by Carrie Elks
A group of tourists – ones with deep pockets and expensive clothes – walked into the hotel lobby, their suitcase wheels squeaking across the marble floor. Almost immediately the triple-storeyed space was filled with loud voices that echoed across the indoor pond.
‘I’ll leave you to deal with these guys,’ Lachlan said, inclining his head at the crowd. ‘Have a good evening.’
‘Thank you, sir. And you, too.’
As he crossed the lobby – weaving his way through the giant silver abstract sculptures and the huge potted trees – Lachlan felt a shot of pride blast through his veins. When he’d first invested in this hotel it had been run down and losing money in spite of its grand location. It had taken a few years of finding the best people, investing in the facilities, and attracting the kind of guests who would be willing to pay the prices they charged – but finally the place was back in profit.
Like everything he touched, he’d made it succeed.
As he turned the corner into the restaurant, the maître d’ smiled warmly, reaching his hand out to shake Lachlan’s firmly. ‘Your guest is seated at your usual table, Mr MacLeish.’
Lachlan checked his watch. Twenty minutes late. He felt a little guilty for keeping her waiting after she’d flown all this way.
The Palm Room was a half-indoor, half-outdoor restaurant, with a wall of folding glass doors that led out to a palm-tree-lined terrace. Though the interior was painted an off-white, everything else in the room was filled with colour, from the purple velvet chairs to the hand-picked Jackson Pollock paintings.
Like the rest of the hotel, since it had been renovated the Palm Room had become a fashionable haunt for the rich and famous. In the corner he could see an old shipping magnate friend of his father’s, dining with a girl who was young enough to be his daughter. On the other side was a semi-famous actress, scanning the room to see if anybody was looking at her, and totally ignoring her dining companion – a notorious ex-criminal, who had enough money to buy whatever company he wanted to dine with. Lachlan nodded at them, then continued to the doors, and stepped outside.
The terrace was his favourite place to eat, even in early spring. Though the temperature was just below seventy, the heaters were lit, making the outside feel as warm as the interior.
His usual table was on the far side, set back from the others to provide some privacy, as it overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. As the sun slid into her watery bed, the sky was darkening, the palm trees that divided the hotel from the beach becoming black silhouettes against the blue-grey water.
But it wasn’t the view that drew his eye. It was the woman sitting at the table, her face turned as she looked out at the bay.
He almost stopped dead in his tracks. There was something about her that made him want to stand and stare for a moment. It wasn’t just the way she looked – though that would have been enough – but the way she held herself that intrigued him. As she stared out at the ocean, her blonde hair pulled back into a perfect bun, her expression perfectly serene, he imagined her to be like some kind of female Canute. But in her case, if the Atlantic Ocean had dared to move any further up the sand, she’d only have to hold up her hand for it to scurry away again.
Christ, it really had been a long day. He was seeing things that weren’t there.
Shaking his head at himself, he walked over to the table, and relaxed his face into a friendly expression. Business was business, no matter how tired he was.
‘Miss Shakespeare?’
Almost immediately she turned to look at him, her lips curling into a smile. It lifted her cheeks, making the skin at the corner of her eyes crinkle. ‘Mr MacLeish?’ she asked. When he nodded, she stood, offering her hand.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was held up in meetings,’ he said, shaking her hand. Her palm was warm and soft in his. He looked down at her fingers – and her perfect manicure. When he brought his eyes back to her face, they met hers, deep and blue. There was a softness to her gaze that contrasted with her steely exterior. He could see himself reflected in the darkness of her pupils.
‘It’s not a problem,’ she said, pulling her hand back to her side. ‘I’ve been admiring the beautiful view.’ Her voice was smooth yet clipped – the kind of accent he heard whenever he visited London. Strange that she was from Scotland, then, where the accent was more lyrical and deep.
The way his father’s had been.
‘How was your journey?’ he asked, pointing at her chair and gesturing for her to sit down.
‘It was long, but I managed to get lots of work done.’ She smoothed her skirt out as she sat, and he followed suit, leaning back on his chair and crossing his legs beneath the table. ‘It gave me a chance to reread your case notes. I wanted to be up to speed.’
‘I apologise for the rush,’ he said, picking up the water bottle and pouring it into his glass. ‘Would you like a top-up?’ he asked her. She nodded and he refilled it, then screwed the lid back on. ‘This inheritance is very important to me, and I want to make sure I have the right kind of advice. You came highly recommended.’
She smiled again, and it was impossible to drag his eyes away. It was almost a relief when the waiter arrived at their table, asking if they were ready to order.
‘A glass of the Bryant Cabernet, please,’ Lachlan said to the waiter. He hadn’t intended to drink, but a glass might take away his edginess. ‘How about you, Miss Shakespeare?’
‘It’s Lucy.’ She shook her head when the waiter offered her the wine list. ‘And I’m fine with the water, thank you.’
The waiter left, and there was silence for a moment, save for the sound of the ocean behind her, and the low level of chatter in the restaurant surrounding them. ‘This is a beautiful restaurant,’ Lucy said, looking over his shoulder at their surroundings. ‘Were those Pollocks I saw hanging up in the main room?’
‘Yes they are.’ He was relieved they weren’t launching straight into business, no matter how tired he was. ‘We worked hard to get the restaurant just right. And the food is even better than the interior design. The chef and his staff are excellent.’
The waiter brought his wine over, then melted away. Lachlan lifted it up, letting the bouquet fill his senses for a moment before he took a drink. It tasted as good as he remembered.
‘I went to a Pollock exhibition at the National Gallery in Edinburgh a couple of years ago,’ she told him. ‘It was fascinating. There’s something hypnotic about his paintings that make you just want to stare at them for hours.’
‘Have you always lived in Edinburgh?’ he asked, still wondering about her voice.
‘No, I was born in London. I moved to Edinburgh when I was eighteen, to study law at the university. I guess I fell in love with the city and never looked back.’
‘That explains the accent,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t quite place it.’
‘I’ve lived there for ten years,’ she said, that smile playing at her lips again. ‘But I still can’t shake off the English tones. Luckily my clients don’t seem to mind it, even if most of them are Scottish born and bred.’
There was a loud cheer from the table a few yards down from them, as a waiter brought out a huge chocolate dessert covered in candles. Lachlan glanced over his shoulder to see what the noise was about, then turned back to her. ‘What made you decide to become an attorney?’ he asked. It felt strange asking her the question, even if this was the point of their dinner. He was supposed to be interviewing her, making sure she was the right person for the job. That was the reason she’d flown over two thousand miles to meet with him, after all.
He’d still rather know what she thought about the hotel, though.
‘It’s something I’ve always been interested in,’ she said, looking up and catching his eye. He lifted his wine glass and sipped at it, holding her gaze.
‘What interests you about it?’
She tipped her head to the side, considering his question. ‘Without laws, society as we know it couldn’t exist. They provide a frame
work for us all to live in. For the most part, they stop people from behaving badly, and even if they do, they ensure that the wrongdoers are punished.’
‘Sounds like you should have gone into criminal law,’ Lachlan murmured.
‘I always thought I’d end up as a criminal lawyer, but then I did my traineeship and I quickly discovered I disliked it.’
‘Why’s that?’ He looked genuinely interested, leaning forward to hear her reply.
‘Because way too many of my clients were criminals.’
He laughed, and she did, too. Her laugh was throatier than he’d expected, and it jolted him momentarily. ‘You only like being on the side of the good and the right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I guess I should take that as a compliment.’
‘Well, from your case notes, I’d say you’re on the right side,’ she said, her tone light. ‘But I can’t comment on anything else.’
A wave crashed onto the beach behind her, the silhouetted palms swaying in the breeze. But before he could say anything else, the waiter came to take their orders, and he had to drag his gaze away from her.
Lucy slid her knife through the tender lamb cutlet on the plate in front of her, looking up through her eyelashes at Lachlan, stealing a glance as he speared a piece of his steak. From the minute he’d walked into the restaurant she’d noticed him, her heart flipping in her chest as she’d watched him talking to the maître d’. Annoyed at herself – and her reactions – she’d turned away, staring out at the ocean until her pulse had reached an equilibrium, though it had sped up again as soon as he’d said her name.
And for a moment, as they’d both stood, his hand folded around hers, she’d felt as though she was being sucked up into the ocean, pushed and pulled by the waves. But then she’d taken a deep breath and pulled herself together.
Yes, he was gorgeous, with eyes that seemed to see right through her, but he was also her client. And Lucy Shakespeare was always professional.
‘Do you spend a lot of time in Miami?’ she asked him now, determined to get herself back on track, to ignore the way he looked in his perfectly tailored jacket. That kind of cut didn’t come off-the-peg, it had been made to order. ‘From the case notes I understand you’re based in New York, is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ Lachlan nodded, placing his cutlery back on his plate. When he looked at her there was a magnetism that drew her eyes right back to his. He was intensely masculine, but not in an obvious way. It was in his confidence, the way he held himself. ‘Most of my business interests are in New York, but I have this hotel and a few other investments here in Miami. Plus my family are here, of course.’
Of course. She knew from his notes that his father had lived in Miami. That’s where his will had been signed. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘My condolences.’
He blinked a couple of times, like something had got into his eye. Then he nodded, accepting her offer. ‘Thank you. Though as you’ll find out, we didn’t always have the easiest of relationships.’
She knew something about difficult families. Who didn’t? ‘I specialise in estate law,’ she said, wanting to reassure him. ‘Believe me when I tell you that’s my bread and butter.’ She’d only managed to eat half her dinner, but her stomach already felt over-full. She put her knife and fork down on the plate, then covered it with her napkin. Once full, she hated looking at leftover food. ‘Actually, I have a few questions about your case. Is it okay if I ask them?’ Talking about the case made her feel like she was back on an even keel. The law grounded her, made her feel safe. She knew where she was when it came to being a professional.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you mind if I take notes?’ she added, looking down at her briefcase. ‘I wouldn’t usually do this over dinner, but since we have such a short time, I want to make the most of it.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Lachlan said, offering her an apologetic smile. ‘It’s just that my father’s death and his funeral took me away from work for too long. I’ve got a hundred people trying to get an hour of my time. Tonight was all that was left.’
‘You don’t need to apologise to me,’ Lucy reassured him. ‘You’re the client.’ Or at least her potential client. ‘You make the rules.’
His eyes flickered at her words. ‘In that case, ask away.’
‘Maybe I can start by telling you what I know.’ She always found this the best way to begin a case meeting. Restate the facts and make sure they were right. It was amazing how often they weren’t. ‘I’ve read through your father’s will, of course, and it seems pretty clear. He’s left you one bequest, a lodge in the Highlands of Scotland. Though as with so many things in Scotland, lodge is a bit of an understatement.’ She raised her perfectly groomed eyebrows. ‘It’s more of a castle than a lodge. The Glencarraig estate consists of three thousand acres of land, a loch, plus a salmon farm and a herd of deer. It also comes with ownership of a number of workers’ cottages in the nearby village, and currently employs around thirty staff, some of them seasonal.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lachlan agreed, nodding. ‘A castle in the middle of nowhere, with a title that means nothing. Thanks, Dad.’
She swallowed down a laugh at his sarcasm. ‘Did your father ever use his title?’ she asked.
‘Only if he wanted to impress people. I don’t remember him going around calling himself a laird all the time.’ Lachlan shrugged. ‘Though I didn’t see him that often.’
‘How about you?’ she asked him. ‘Will you be calling yourself Laird of Glencarraig?’ It seemed an impertinent question to ask, but she was trying to work him out. To see what part of his inheritance was important to him.
Lachlan laughed, his chuckle deep and low. ‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘But you understand it comes with another role, don’t you? That by inheriting the lodge and the title you’ll also become head of the MacLeish clan?’
‘I assume that means about as much as the title does,’ Lachlan said, taking another sip of water. ‘As in not very much at all.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Lucy replied, scanning the notes she’d made during her flight. ‘Though the feudal system in Scotland ended centuries ago, the clans are still a big thing to some people. And not just to Scottish MacLeishes either. There are clan members all over the world, and they’ll look at you as their leader. Occasionally clan chiefs have been asked to intervene in disputes.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Surely your father must have had some experience of that. Do you remember him ever getting involved in clan issues?’
‘No. But that doesn’t mean anything. As I told you, we had a very fractious relationship. I didn’t see a whole lot of him growing up.’ He shook his head, still looking incredulous. ‘Is that really a thing? It sounds like something from a movie.’
‘It really is. The internet has changed everything. Some clans have Facebook groups or Twitter accounts. It might sound like an anachronism but a lot of Scots, particularly ex-pats, like it.’
She made a note to herself to find more out about the MacLeish clan. Anything that could lend credence to Lachlan’s claim on the estate would be a help.
‘So what do I need to do to shut this all down?’
Lucy put down her pen and looked up at him. ‘The main problem is another party has asserted their right to the land and the title. Duncan MacLeish Jr. – that’s your brother, right?’
‘Half-brother.’
‘And he’s five months younger than you?’ Her voice was matter-of-fact.
‘That’s correct.’
She lifted up the letter at the front of his file, scanning it quickly. ‘Your half-brother – Duncan – is asserting himself to be the rightful heir. His solicitor has written to you, asking for you to settle the claim. Otherwise he’s threatening court action.’ She looked up from the paper. ‘Were you expecting that?’
‘It doesn’t surprise me that h
e’d do something like this.’
‘The two of you don’t get on?’ she asked. Her eyes had softened, but her tone was still businesslike.
‘Duncan isn’t my biggest fan,’ he told her. ‘He’d contest anything our father left me, even if it was worthless.’
‘He would? Why?’ She tipped her head to the side.
‘Because I’m his illegitimate half-brother. Does that make a difference?’
‘No, it shouldn’t.’ She kept her gaze firmly on his. ‘Scottish history is full of illegitimate children becoming heirs. It would depend on the terms of the will and if there are any caveats on the lairdship. And so far I’ve found nothing. As far as I’m concerned the terms of the will are clear, and Scottish law supports it.’
‘So will Duncan’s claim stand up in court?’
