Five Days in Skye: A Novel Read online

  She quickly changed the subject before she could embarrass herself further. “You grew up here on Skye?”

  “Until I was twelve,” James said. “Then I went to boarding school in Edinburgh.”

  “Why?”

  “My parents were divorced. I got myself into so much mischief after my mother left, she was sure I’d turn into a delinquent. I didn’t want to go back to England with her, so we compromised on an independent school in Scotland.”

  “I can’t imagine leaving home at twelve.”

  James shrugged. “I enjoyed myself. Of course, I wasn’t the most serious of students. I got tossed from my first two schools anyway.”

  “I don’t believe that. You don’t get into the University of Edinburgh without good grades.”

  “Oh, I earned high marks. I just spent as much time in the headmaster’s office as I did in class.” His mouth curved upwards, secretive, mischievous. “I had a rather unfortunate propensity for practical jokes.”

  “Which, apparently, you have not lost.”

  “Perhaps not.” He made a face. “Do I owe you an apology for last night? I couldn’t resist.”

  Andrea sighed. “No. I should have been better prepared.”

  “If you’d been prepared, you’d have been perfectly polite. Maybe you would’ve felt you needed to flatter my ego. Trust me, Andrea, I get enough of that as it is.”

  “Yes, it must be terrible to have women fawn all over you.”

  He glanced over long enough to catch her eye. “Do you enjoy turning the head of every man who gets within ten feet of you? Tell me the truth.”

  Heat rushed back to her cheeks, though she couldn’t quite say why. Of course men looked. They looked at all moderately attractive women. It wasn’t as if it meant anything. “It depends on the man, I suppose.”

  “Is that right?” Something in the way his gaze slid over her before it returned to the road made her heart trip. The flush deepened. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile. Blast him. He’d noticed, and he knew why.

  She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut. In the course of a three-hour drive, she’d managed to destroy her only chance of keeping things on a strictly professional level. James was intelligent enough to recognize the effect he had on her, involuntary as it was. If she’d been playing poker, she would have just tipped her hand.

  Well done, Andrea. Well done.

  Chapter Six

  For someone used to being in charge, Andrea Sullivan blushed more than any woman he’d ever met.

  Not that he minded. There was a fine line between assertive and brash, and so many of the women he’d met took a giant leap over it. James suppressed his smile. Andrea might be opinionated, but there were apparently some things she couldn’t plan or control.

  He slowed as he made the turn onto the road that led down the Sleat peninsula toward Isleornsay. His heart lifted at the familiar stretch of asphalt, bordered by dry grasses and patches of evergreens. He may have lived the last twenty years of his life in London, but Skye would always be home. Even his lingering irritation toward Ian faded as he took in the slant of sunlight through the clouds, the rapidly moving shadows on the rolling hills.

  After a few minutes, he turned onto a pitted road, the Subaru’s spongy suspension magnifying every bump and roll in the macadam surface. He’d have to remember to have the car looked at. Apparently, the previous winter had taken its toll on the vehicle.

  They rounded the bend, and the water stretched out before them, a gleaming, protected bay of blue dotted with tiny islands. A backdrop of mountains framed Isle Ornsay, the larger island in the Sound of Sleat from which the village had drawn its name. The isle’s charming lighthouse stood sentinel in the bay, a slender column rising from the craggy island, a splash of white against the dark scenery. James may have grown up here, but he was struck by the spot’s wild beauty every time he returned.

  “This is the village of Isleornsay,” James said. “Those mountains across the water are the mainland.”

  A surprised smile spread over Andrea’s face. He stole glances at her, gauging her reaction as he navigated the rough road into the gravel lot and pulled up before the main house. “This is the hotel. Welcome to the MacDonald Guest House.”

  Andrea opened her door before he could do it for her and stepped out. James paused in his own open door and folded his arms atop the car’s roof, watching as she took in the hotel and the picturesque bay in the background. The smile hadn’t yet left her face.

  He followed her gaze to the main structure. The lines of the original Hebridean croft house remained, though it had been updated and expanded over the years to a two-story whitewashed stone building with a shingled roof and many tiny, multi-paned windows set into its sides. Several smaller buildings stood nearby and wild grasses and spring flowers spread around it in a riot of early color. Even closed up and in dire need of attention, it still spoke of warmth and welcome. He had missed it.

  “I’ve never seen any place like this,” Andrea murmured.

  “It’s breathtaking,” he agreed. “Even to me. Come, let me show you to your room.”

  He retrieved her bag from the back of the car and led the way toward three small freestanding stone cottages that faced the sound. Built a few decades before, they had been designed to blend with the main house, even though they were more open and expansive than the isle’s traditional cottages. He flipped through the keys on his key ring to find the proper one. “The cottages aren’t quite finished. It may not be what you’re accustomed to, but they’re comfortable enough.”

  He unlocked the red-painted door of the furthest cottage, set Andrea’s suitcase inside the door, and stepped aside for her to enter before him.

  She brushed past him and looked around. “Nice.” She walked slowly through the kitchenette, trailing a finger along the stone countertops, checking the interiors of the hand-finished cabinets. The woman who blushed at the slightest innuendo was gone, the executive in her place. “I assume you’ll be providing dishes and cookware?”

  “Yes. As I said, we’re not quite done yet.” His stomach gave a twist. He hadn’t been this nervous since the first time a reviewer stepped inside the Hart and the Hound. That was ridiculous, though. He was the client. She was the one who needed to impress him.

  Except he had taken a personal interest in the renovations. He’d consulted a designer, but most of the choices had been his, from the hand-planed wood floor to the antique bed tucked into the niche on the back wall. Andrea paused by the bed, rubbing the edge of the fluffy duvet between her fingers.

  “Checking the thread count?” That was a phrase he’d never thought he’d hear from his own mouth. A man really shouldn’t know a thing like thread count existed.

  She didn’t say anything, just shot him an unreadable look and continued into the small sitting area with its two slipcovered armchairs and colorful rag rug.

  He couldn’t stand the silence. He moved to a door besides the niche that housed the bed and opened it. “This is the bathroom.”

  Andrea strode across the room and peeked through the narrow doorway. The corners of her mouth edged up. “Now this is a bathroom.”

  She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his chest and leaving a trail of her perfume behind. Vanilla. Definitely.

  “I hear the way to a woman’s heart is a claw-foot bathtub and a sparkly chandelier.”

  Her eyes rose to the dainty antique fixture hanging from the vaulted ceiling, then returned to the other details—the subway tiles on the walls, the fluffy towels. “The chandelier is a nice touch, I’ll admit. But you had me at the heated towel rack.”

  He chuckled as she turned to exit the bathroom, but he stayed where he was, shoulder against the door frame. A cheap ploy, maybe, but since she wouldn’t willingly get near him any other way … He was gratified to see th
at this time, her step faltered at the contact. She hurried past him into the open space at the center of the room.

  “So? What’s the verdict?”

  “It’s lovely.” She took another sweep of the room, her eyes lit with appreciation. “Both rustic and elegant. Peaceful yet sophisticated. I can’t imagine a better setting for a romantic getaway.” She met his gaze and added quickly, “Which is how we’d probably want to market the cottages.”

  “Of course.” If his slight smile hinted at something other than agreement, he couldn’t be held responsible, could he? He glanced at his watch. “It’s after four. I should be getting up to the house to start supper.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My aunt’s house up the road. My sister, Serena, is visiting for the week. I promised I’d make supper.”

  “Oh.” Andrea blinked, obviously taken aback. “I’d hoped we’d be able to see the main house tonight.”

  “We can see it in the morning. The electricity’s off while the house is being rewired, and the plasterboard is falling off the walls. It’s a hazard.”

  “Fair enough. I guess I’ll see you in the morning then.” She retrieved her suitcase and rolled it toward the wardrobe. “What time should I be ready?”

  She really thought he would leave her to her own devices without a car? Was her opinion of him that low? “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re coming with me.”

  Alarm flashed over her face. “Oh no. I couldn’t. It’s a family thing. I wouldn’t presume—”

  “Andrea, there are no restaurants within walking distance. I’d lend you the car, but I don’t like the idea of you driving these roads after dark. I insist.” When she still hesitated, he added, “There’s some big-shot chef cooking tonight. It might just be rumor, but I hear he’s pretty good.”

  She repressed a smile. “When you put it that way, I can hardly say no.”

  He shouldn’t feel so relieved she’d relented without an argument, but so far she seemed to think he was a poseur, a celebrity constructed on paper and video. Some part of him wanted her to appreciate why he’d become so popular.

  Not that he could take full credit for it. His success had come too easily—his hard work and talent not withstanding—to not believe in divine intervention. Opportunities had fallen into his lap, chances most men only dreamed about.

  He ushered her back out the door and into the car for the short ride to his aunt’s house, a modern clapboard structure facing the bay, painted the ubiquitous white of Skye. The storm shutters had gotten a new coat of gray paint since his last visit, and window boxes promised colorful blooms to come during the island’s warmer months. The garden plot already lay tilled and ready for planting, a square of dark earth on the far side of the gravel drive.

  James parked behind Serena’s dusty red Vauxhall before he noticed the vintage Austin-Healey in front of it. His heart plummeted to his stomach and churned there for a minute. Perfect. Just what he needed—a confrontation in front of Andrea. For one second, he considered putting the car into reverse and heading back to the hotel, but he’d promised Aunt Muriel and Serena he’d make dinner. He couldn’t let his brother run him off. He’d never hear the end of how he’d broken his promise.

  “Something wrong?” Andrea asked.

  “Not at all.” James released his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. He got out of the car and circled to open her door for her. “This was the house I was raised in.”

  Andrea lingered by the car to take in the panoramic view of the water, the brisk wind whipping her hair into her face. “It looks like a lovely place to grow up.

  “It was. Peaceful. Of course, to a young boy, peaceful means boring.”

  She huddled deeper into her coat. “Small-town girl, remember?”

  “Right. Come. Let’s get out of the cold.” He gestured for her to follow him up the path to the front door. The door was unlocked as usual. He opened it and stepped aside for her to enter, then followed her into the wood-paneled reception room.

  Old-fashioned oak furniture mingled with floral upholstery, and diaphanous lace curtains filtered light from the windows. An upright piano cluttered with family pictures dominated one wall, some turning pink or yellow with age. In his thirty-five years, those photos were the only thing that had ever changed.

  Andrea turned toward him. “It’s sweet. It reminds me a little of my grandparents’ house in Indiana.”

  “A bit of a time capsule, I realize.” He raised his voice. “Auntie? Serena? I’m here.”

  A blur of pink streaked through the doorway and launched itself at him. “Uncle Jamie!”

  “Oof.” James caught the exuberant six-year-old before she could knock him into the piano bench. “Who’s this? I only have one niece, and she’s just a little thing!”

  The little girl giggled, showing the gap in her smile. “It’s me, Emmy!”

  “Minus a couple of teeth.” James crushed her to him in a bear hug and threw her over his shoulder. She squealed as he jostled her around and pretended to drop her. “Where’s your mum? Where’s Granny? Quick, before I have to shake it out of you!”

  “I’m here.” Serena appeared in the doorway, his one-year-old nephew propped on one hip. She looked as pretty and put-together as usual, but the cropped pixie hairdo was new, as were the dark smudges beneath her eyes. She looked between him and Andrea, and a questioning smile formed on her lips.

  James jumped in before she could voice her assumptions. “Serena, this is Andrea Sullivan, our hospitality consultant. Andrea, this is my sister, Serena.”

  Serena juggled the baby onto her other hip in order to thrust out a hand. “Andrea, pleased to meet you. Welcome to Skye. What do you think?”

  Andrea shook Serena’s hand. “It’s stunning. James wouldn’t tell me why he chose Skye for the hotel, but I understand now that I see it with my own eyes.”

  “I miss it,” Serena said wistfully. “But at least I have a good excuse to visit, and the kids love it. Well, Emmy does. Max’s too young to notice yet.”

  “Your children are beautiful.” Andrea’s voice wavered, and her forehead creased slightly. James frowned as well. What had he missed? He might not know her well, but that was not a woman’s usual reaction when faced with a baby.

  “Jamie.”

  James’s muscles seized for a moment, and his blood pressure spiked. He kept his expression neutral as he turned to the man in the doorway. “Ian. I didn’t realize we had a wake to attend.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Not likely. Ian had never begged anyone’s pardon. Told James what he should be sorry for, maybe, but never apologized on his own. James’s reply came out tighter, harder than he intended. “The only thing that can get you to Scotland is a funeral. I’d assumed someone had died.”

  Ian didn’t even flicker an eyelash at the jab. James shouldn’t have expected anything less. Ian never betrayed weakness, always remained in control. Even his perfectly pressed chinos wouldn’t dare wrinkle on his body.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Jamie. I’m just here to attend to our investment.”

  “Right. Investment.” James glanced at Andrea. “As you’ve no doubt guessed, this is my brother, Ian MacDonald. Ian, Andrea Sullivan.”

  “Welcome, Andrea.” Ian strode toward her, hand outstretched, and shook her hand. “Thank you for making the trip from London at the last minute.”

  “It’s my pleasure, truly.” Andrea smiled at Ian, and James felt the slightest pang of … irritation. Surely, it couldn’t be jealousy.

  “Here, let me take your coat.” Ian moved smoothly behind Andrea and slipped his hands beneath the lapels to ease it off her shoulders.

  No, James was most definitely annoyed now. Leave it to his brother to make him feel thoughtless and ungracious thirty seconds after he walked into a room.

  “Jamie, de
ar.”

  James nearly sighed in relief at his aunt’s timely arrival. He crossed the room and kissed her on both cheeks. “Hello, Aunt Muriel. You look beautiful.” He’d never seen her anything but impeccably turned out, today in a pair of pressed trousers and a lightweight jumper.

  Muriel chuckled, put her arms around him, and squeezed. “Dear boy, finally. When Ian said you’d be coming early, I’d hoped you were going to be here for church this morning. Who is this lovely young lady?”

  “Andrea Sullivan, ma’am.” Andrea stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m a consultant. I’m here to look at the hotel with James.”

  “Welcome, Andrea.” Muriel turned her stern gaze on her two nephews. “I hope you two can manage to get along for a few days. I won’t have you bickering.”

  James thrust his hands into his pockets. “No bickering.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow, clearly challenging him.

  Muriel’s iron tone brooked no further discussion. “It’s high time you two began acting like adults.”

  This was exactly what James had hoped to avoid. He was all too aware of Andrea watching the exchange. “I’m sure Ian and I can put our differences aside for a couple of days.”

  Muriel frowned, not pleased with the implication that hostilities would resume immediately after. She turned to Andrea. “Do you like Italian food?”

  “Of course,” Andrea said. “I love Italian.”

  “Good. We picked up everything on your list this morning, Jamie. It’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  He could take a hint. “I should get started then. Andrea, fancy being my sous-chef for the evening?”

  “As long as I don’t have to do anything more complicated than boil water.”

  “That means it’s just you and me, Em.” Ian knelt down and turned his back to the little girl. “Hop on. We’ll go find something to do outside until your uncle calls us for dinner.”

  Emmy wrapped her arms and legs around Ian, and he headed for the door. He smiled warmly at Andrea as he passed. “Back in a bit.”