Scotland to the Max

by Grace Burrowes

  Max walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “I am in trouble, okay? I went for years without being tempted, then ran into a woman I thought was everything I’d ever wanted in a partner. She was smart, funny, ambitious, attractive in ways beyond the physical, and she said she was equally gone on me. Better still, she knew my line of work and talked shop with me by the hour. It didn’t work out, so I went for a few more years without being tempted.”

  As Max spoke, an insight emerged: He’d been devastated when Shayla had turned him down and walked away. The greater blow had been not to his heart, but to his pride. He’d been conned, thoroughly, and like most well-chosen marks, he hadn’t had a clue he was being played until the damage had been done.

  Shayla had dumped him only after meeting Maura, only after realizing that Max paid for every cent of Maura’s expenses and was even building a trust fund for her.

  Jeannie turned and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re in trouble?”

  Over her shoulder, the castle wall rose against the blue summer sky. A pennant flapped in the breeze, not the flag of the Earl of Strathdee, because the owner of the castle was far away, enjoying wedded bliss and building a different sort of castle.

  “I want to go tomato shopping with you,” Max said. “I want the pillow fights and parenting discussions, the stupid arguments that teach us how to make up and move on. I want the long nights and the… I want treasures I have no business wanting, Jeannie. I’ll settle for a sunset, maybe even a sunset every so often for the next few months, but that’s all I can offer.”

  God, she felt good in his arms. Warm and lovely, fresh and feminine.

  Henry whacked Max on the ear. Jeannie smiled.

  “Let’s get back to the Hall,” she said, “and get a certain unruly young man ready for his nap.” She kissed Max on the cheek and strode off down the path.

  “I can put her off for another week or two,” Pete said, “though Mrs. Sutherland is a determined woman. We’ll call it a house-hunting trip, while I’ll be focused mostly on the status of the Brodie Castle project.”

  The venue was quiet, as only an establishment run by Brits could be quiet. Pete hadn’t chosen the location—he wasn’t a member of the Hibernian Club, or whatever it was called—but Boston was an okay place to spend a summer evening.

  Connor Maguire was the last of the investors Pete had to meet with. The discussion among the others was moving forward nicely, with consensus forming around the idea that Max Maitland needed a second-in-command, at least, and that a guy who’d never handled a job outside the Lower Forty-Eight might not be the most cost-effective resource for the position.

  Marty Ebersole had made a few more noises about Max’s buyout clause, which Pete would get around to reading—or having his lawyers read—soon.

  Maybe on the plane to Scotland.

  “You’re planning an ambush,” Maguire said. “Less than thirty days after your handpicked project manager puts down his suitcase, you’re sniffing around, letting everybody on the job site know you lack confidence in him. Why?”

  This was the problem with outsiders—Maguire was an Irishman, a friend of Marty’s. They’d met at a polo tournament a few years back, and Marty had been mad for hotels ever since.

  “Maguire, you wound me.” Pete signaled the waiter for another round. “I’m making a show of support, letting the locals look over one of the investors in person. My objective is to build trust, to get everything off on the right foot—and to keep peace with my wife, who will not appreciate my meddling with her real estate adventures.”

  Maguire was the youngest of the investors and the twitchiest. New money tended to be twitchy, but Pete didn’t know if Maguire was new money. Marty had vouched for him when one of the regulars had dropped out of the project on the advice of a divorce lawyer. Marty claimed Maguire had turned a bunch of old British country houses into high-end venues and then sold them to the Germans, Russians, and Chinese.

  “I’ve met your wife,” Maguire said, lifting a glass of some unpronounceable single malt. “Lovely woman who takes animal welfare seriously.”

  Mrs. Sutherland’s animal-welfare interests were expensive, though they added a nice veneer of public spiritedness to Pete’s portfolio.

  “She hasn’t mentioned meeting you, but then, she and I have our separate interests, and you and I haven’t done business together before—not directly.”

  “So humor a new business acquaintance and explain what exactly you intend to do on this goodwill mission.”

  A business acquaintance, not an associate, not a friend, not a partner.

  Maguire’s hair was dark red—there was a name for hair that color—while his eyes were a curiously light green. The combination was disconcerting, as if the eyes of a large, feline predator looked out of a human face.

  “I’ve never seen the castle, for one thing,” Pete said. “Did the drone videos, looked over all the topo and boundary maps, the virtual tours, the room-to-room footage and elevations, but I like to get a feel for where my money’s going.”

  Maguire drank his whisky neat, and before he took a sip, he held the glass beneath his nose—more predatory behavior, sniffing his drink. As if they’d serve anything but the best in a place like this? The steak had been superb, the fancy French vegetables interesting, the raspberry mousse—they called it fool—both rich and light.

  Maguire cradled the tasting glass in a large hand that bore a white scar across the back. “I can’t criticize a man for taking a personal interest in a project that could cost him a great deal of money. The castle has tremendous potential, but I see some significant challenges as well.”

  Pete remained silent until the waiter had left a second Bloody Mary—or a third?—and ghosted off with the empty.

  “You mean the road situation? That was one of my first concerns.” Arnie had pointed out the lack of major highways in the area, but then, his family had been in oil and gas for at least four generations. Arnie liked big roads and lots of ’em.

  “The roads are fine, for Scotland, and you won’t be asked to do any off-site road improvement. I expect significant cost overruns with the build-out—castles being what they are—but I’m curious as to how the two buildings will be connected. The front of the Hall sits nearly two hundred feet lower than the castle, though you could throw a stone from the castle’s postern gate and easily hit the roof of the Hall. Nonetheless, I have yet to meet the tourist who wants to face an uphill hike at the end of a long journey.”

  “Two hundred—?” Too late, Pete realized those celadon eyes were watching him, collecting information Pete shouldn’t have given away. “I thought it was closer to one hundred fifty feet, but you do have a point. That’s exactly the sort of concern I can raise with Maitland in private, where a stray email or a pair of big ears won’t be a problem. You having another?”

  Maguire smiled, though his expression wasn’t friendly. “This is sipping whisky, Mr. Sutherland.”

  “Call me Pete.”

  Maguire glanced in the direction of the maître d’, and the guy was scurrying over, a pen and leather-bound folder in hand. He set them on the table, bowed—honest to God bowed—and took a step back before turning away.

  Maguire set aside his drink and picked up the pen, which had a wooden barrel and had probably been handcrafted by one-hundred-twenty-year-old elves toiling away in the bowels of a medieval Irish mead hall.

  “I signed on with the Brodie Castle project because the investment is modest,” Maguire said, “relative to some renovations I’ve seen. The Hall at least has been in continuous use since it was built, and I knew the previous earl from his interest in polo. The present earl also seems like a decent sort, though I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Sutherland. If your merry band of trust-fund golf buddies can’t make a go of the place, I might approach Elias Brodie about buying it outright.”

  Vodka and tomato juice roiled in Pete’s belly, and a few choice curses begged to be muttered in Marty Eberso
le’s direction. Maguire was taking the first step in positioning himself for a hostile takeover: buying enough of the target’s stock to see all the shareholder disclosures, sit in on the meetings, and chat up the opposition.

  “We have a ninety-nine-year-lease on that castle, Maguire. Brodie can’t sell a single cobblestone unless the subsequent owner honors the terms of our lease.” If the lease agreement didn’t provide at least that much security, Max Maitland was one unemployed liability.

  Maguire checked his watch, which might have been a newer Patek Philippe.

  “I honestly hope our little gang of rogues can make a success of this project.” Maguire used the fancy pen to scribble his initials on the bill, then set the leather folder and pen aside. “We have obligations under that lease agreement, schedules to keep, revenue projections to meet. In the sad event that we default on our obligations, we’ll have made Brodie Castle a costly ruin. Not fit for habitation, not historically preserved. Brodie will have to do something with it.”

  Son of a bitch. “In which case, you intend to be there, cash in hand, ready to solve all of his woes?”

  Maguire took a last, leisurely sip of his whisky, not a care in the damned world. “I intend to do whatever is required of me to make our renovation project a success, because I have an obligation of good faith and fair dealing to all parties involved in that lease agreement. Should the lease agreement become void by virtue of a default by the investors, then my obligations to them end as well.”

  Maguire set down his glass. He moved languidly, like a wealthy scholar of some arcane literary genre, and he never raised his voice. Pete hadn’t heard him laugh, hadn’t seen a genuine smile from him.

  A cold bastard, though Pete could be as ruthless as any upstart Paddy. “We won’t default. The castle will become the destination venue Maitland has promised us, or homelessness will be the least of his worries. This is exactly why I’m going to see for myself how things are getting off the ground and exactly why the other guys support hiring additional management staff for the project.”

  Maguire’s gaze swept the room, and the toady in tweed was at the table, collecting the leather folder and salaaming again.

  “Another excellent meal,” Maguire said. “My compliments to Esme.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maguire. I’ll be sure to pass that along to the kitchen.”

  “Tell your mother-in-law to bet on Graham’s Knight to win in the Lavelle Stakes out at the Downs next weekend. The bookies aren’t paying attention.”

  “Graham’s Knight?” Gone was the professional deference of the maître d’ and, in its place, the enthusiasm of a betting Irishman.

  “Meggie says the colt’s in top form, stronger by the day, and ready to take the world by storm.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maguire.” The toady bounced away from the table, and rather than return to his post behind the lectern at the door, he disappeared into the kitchen.

  “You follow horse racing?” Pete asked.

  “My sister is a steeplechase jockey who morphed into a trainer. Never met a horse she didn’t like.” He rose and stuck out a hand. No jewelry, no shine on his fingernails. “Been a pleasure, Mr. Sutherland. I’ll look forward to hearing how your jaunt to the Highlands goes. Please give my regards to your lovely wife.”

  “Will do,” Pete said, remaining seated because all the life coaches said that was the power position. “Can I tell the guys that you’re in favor of expanding the project staff too?”

  “Of course not. You haven’t made your goodwill tour. See what you find, and when you’ve reported back, we can make a decision based on more than speculation and gossip. Safe journey.”

  Maguire left the table, pausing to exchange a few words with an older woman sharing a drink with a guy half her age. Pete downed the rest of his Bloody Mary—good vodka should never go to waste, and even for a connoisseur, the vodka was first-rate.

  Maguire strode off after kissing the older woman’s cheek, which was just too goddamned Old World for words. Pete’s wife liked that crap, though. The cheek kissing and door holding. Maguire probably sent his mother flowers for no reason.

  Pete stashed the pretty pen in his pocket, then approached the gal behind the bar. “I’ll need a cab to the airport. Down front in ten.”

  “Of course, sir. The bell staff will take care of that for you.” She had an Irish accent and a smile that was close enough to real that Pete considered another drink.

  But, nah. He had a plane to catch—flights out to Edmonton weren’t all that frequent—and what the hell, he had flowers to order for his wife.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jeannie had had flings before—not many, but enough that another should follow a predictable pattern: interest, anticipation, opening moves, the highlights reel, the smile and wave farewell. Sometimes, the progression took a few weeks to run its course, sometimes a few hours. Harmless pleasure, a little comfort, and heigh-ho, life goes on.

  Max Maitland was different. A fling didn’t look shy and adorable while admitting he was “in trouble.”

  A fling didn’t have that talk about expectations. A lack of expectations was obvious when flinging.

  A fling didn’t schedule everything—food, hikes, sex, conversations—at the convenience of pint-sized tyrant, not that Jeannie had had any flings since Henry had been born.

  “Having second thoughts?” Max asked as they trooped into the kitchen.

  “The thoughts I’m having do not fit that description, Mr. Maitland.”

  Max sat at the table so Jeannie could wrest Henry from his infant pack, a tiny consideration for Henry’s safety that Jeannie might not have thought of herself.

  “He’s sinking fast,” Max said, brushing a finger over Henry’s cheek. “Let’s do the dido-check and get him snuggled up.”

  Henry yawned his way through the rest of the routine—diaper check, quiet walk to the spare bedroom in the earl’s apartment, a few soft sighs with Bear-Bear’s ear clutched in one tiny fist, the blanket binding between the fingers of the other.

  And then he was asleep.

  “I want to hurry,” Jeannie said as she and Max beheld that greatest gift to any child-minder, a peacefully sleeping baby. “But if we hurry, he’ll know, and then he’ll wake up at the worst possible moment.”

  “I want to hurry too.” Max tucked the blanket up around Henry’s shoulders. “My eagerness has nothing to do with His Highness’s mommy-management radar.”

  He took Jeannie by the hand, led her from the room, and closed the door save for a few inches. They hadn’t even made it three steps down the hallway—three quick steps—before Max had her up against the wall, his mouth on hers.

  Free climbers probably had a word for what Jeannie did next. She got one leg around Max’s hip, braced herself with her back to the wall, secured the second leg, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and ascended into his kiss.

  And oh heavens, to devour Max was lovely. To be simply a woman awash in desire and anticipation, her hands free to roam broad shoulders, a strong back, trim hips, and a muscular butt…

  He eased her away from the wall and carried her, still wrapped around him, to the master bedroom. Jeannie rested her head on his shoulder and remained in his arms even when they’d arrived beside the bed.

  “I don’t want to let you go.” Foolish words, also the truth.

  “Be a challenge undressing, which does seem to be a necessary part of the proceedings.”

  Engineers. She let her legs slide down his flanks. “I’m out of practice.”

  “Thank God,” Max said, stepping away and pulling his T-shirt over his head. “If this is you out of practice, then Jeannie Cromarty at the top of her game would be my last, best memory. I’m out of practice too, but it all comes back to me when you look at me like that.”

  She was looking at his bare chest, a landscape of male muscle dusted with dark hair. He let her look, though his smile said the paybacks would be lovely hell.

  “I’m not in shape
.” Jeannie sat on the bed and yanked at a shoelace. “Not like I used to be.”

  Jeannie wasn’t sure what she’d just announced. She resented that pregnancy and motherhood had taken control of her body, resented that she was too tired to work out, even assuming she could find a gym she could afford with a day care service she could trust.

  She hadn’t gone completely to pot. Not yet. God knew she and Henry went for walks, stroller rides, and hikes by the mile.

  “When I worked construction back in high school and college,” Max said, taking the place beside her and brushing her hair back over her shoulder, “I could bench-press the world, run a half marathon for fun, and routinely skip a night of sleep. Now I’m more into durability than stupid displays of masculine prowess. You’re a physically attractive woman, Jeannie, but that’s only part of why I look forward to being intimate with you.”

  This was true for Jeannie too. The chemistry was there, but so was a purely adult liking and appreciation. Jeannie was sitting on the bed with the man who liked her son, who worked hard but not too hard, who would do right by the castle not only because that was his job, but also because that’s who Max was.

  She toed off her shoes and stood to shuck her jeans. Max did likewise, which meant…

  He was naked.

  Jeannie abruptly could not find the snap on her waistband.

  “Would you like to use the bathroom first?” Max asked, draping his clothes over the back of a reading chair. “There’s a stash of guest toothbrushes in the second drawer on the left.”

  “You go ahead.”

  She watched, a little embarrassed to gawk, but unwilling to deprive herself of the sight of Max strolling naked into the bathroom. He didn’t close the door all the way, but left it open a few inches—for conversation, apparently.

  “Do we need to have any awkward discussions about birth control?” he called.

  “Not awkward. You’ll use condoms even though I’m on the pill.”