The Great Scot. Donna Kauffman
suffering from delusions of infatuation. Thankful, even. It would make her job that much easier.
Liar.
She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat as she rolled to a stop in front of Glenshire’s massive front door and put her car into park. If anything, the place was even more impressive and perfect in its romantic decay by morning sunrise than it had been in the late afternoon light.
She got out of the car, smoothed her pants, then her hair, before she realized what she was doing and stopped instantly. She’d bet a full ratings share that the only thing that mattered to Dylan where Erin MacGregor was concerned was how big an offer she was bringing to the negotiation table.
Which didn’t explain why she slipped her lip balm out of her jacket pocket and ran it quickly across her lips. “Damn Brigadoon,” she swore under her breath as she made her way to the front door.
She looked for a buzzer, and, not finding one, lifted the heavy brass knocker instead. Shaped like a boar’s head, it was shining brass and weighed a ton. She rapped once, heard the ominous echoing sound it made, and decided that was enough. She shifted her weight back and forth as she waited, refusing to smooth her hair again, or check her teeth in the newly polished knocker. Her pulse rate had kicked up a few notches in anticipation. Not of seeing Dylan again, of course. She was simply excited to finally be getting a peek inside her newest location. And she would prevail. He had a price, she just had to find out what it was.
She was leaning in, looking at her warped reflection as she pushed her hair from her face—only because there was a wayward strand poking her in the eye, of course—when the door suddenly swung open. An instant later she was eyeball to impressive pectorals with the object of her midnight fantasies.
“You’re back,” he said flatly.
She quickly stepped back and smiled, not at all liking how this meeting was starting. Taking in the full impact of Dylan’s impressive frame didn’t exactly help matters. He was dressed in loose jeans that hung low on his hips and a paint-spattered, Glenbuie Distillery sweatshirt that had clearly seen better days. Eons of them, judging by the hacked-off sleeves and tattered neckline. His arms were impressively muscled and surprisingly tanned. Apparently all of the work on the house hadn’t been indoors.
“Why?” he asked, dipping his chin just slightly to snag her wayward gaze.
Caught staring, and confused by his less than cordial greeting, she faltered. “I’m—” She stopped, looked down at her watch to check the time, and absently noticed he was barefoot, which for some reason struck her as incredibly sexy. Apparently any naked part of him was enough to send her vivid imagination on a detailed romp, so she countered by shifting her gaze swiftly back up to his face. Bigger mistake. He was even more imposing today, hard as that was to believe.
He was standing in a doorframe that would, in any other setting, be considered massive. Yet, somehow he managed to fill that empty space quite commandingly and that with cream-colored paint tipping the ends of his shaggy hair and a swipe of baby blue across his un-shaven jaw. And really, what a jawline, huh? The camera would love him, all of him really, from that hard, stubbled curve to those defined biceps, and—and she realized where her thoughts were going and quickly reined them in. If only it were so easy to do the same with her jackrabbit pulse.
She drew on every last bit of her extensive under-Tommy’s-fire training and mustered her brightest smile. She didn’t know exactly what was going on, but in her experience it was always better to go with the supposed program until someone else derailed it.
“It’s eight o’clock,” she said brightly. “I’m right on time.”
His frown deepened, if that were possible. “For what?”
And it was at that moment Erin realized why she’d looked twice at the handwriting on the note last night. She’d seen it before, only she hadn’t realized it at the time. On the chalkboard at Hagg’s, toting the dart scores. Brodie Chisholm’s handwriting, to be exact. “I can’t believe it. He set us up. Again.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She looked back at Dylan. “When was the last time you talked to your brother? Brodie, I mean.”
“Before we left the pub last night, why?”
“You didn’t go back inside after I left?”
Dylan folded his arms over his chest, which only served to point out just how divinely muscular his shoulders were, too. “No. Why?”
“I should have known you didn’t send that note.” Why hadn’t she had this little handwriting epiphany last night when it might have done her some good? But oh no, she was far too busy running hot, sexcapade scenarios through her fevered brain. Now she’d barged in and bungled the one final chance she had.
“What note?”
“I got a message at the hotel last night, ostensibly from you, requesting I meet you here, alone, at eight A.M .” And she hadn’t brought it with her, dammit, the one piece of proof she had. But why would she?
“I thought I made myself quite clear yesterday.”
“Oh, you did. I thought perhaps Brodie had talked to you, or anyone back in the pub, maybe Alastair,” she added, playing her only ace. And she wasn’t even sure he was one. “I thought maybe he’d changed your mind. Made you realize that the good of the village and your family bank balance would be worth inconveniencing yourself for a little while.”
“Inconvenience? Is that what you call it? And for ‘a little while’ is it? I believe you mentioned eight weeks. Have you no idea what all must be done to ready this place? And that’s the mere tip of it. I’ve guests booked. An inn to run. I canno’ walk away from the place for so long a time.”
This was so not going how she’d envisioned it. She hadn’t even gotten inside the place yet. Tommy was going to kill her. Unless Dylan tossed her off the cliff located conveniently a hundred yards behind her and saved her boss the trouble. Her heart sank. This place was so prime, so perfect, and she’d taken her eye off the damn ball. “What if we worked it out so you could stay here?” she blurted, desperate. Tommy would never go for it. And even if he did, the network’s legal beagles would have a stroke. They’d learned that particular lesson the hard way on season one when a tiff with the owner had ended in a nasty lawsuit.
But when Dylan didn’t immediately close the door in her face, Erin finally, mercifully, flipped into negotiator mode and pushed her tiny advantage. Even a tiny crack had the chance to become a wall-crumbling fissure if the right pressure was applied in exactly the right place. All she had to do was find that precise spot…and push.
Visions of soft spots and just what could be pushing on them punched with ridiculous ease through her tough combatant armor. She’d never really believed in Dana’s whole “you just need to get laid” theory, but she was beginning to think maybe there was some merit to it after all.
“The lease offer will compensate you above the business loss. And, as I told you, we’ll gladly pay to relocate whatever guests can’t rebook for a future date, not to mention that from the exposure you’ll get, you’ll replace those guests with many, many more. You’ll book up—”
“Far and away into the future, aye,” he grumbled. “So ye’ve said. Do you have statistical proof of that claim? How many bed and breakfasts or hotels have you used in the past?”
Exactly none, was the answer. They usually used privately owned property with little to no public access. But she wasn’t completely unarmed. “I have documented proof that the communities we’ve been located in have always experienced an extended, noticeable economic surge. In fact—”
“Will you back up that claim with a written guarantee? If I lose business, or if I have to shut down in order to repair any damage done, will you guarantee I’ll be fully compensated to my complete satisfaction?”
Erin’s heart rate kicked into overdrive. He was negotiating. He might not realize