To Scotland With Love (4 page)

No man would issue orders to her ever again. Never ever.

Graham slipped off his jacket and hung it over a chair. He went to the antique dry bar in the corner and pulled out two crystal tumblers. While his back was turned making their drinks, she pulled out her phone, clicked off the flash, and took a few discreet pictures of the crown molding, the massive stone fireplace, and one or two pictures of Graham's derriere just for the heck of it. She had her phone back in her coat pocket before he had time to say
That's the end of it
again.

He handed her the drink. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

She was still angry with him, but not drunk enough, or fool enough, to miss taking advantage of this moment. “Of course.” She took a sip.

Graham placed another log on the fire and repositioned the screen. “Let's go.”

Precious got up to follow them.

“You stay here, girl, and keep warm by the fire.” The dog reluctantly lay back down.

“This place is huge. How many bedrooms?” she asked.

“Eleven. They're nothing special. I'll show you the main floor, though.”

He took her through each room—the professional stainless-steel kitchen, a small bedroom off the kitchen, the huge dining area, the library, and a peek at the media room. She wished she could take more pictures. But as she followed him from room to room, her irritation with him faded. It was either the drinks she'd had this evening, or the fact that his voice soothed her into forgiveness. By the time they'd made it back to the parlor, she felt all warm and cozy. He took her glass and poured her another one.

“Let's sit by the fire and you can tell me all about yourself.” He looked like the perfect gentleman, but he could as easily have been the devil for the captivating look he gave her. He pulled two plush armchairs to the fireplace, set the bottle between them, and pointed to where she should sit.

After settling in, she stared at the crackling fire and, unfortunately, the old dark thoughts crept back in. Suddenly, Cait was back in primary school, her mother recently diagnosed with cancer. She knew what cancer meant, even at nine years old—Death. And it seemed everywhere she looked, she found it. The dead bird lying on the path to school. Billy Kennedy drowning at sea. And every Sunday, Jesus Christ hanging from the cross in the stained-glass window at church. Cait couldn't run
away from Death, so instead she had walked toward it to get a closer look. When Mrs. Lamont told the class to memorize a poem, Cait picked “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” When she recited the ode to flames and Death to the school, Mrs. Lamont had been both astonished and alarmed. True, most fourth graders weren't obsessed with Death like Cait. But who could blame her?

Graham touched her hand. “Are you okay?”

She pulled it away. “Fine. Why would you ask?”

“You look sad, that's all. Like you'd lost your best friend.” Graham glanced down at Precious at his feet.

“It's nothing.” It felt like a betrayal, making light of Mama like that, so she told him the truth. “I was only thinking of my mother.”

“She was a fine woman, Caitie,” he said. “It was a sad day when she left us.”

“Tell me how you knew her.” Cait's eyes filled with tears.

“She took charity upon me and my da after my mum died. She made sure we were fed during our grief. Organized the village ladies for meals. She made sure I went to church and properly dressed, too. She had sweetness in her. And a bit of the sass, too.”

Yes, her mother had had sass. Once, Mama had threatened Da with the business end of a frying pan for tracking mud on her clean floor.

Graham poured them both another drink and lifted his glass. “To Nora Macleod.”

“To Mama.”

They downed their Scotch.

Cait lost track of time as they laughed about Deydie's cutting remarks and sour looks. Graham opened another bottle, wine this time. They joked about Gandiegow—
how time had stood still while the rest of the world had whirled out of control. He leaned in closer. The coziness of the fire and the old dog at their feet made her feel like they'd known each other for years.

“Would you be more comfortable on the couch?” he asked.

“You're so nice to me.” She stared into his lovely eyes.

“Maybe I want something from you,” he said.

Her inebriated brain thought he sounded serious. “Surely you're not talking about something naughty?” She reached out and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. It was nice touching him. He was quite the hunk. And because she could, she went ahead and ran her hand through his hair to the back of his head.

His eyes lit up.

Or it could've just been her imagination.

She slid out of her chair and made her way to the overstuffed sofa. She wanted to ask him something but couldn't remember what. She felt so tired that she lay down. It must've been all right with Graham because he came and sat on the floor near her head. She couldn't keep her eyes open. Right before she drifted off to sleep, she heard him speak, but it didn't make any sense.

“Why are you really in Gandiegow, Caitie Macleod?”

* * *

Cait had died. Or at least she wished she had. She tried moving an eyelash, but it hurt too much. An oversized pumpkin had grown inside her head and wanted out.

For a long time, she lay as still as she could, hoping the pressure would go away. After a while, a slow realization hit her.

A warm body lay next to hers. She put her hand out
and touched warm fur.
Precious
. Cait stroked the dog and was rewarded with a gratified groan.

That's when she noticed a movement on the floor below her. She reached over and touched Graham's hair.

Shouldn't the dog be sleeping on the floor and the handsome man be in her arms? Story of her life. Ass-backwards.

From nowhere, a broom hit Cait's backside.

“Get up, you ninny,” Deydie shouted. “Why in damnation are ye sleeping in a strange man's house?”

A
h, bluidy hell.
Graham sat up and scrubbed his face. “Seriously, Deydie, a strange man's house? Everyone in the free world knows me.”

Damn. He rarely referred to his notoriety. He turned to Caitie and she stared back at him.

He hadn't gotten what he wanted from her last night—answers. He wasn't a single step closer to finding out why she'd landed here. But from the Internet, he'd learned she was a summa cum laude graduate of one of the most prestigious journalism schools in the world. If she wasn't up to something, why would she lie and say she was a quilter? Absurd. Who has a career in quilting? Nobody, that's who. She was a bluidy reporter.

Deydie brought him back to the problem at hand by swatting him with her blasted broom. “That's for taking advantage of my granddaughter,” she said.

Caitie's mouth dropped open, and a nice pink blush colored her cheeks as she looked both incensed and ashamed.

“She did nothing wrong,” Graham defended, even though she didn't deserve his help. “If anyone took advantage of her loving arms . . .” He scratched Precious behind the ears. “It's my unfaithful dog. Deydie, you've
clearly ruined Precious against male companionship. She used to only sleep with me.”

Cait pushed herself to an upright position, her quizzical gaze boring into him.

He explained. “Precious is too old to go on location. When I'm gone, she stays with your gran at her cottage.”

“Damn dog's a flea-bitten nuisance.” Deydie held her expression as stiff as her broom handle.

“You're not fooling anyone, old bird.” He ducked as Deydie took another swing at him.

“Yere sass will get you in trouble one day, wee Graham.”

He gave Deydie his best devil-may-care grin. “Until then, how about some breakfast?”

“Get yere arse up and get it yereself.” Deydie huffed from the room.

The old gal loved it when he teased her, and he loved her back, regardless of her biting personality.

Cait scooted to the edge of the couch. “You're lucky she didn't sweep the floor with you.”

“I can handle your gran.” He wasn't nearly as certain he could handle her granddaughter. Caitie looked irresistible this morning, all mussed up. It gave him a glimpse of what it must be like to wake up next to her after a night of rolling around in the sheets together. He got to his feet, nuzzling Precious on the way. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it, his nose got close enough to catch another whiff of Caitie. Last night's whiskey wasn't nearly as intoxicating as the pheromones she gave off now. Dammit, he needed a distraction.

“Here.” He offered his hand to help her off the couch. “I'll whip us up an omelet.”

She ignored his hand. “Another time.”

He pulled it back and jammed it in his pocket. He had been raised to have good manners, but women like her didn't appreciate them. It infuriated him. He actually worked hard at being a nice guy. Just last month,
Us Weekly
named him Nicest Man in Show Business. But he wasn't feeling it now. “Something better to do?” It took everything in him to keep the words from coming out as a jeer.

“I have to get ahold of that darned Realtor,” she said. “I need to talk to Mr. Sinclair about my house, too.” She adjusted her sweater, and it caught his attention, giving him a better idea of the lay of the land under there.

She paused. He looked up to find her giving him the
eyes-up-here
glare and she went on. “The sooner I get my house rebuilt, the sooner I'll be out of your room above the pub.” She rose without his help. “Thanks for having me over.”

“Another time?” He echoed her words back to her.

She narrowed her eyes. “We'll see.”

He needed answers, sooner rather than later. The only thing he'd gotten from Caitie last night was companionship. As great and unusual as it had been for him to spend an evening in lively conversation with a cute, brown-haired firecracker, he hadn't gotten to the truth. It rankled, so he tried another tactic. “How about this afternoon? By the dock. The sun sets at three thirty. I'll bring food.”

She shook her head. “Seriously, a picnic? Do I look like a polar bear?” She leaned down and slipped on her boots.

He snatched up her parka as if to take it hostage. “What kind of reporter turns down an offer to spend time with a missing screen idol?”

She stilled at his words.
Aha, got you, Caitie Macleod
.

She pretended to adjust her boot, avoiding looking at him. “I don't know what you're talking about. I told you I'm a quilter.”

“Aye. And I'm a bluidy fisherman.”

She took a deep breath and finally faced him. “I really must go.”

“Yeah, I'm sure there're some urgent quilting matters awaiting you.” He held open her coat for her, like a gentleman ought to do. But with her, he felt more like a rogue. As he slipped the coat over her shoulders, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “If it's any consolation, I enjoyed sleeping with you.”

Gooseflesh rose up on her creamy neck. He'd gotten to her, and she couldn't deny it, even if she wanted to.

Ah, hell.
A lot of good it'd done. Turning her on had turned him on as well. He couldn't stop himself. He breathed her in and felt a little drunk all over again.

She whipped around, finger raised, snarkiness smeared all over her face, ready to give him a piece of her mind.

But before she could, he dropped one of his disarming smiles on her. Like an anvil. She stopped. Oh, yes, he knew all about disarming women. He spoke with the consistency of honey. “Why, Caitie Macleod, your eyes have grown to the size of camera lenses.”

“Oh, you. You . . .”

He smiled because Miss Smart-Mouth Reporter couldn't think of a single comeback.

Like a skittish doe, she lurched for the door.

He let her go. Though it amused him to have an effect on her, the truth was, he wasn't immune to the effect she had on him.

He remembered her mother, Nora, a mixture of
kindhearted and stubborn. Caitie was so much like her. Graham couldn't reconcile the things he liked about Caitie with the idea that she had come here to expose him—his treasured slice of normal life, his family, his town, Gandiegow.

Alone, he went to his laptop and flipped it opened. He had to take precautions. Caitie was attractive, but she might be poisonous as well. Although he couldn't stop thinking about her wrapping herself around him, in the end, he'd prove what she was all about.

* * *

As Cait rushed off the bluff back to the pub, her headache increased in size. Last night's alcohol couldn't take all the blame. Her gran's surly temperament had Cait's head close to cracking wide open now. Even more disconcerting had been the rapport between Graham and Deydie. Cait wondered whether she'd ever be as comfortable with her own grandmother as Graham was. How had he done it? How had he endeared himself to the prickliest woman alive?

More unsettling yet was how gorgeous Graham looked this morning—his rumpled hair, the splash of stubble on his face, and that sleepy-eyed look he'd given her. He'd had her close to forgetting the promises she'd made to herself—to never be a man's pawn again.

She'd come to Scotland for a fresh start, not to share a morning omelet or have a cozy picnic by the sea. She'd given up on men. Given up the heartache. Finished with unfaithfulness. Men were dirty, lying bastards, and she had washed her hands of the lot of them.

But instead of being professional and viewing Graham as nothing more than an assignment, she'd let the lines blur between herself and Mr. Gorgeous. She had to rectify that immediately. Any moment now, she'd put
aside that off-kilter feeling and kick back into reporter mode. She
would
get the story.

Cait quickened her pace along the path but couldn't outrun the thoughts that chased her. How Graham's breath on her neck had turned her insides into a mushy plum pudding. How the grin he'd given her as she'd left his house had scorched her. Not like burned toast. Or a match that had sizzled and gone out. Instead, it felt like her silly heart had wrapped itself around the wrong end of a hot poker and had gotten itself branded.

When she got back to her room, she forced herself into journalist mode, feverishly writing down everything she'd seen and heard since last night. Graham's mansion, his dog, Precious, how cozy it'd been in front of the fire, how her gran was his housekeeper, how he had a way of teasing Deydie that made her seem halfway lovable. These were all sides of Graham Buchanan that the rest of the world couldn't possibly know. She returned the notebook to its place under her mattress and grabbed her cell phone, ready to deal with the Realtor.

Of course the woman claimed to know nothing about the cottage fire and seemed relieved when Cait said she would keep the house—after an eighty-five-percent reduction in price.

Cait bundled up for a walk and went out. A good granddaughter would be headed off to Deydie's, but Cait didn't have the strength to deal with her gran right now. Besides, Deydie was probably still at Graham's.

Outside, it was gray and bitter. Cait had hoped to make it out to the end of the dock to get a closer look at the sea, but the spray had turned the wood planks into a dangerous icy lump. She stood back and gazed from a distance. She wished for a calm sea to calm her, but it
churned violently, definitely unhappy. An angry Christmas sea.

Of course, there would be no tree for her little pub room. No twinkling Christmas lights. Her typical Christmas feast a bust. No husband. No happy family.

Christmas will be peachy, just peachy
.

She'd probably spend it with Deydie, sitting by the fire drenched in one of her gran's heartwarming scowls. Cait glared at the sea, and on a childish whim, she flipped it off. “Thanks for nothing, and Merry Christmas to you, too.”

She needed chocolate and went to the store to find it. The same young woman from yesterday, the one who'd waved to her, stood behind the counter and chattered away about the latest weather report, how the grand opening of The Fisherman went last night, and how Cait must love to quilt like her gran. Cait didn't get a word in edgewise.

Chocolate in hand, she left the store and walked along the boardwalk, past the other businesses, past the one-room schoolhouse. As if an invisible hand reached out and blocked her path, Cait hesitated outside Saint Henry's Episcopal Church. Darn its bright white exterior and its jutting steeple. As a child, Cait had kneeled and prayed here at the kirk. A good little follower of the faith. But then God took Mama and Cait had a falling-out with the Big Guy. Well, not a falling-out exactly, more like a parting of the ways.

Cait touched the church's door. It hummed with warmth and invitation, but she knew better. A bait and switch scheme. Lure in the sheep and then mow them down with a sickle. She wouldn't be sucked in again. Deliberately, she turned away and trudged back to the pub.

At the top of the stairs outside her room sat a box, the first of her things to arrive from Chicago. This one she'd marked specially:
SEWING MACHINE
. She carried it into the room, carefully set it on the bed, and pulled out the projects she'd shoved around it to protect her Viking machine.

A nagging feeling tugged at her. She could've sworn it came from the direction of the box. “Fine.” She pulled out the machine. “I'll take you to Deydie's, but prepare yourself for some serious unpleasantness.”

Cait put on her coat, jammed one of the sewing projects into her pocket, and picked up her machine. When she headed downstairs, the place was again crammed with Scots, but there were no bagpipes and no Graham. A bit of disappointment came over her. She ignored it and slipped out the front door into the cold. It wasn't snowing tonight, but it was bitter. She walked hurriedly toward her grandmother's. Apparently, the business owners had been hard at it this afternoon—multicolored Christmas lights glittered on storefronts, wreaths hung on doors, and garlands, like festive snakes, had wrapped themselves around streetlamps.

Cait sighed and trudged on, trying to outrun the thought of Christmas.

When she got to Deydie's cottage, a front window stood propped open. Crazy Scots, insisting on having a wee bit of fresh air regardless of the weather. Cait heard women laughing inside.

Deydie's irritated voice rose above the others. “Me granddaughter is too good for an ole fishwife like me.”

Another woman spoke. “Don't take it personal. I hear American girls are independent sorts.”

Cait crawled closer to the window, set her machine on
the ground, and peeked inside. Deydie and three other women sat around the big wooden table, some with sewing machines in front of them, others stitching quilt blocks in their laps.

“A decent girl would've been here with her gran.” Deydie harrumphed. “The pub indeed.”

Cait lost her footing, slipped on the ice, and knocked over her sewing machine.

“What was that?” came from inside.

Cringing, Cait quickly squatted down, trying to become invisible.

Moments later, an old woman peered out the window and found Cait huddling below the ledge. “I'm thinking your granddaughter has arrived. Come in, wee Caitie.”

Deydie swung the front door open. “What the devil?”

Cait stood with as much dignity as she could muster. She wiped off the snow, grabbed her sewing machine, and turned to her badger-faced gran.

Deydie waited in the doorway with her hands on her massive hips. “Why are ye skulking outside me house?”

The others moved forward, gathering around the door.

“Come in.”

“Get out of the cold.”

“We'll make room for ye.”

Cait knew what they really meant.
Give us a closer look. We'll judge for ourselves whether you're as bad as Deydie says.