To Scotland With Love (23 page)

Everyone disappeared one by one for bed—Duncan, Mattie, and the nurses. Only Graham and Cait remained.

“Will you have a nightcap?” Graham said, walking to the dry bar.

Cait attempted a fake yawn. “I'm bushed.”

She fled the parlor, hightailed it up the stairs, and got into bed in record time.

She needed to regain her senses. She wouldn't get her heart broken again. She wouldn't be tempted by him tonight.

Her door opened. She hoped it was Mattie needing a glass of water. It wasn't.

“Caitie, come to bed with me. Please.”

Her resolve crumbled and swept itself under the bed.

“Well,” she huffed, getting up and going to him, “only if you make it worth my while.”

“Don't worry, love.” He patted her on the rump as she passed by. “I've been saving up just for you.”

* * *

The next day, Ash Wednesday, they all went to church, kneeled and prayed, leaving with ashes on their foreheads. Cait left with something else—a decision. It had been a long time since she'd given up anything for Lent. In the past, she'd given up something like chocolate or
Dr Pepper. This time it would be much harder to live without—she'd give up Graham.

Graham and Mattie headed to Duncan's place to pick up some things. All alone, Cait walked up the bluff, prepared to put her new plan into action. It was easy making a decision. Following through was a whole other matter. He was an exquisite lover—inventive, playful, and intent on getting the job done right. Her intimate bits lit on fire just thinking about their moments wrapped in the sheets. She undid her scarf and unzipped her jacket to cool off.

The only way to stay out of his bed would be to get out of his house. She couldn't go back to Deydie's. Her gran hated her. So much for new beginnings and starting over. Their relationship was in the crapper, flushed down the proverbial loo. Not even Roto-Rooter could get it flowing again.

Cait's only choice was to move back to her drafty room over the pub. She shivered and zipped her jacket again.

She didn't falter at Graham's doorstep. She slipped into the mansion, hurrying upstairs to be packed and gone before Graham got back. She emptied her drawer into her suitcase without worrying over wrinkled clothes. Time was of the essence.

“What are you doing?”

Cait jumped.

Duncan rested in the doorway of the guestroom. She'd forgotten that he was home because he hadn't felt well enough to attend the church service.

She zipped up the luggage and set it on the floor. “I thought I'd get out of everyone's hair now that your da is home.”

Duncan came farther into the room. “Ye know he's not going to like it.”

Cait ignored him and went into the bathroom to clear out the shower.

Duncan blocked the bedroom entry. “Don't leave until you tell him what ye're doing. He's come to depend upon you.”

Cait frowned at Duncan harshly until she realized that was how Deydie had become so wrinkled. “Graham Buchanan is rich and famous. He can hire someone to take my place.” A housekeeper, a babysitter, a hooker. Oh God, what had she reduced herself to?

From behind Duncan, a deep voice rang out. “Hire someone? I'm a frugal Scot. I can't find someone who'll do what you do for so little.”

Duncan turned and smiled at Graham. “It's about time you got here. I'll leave it to you to sort it out. Make her stay. She makes me smile.”

Cait stomped her foot. “Dang it, Duncan. You stalled me on purpose.”

“Aye.” Duncan left the room, leaving Cait and Graham alone.

He leaned against the doorframe. “Why are you leaving?”

“I'm giving you up for Lent.” She stood her ground, slipping her toiletries into another bag. “Nothing you can say will make me stay.”

“If you won't stay for me, then do it for Mattie.”

“You're not playing fair.”

“I never do,” Graham replied.

And then came the final nail in her coffin—the six-year-old bugger stepped out from behind his grandda. She was sunk.

“Fine.” She sighed. “But get out while I unpack.” She grabbed Mattie. “You can stay.”

Graham shot her his victory smile. “I'll be working on tonight's meal.”

“You do that,” she called over her shoulder.

Deydie came to the mansion for the meal of bread, wine, and soup. Her gran didn't glare as much at Cait, which was helpful. But all wasn't well. Cait caught sight of the purplish bruises covering Duncan's arms before he pulled down his sleeves to cover them up. He looked more tired than usual and headed to bed right after he nibbled on a little bread.

She wished she could tell those two connivers, Leukemia and Death, to rot in hell. It wouldn't do any good. Hell had sent them in the first place to take up residence in Gandiegow.

She went upstairs to her room and started writing a piece about what family and the community go through when one of their own has the dreadful disease. She typed it up and sent it off to
Woman's Day
to see if it might work in their human interest section.

She put on her cuddly pajamas, crawled into bed, and turned off the light. She felt terrible for Duncan, sad for Mattie, and pity for herself. Why couldn't she find true love? Or at least someone who would stick? Graham had told her point-blank he liked to keep things casual. The problem was she simply wasn't a casual kind of girl. She didn't just want incredible sex; she wanted more. Oh God, how she hated to admit it. She wanted the whole shebang.

Sometime later, she woke up to her bed dipping down on one side. Graham pulled her into his arms. He didn't try to put the moves on her, but did something much
more devastating—held her close. For a long time, he was quiet and then entwined his hand with hers.

“Tell me it's going to be okay, Caitie,” he whispered into the dark.

She laid her hand on his chest and decided this wasn't the time to lie. “I don't know, Graham. I just don't know.”

T
he next morning, first thing, Cait headed to Deydie's house with her camera to take pictures of the Our Town Gandiegow quilt. All the quilt ladies had assembled.

“Hurry it,” Deydie barked at her. “We've got loads to do for the céilidh tonight.”

“Fine,” Cait said. “But I need to get some good pictures for the online auction. The more personal we can make it, the better.”

“Are you going to write up an article?” Rhona asked.

Cait's head shot up in surprise. Had Deydie told everyone what she'd planned to do? But the look on Rhona's face held no accusation in it, only curiosity.

Cait wiped the worry from her face. “Yes. I thought I would take a crack at it. Make it a story about you, the quilters. If that's all right?”

“Asking? Now, there's something new,” Deydie mumbled.

Amy piped in, all excited. “Are you going to interview us separately or together? I have some funny stories I could tell you about my auntie.”

“I'm going to write about you as a quilting
community. I'll let you all approve it before I post it online. Is that a deal?” Cait said.

Deydie looked dumbfounded, and Cait knew why. They were both thinking about the other story.

Cait put her mind back on the task at hand. It took some doing, but she snapped several pictures of the women holding the quilt by the sea, by the bluff, and crouched outside Deydie's cottage.

“Caitie, will ye be helping us with the decorations for tonight's party?” asked Moira.

Cait was about to say yes, but good ole Gran got her two cents in first.

“No,” Deydie barked. “Caitie's got that quilt to get on the Internet.”

Cait was left to watch them as they headed off to work on the céilidh.

Alone, she went back to her room at the mansion to put together the article and get the ball rolling on the auction. As she typed, she couldn't help but wonder at the amount the quilt would bring if only Graham would give his permission to use his fame to sell it.

Knowing him, though, he'd probably just bail out the town again, outbid legitimate buyers to make sure the quilt brought in top dollar. It was best not to tell him anything about it. She wanted the town to be able to help itself, to stand on its own. She wondered what else she could do to help.

Suddenly, her door opened. She looked up and slammed her laptop lid down.

Graham looked perturbed.

“Sorry to interrupt.” He seemed unhappy to find her on her computer. “Just wondered if you wanted to take a walk over to your cottage.”

Cait wiped the guilt off her face. She hadn't been doing anything wrong.
Like writing a story that would divulge everything he wanted to keep secret.

Graham stepped farther into the room. “I ran into Sinclair. He has a group at your bungalow, cleaning up the area, preparing for the remodel. What were you doing?” He pointed to her laptop, looking embarrassed for asking.

“Just working on a piece about quilts,” she said. “Nothing special.”

“Are you coming or not?” He squinted in her direction like he had a lie detector aimed at her head.

“Sure.” She got up and grabbed her coat.

When they got downstairs, Graham stopped at the back door. “Oh, darn.” His fake exclamation put her on guard. “I left my gloves upstairs. I'll be right back.”

“I won't move a muscle,” she said, smiling to herself.

Go ahead, snoopy. You won't find one incriminating thing.

* * *

Quilts, my foot.
Graham was sure she'd been writing a story about him, sure he'd caught her in the act. And it was surprising how disappointed that made him feel. But now he stared at the screen, dumbfounded. It was only a story about a quilt and the ladies of Gandiegow. So why in the world had she acted so strange?

God only knows
, was the only conclusion he could come to.

He'd never been so happy to be wrong. She hadn't come here to expose him. He suspected she had been sent by a higher power to help him get through this, to be a comfort to him. But she'd become so much more. She'd taken his somewhat fake and shallow life and brought
depth and realness to it that he hadn't experienced since he was a boy. She gave meaning to his existence beyond what he made in box office sales. She made him feel like a superhero in his everyday life. He wasn't completely sure what it all meant, but he knew he cared deeply for her. He was exceedingly grateful she was in his life. Even more important, he felt like Caitie had somehow brought an extra layer of protection to Gandiegow, too. If the vultures knew Graham lived here and got wind of Duncan's illness, the press would be picking at their carcasses, making a painful situation unbearable. Thank God he had Caitie, and thank God he still had his privacy.

Caitie hollered from the bottom of the steps. “Are you coming or what?”

Graham shut the laptop lid and hurried down the stairs.

Caitie stood there all flushed and cute in her brown parka. He had the urge to kiss her, but he opened the back door for her instead. “Let's be going, Ms. Macleod.”

Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, and he began to whistle.

Suddenly, Caitie stopped walking and turned to him. “There's something I have to talk to you about. It's about you and your stardom.”

He felt confused. Hadn't he just resolved this whole issue and decided she didn't want to write a story about him? “All right,” he finally answered, bracing himself.

“There's been this idea floating around in my brain for some time and I've just figured it out. I've been wondering what to do about you.”

Maybe she wasn't talking about writing a story. Maybe it was about having an honest-to-goodness “relationship.”

Funny, the thought didn't make him want to hop a plane and get the heck out of Scotland.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged.

“It's the quilting,” she said as way of explanation.

“What?” he said. She had a way of making him crazy. “I'm lost. What are you talking about, lass?”

She picked at her scarf, not looking at him. “It's this idea. I'll need your help. Your cooperation to make it work.”

“What does that mean?”
What is she up to?

She faced him fully. “If I buy two of the empty businesses on the boardwalk, I could renovate them and turn them into a retreat for quilters, something catchy.”

He felt like he was on a roller coaster tossed from side to side and up and down. He got his bearings, then touched her arm. “If you need the money, lass, all you have to do is ask. I don't mind helping the town.”

She pulled away from him. “I don't need your money. Aren't you listening? What I need is your cooperation.”

Tentatively, Graham asked, “How, then?”

“This quilting spot wouldn't just be for the locals. I want it to be a profitable business that will positively impact Gandiegow's economy. I thought if we turned the town into a quilting destination—”

“A what?”

“A quilting destination. A quaint and charming tourist spot for quilters. People could come from around the world and soak up some local flavor while doing what they love. We could teach classes. When I say we, I mean Deydie and the group. I'm only thinking out loud here, but we could bring in Fons and Porter or Eleanor Burns to do some workshops.”

“Who?”

“Famous people in the quilting world.” She put her hands on her hips. “Seriously, Graham, you haven't heard of Fons and Porter?”

“I see where you're going with this, but where would the quilters stay? We've only the one room over the pub. I'm certainly not turning my house into a hotel for a bunch of women with scissors.”

She broke into a smile. “Don't worry, Mr. Generous. I thought we could turn my cottage into the lodging area. Make it dormitory style. Maybe build an extension off the back. Since Mr. Sinclair hasn't started yet, he could revise the plans.”

Graham felt like a heel. “You'd give up your privacy for this venture?”

“Sure.”

“Where did you say you're getting the money for all of this?”

She leaned in to him and whispered, “Don't tell anyone, but I'm loaded.”

He grinned at her. “Aren't you just full of surprises.”

“So you'll help me?”

“You keep turning down my help. I'll do whatever you want me to do.”

“Good,” she said, looking relieved. “I need you to coordinate your visits to Gandiegow so you're gone when we have our retreats.”

* * *

A new path had appeared to Cait out of thin air. A better path. One with fewer moral dilemmas and challenging turns. One she could embrace with all her heart. Instead of restarting her journalism career, she would dedicate herself to the Kilts & Quilts venture. She loved quilting. She loved this town. Gandiegow, her home.

He broke her reverie by tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugged. “To give back? To help?” She gave him a hard look. “Scratch all that. I just want to be as big a martyr as you are.”

“What?” He acted like a rat caught in a cage, then relaxed. “Oh, yes, the pub. Right.”

She raised her eyebrows and stared him down, letting him know she knew everything he'd done for everyone in secret. He finally turned away.

She went on. “I thought a share of the profits could go to the Lost Fishermen's Families Fund.”

He gave a low whistle. “You'll get sainthood for that one.”

“Not if they don't know about it.” She lightly punched him on the arm. “I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine.”

He rubbed his arm as if she'd hurt him. “Fine.”

“Can you do it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Work with me on scheduling. And I'll work with you to preserve your privacy.”

He shook his head, not as an answer but in wonder. “You're quite a woman, Caitie Macleod. Sure. I'll do it.” He reached out to take her into his arms.

She sidestepped him. “And you, sir,” she said in her best queen voice, “take too many liberties.”

He placed her arm in his. “Yes, it's a grievous fault, but it is Valentine's Day. Happy Valentine's Day, Caitie.” He kissed the top of her head. “Now, let's go talk to Sinclair about your grand scheme.”

The little peck of a kiss got her all hot and bothered.

“I hate Valentine's Day,” she complained. “There's
too much expectation and not enough delivery as far as I'm concerned.” She looked to him to see if he agreed.

He gave her a wolfy grin. “I'd show you delivery if you'd let me.”

She shook her head. “I told you, I've given up all of that for Lent, so don't try anything, buster.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” He wasn't fooling her. That hooded gaze he gave her said he'd jump her bones right here right now in the middle of the path if she'd let him.

She glared at him. “We've got a lot to do today, so keep your mind out of the gutter, will you?”

He only laughed, not promising a thing.

They found Mr. Sinclair directing a small group of men cleaning up Caitie's burned-out cottage. She told the contractor of her new plans for the house and the businesses downtown.

She ticked the items off one by one. “For the quilting building, I want plenty of electrical outlets, a nice kitchen area, a big hearth, and room for comfy seating.”

Mr. Sinclair said it could all be done and he would be by later in the week with new plans for everything.

“Listen, Graham,” Cait said as they left. “I've got to get some stuff done before the dance tonight.”

“No problem,” he said. “I'm going to check on Duncan's house and then go over to the pub. I promised to see Bonnie today.”

Cait went incinerator hot. “Tell her to keep her paws to herself,” she blurted out.

“Why, Caitie, I do believe you're jealous.”

“I am not. I just know her fingernails should be registered as lethal weapons. You'd better stay three feet away from her at all times lest she poke an eye out or something.”

He gave her a squeeze. “I'll not be letting anybody touch me but you.”

A warm sizzle shot up Cait's spine. She pulled away and hurried off, trying to get her hormones—
the little sluts
—under control.

She made her way to the other side of town to the mansion. Once at Graham's, she finished the quilting article and made copies for the quilt ladies to proofread. Cait's stomach began to roil like a ship tossed about, knowing she'd have to face Deydie's scathing comments and glares soon.

She headed to the old wool factory that was one of the buildings she planned to buy for the quilting retreat. Tonight, though, it would serve as the location for the dance.

She found the quilt ladies and many others decorating the interior with hearts and streamers while young boys lined up chairs around the edges of the room. Amy was hanging a disco ball from the ceiling in the center. Cait went to her first.

“Hey, Amy, here's what I wrote about the quilt.” She handed her one of the copies.

“Awesome.” Amy climbed off the ladder. “I'll look at it now.”

Cait went around to all the ladies, but it was Bethia who had other things on her mind.

“Why have ye not been quilting with us?” Bethia nagged. “Deydie says you're too busy, but I'm not believing it.” The old woman touched her arm. “What's going on with you and your gran?”

“A misunderstanding,” Cait said. “We'll work it out in time.” At least she hoped so.

“You'd better, lass,” Bethia said. “Your gran is hurting.”

Deydie didn't look like she was hurting at all. She was in her element, acting the drill sergeant, shouting out orders to everyone and smiling with satisfaction when they snapped to attention.