if I can.”

  “Suit yourself. If you change your mind, I probably have something in the glove box.”

  As he put the car in drive and exited the long-term lot, Andrea popped the latch on the glove compartment, more interested in what the contents might tell about her client than in finding a snack. All in all, it was disturbingly tidy. A packet of road maps, a pair of lined leather gloves, and an unopened bag of organic trail mix. Barely worth the effort of looking. So he didn’t like to get lost, his hands got cold in the winter, and he was health conscious. Hardly illuminating. She closed the compartment with a click.

  “What were you expecting to find?” His voice hummed with barely repressed amusement.

  She needed to stop being so transparent. He’d been far too smug about his lucky guesses in the airport. She looked at him over the top edge of her sunglasses. “Oh, I don’t know. Unpaid parking tickets? Little black book?”

  “I’m disappointed. I thought you’d at least give me credit for being smart enough not to leave that sort of thing in the car.” He grinned, and she almost felt relieved. Playful was much preferable to . . . smoldering.

  She fixed her gaze out the window while he drove toward Inverness proper, then turned south onto the A82. Andrea relaxed into the seat and watched thick patches of trees and open fields fly by. She rarely got the opportunity to break free of the noise and activity of the city, to be surrounded by nature. The few times she had gone home to Ohio, she’d been struck by the broad expansiveness of the land, a sort of freshness. By contrast, Scotland felt old. Maybe it was just her awareness of its long history of conflict and warfare, its old, majestic structures and even older ruins, but even the trees felt more deeply rooted here.

  Signs of civilization thinned as they skirted a broad lake, its edge choked with greenery and mountains rising sharply beyond. “What is that?”

  James glanced out her window. “That’s Loch Ness.”

  “As in the Loch Ness monster?”

  “One and the same. We can stop in Drumnadrochit if you’d like. Urquhart Castle is worth a look, and the view’s spectacular from the ruins.”

  She was sorely tempted to take him up on the offer, but this wasn’t a pleasure trip. She was here to close a business deal, and the more firmly she kept that in mind, the better off she’d be. “Thanks, but I really need to get to work.”

  “That makes it difficult for me, then. Less than two days to change your mind about an entire country, and I can’t even show you its historic treasures.”

  “You take this very personally, don’t you?”

  “How else should I take it? You seem to have rather strong feelings on the subject.”

  “There’s nothing particularly wrong with Scotland,” she admitted. “It was just supposed to be my first vacation in three years. Have you ever been to Tahiti?”

  “Tahiti? No. Bali. Fiji. The Philippines. Trust me, I understand the appeal of a tropical holiday after a long winter. Why didn’t you just say no?”

  “Say no to the illustrious James MacDonald? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He laughed, and she couldn’t deny she found the sound appealing. Deep, warm, free. It twined itself into her middle and radiated warmth into her chest. She tamped the feeling down. That response was just the sort of distraction she didn’t need.

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nbsp; “You had no idea who I was. That much was obvious last night. Why didn’t you just say you were taking time off? With your sales record, I doubt you’d get sacked.”

  “No, probably not. Passed over for promotion, maybe. I’ve worked too hard and too long for a chance at VP to throw it away over a vacation.”

  “So I’m standing between you and a corner office? That puts a bit of pressure on me.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have been so frank about her objectives. Somehow, her mouth always seemed to run away with her where he was concerned. “I hope it doesn’t put pressure on me.”

  “I already told you, I compartmentalize well. Tell me, Ms. Sullivan, how did you get into the business in the first place?”

  No harm in answering that question. He could pick up almost as much from reading her biography on Morrison’s website. “I worked in pharmaceutical sales to put myself through my MBA at Cornell, but it was too hard to keep up with classes when I traveled. One of my professors mentioned a market research position at Morrison, I got the job, and you can guess the rest.”

  “Somehow I wouldn’t have pegged you for a researcher.”

  “Me neither. But I was good at it. I also worked in creative in London for six months before I decided I’d rather gouge my eyes out than sit in an office and write copy for one more second. By that time I knew so much of the business, Michael—Mr. Halloran—figured I was better out front anyway.”

  “You’re their closer.”

  It was exactly what she was. She handled the largest and most difficult clients, because she never walked away without the deal. Until recently. She wasn’t about to admit it to him, though. “Something like that. How about you? Did you always want to be a chef?”

  “Not always. I wanted to drive grand prix cars for a while. At some point I may have conceived a plan to swim the English Channel.”