The Sweetest Hours. Cathryn Parry
peered at him.
His gaze narrowed back.
Maybe if she kept him talking, she could trip him up, and he’d slip into the Scots’ accent again.
“I didn’t know Andrew was here today,” she remarked lightly, strolling over and standing in the blowing force of her electric heater. She pocketed her phone and held her hands palm up to the warm air. “Usually when Andrew works on the weekends, he stops by the plant floor to say hello to everyone.”
“He left early.”
Three carefully spoken words. She waited, but he had no further explanation.
“Where did Andrew go?” she asked patiently, hoping he would slip and roll another r.
Slowly and carefully again, he muttered, “Family emergency.”
“Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, turning from the heater. “Did Robin go into labor?”
The stranger seemed to flinch. “Ah, if Robin is his wife, then, yes, it appears so.”
Two rolled r’s! They were very, very slight—but those delicious burrs sent an unmistakable shiver up her spine.
The question was killing her. She couldn’t help asking; she was dying inside.
“So, are you from Scotland, or not?” she blurted point-blank.
He gave her a murderous expression.
And then she realized she was doing it again. Too many questions. Too adventurous for her own good.
* * *
MALCOLM MACDOWALL HAD been assured that the only people present at the Aura Botanicals plant were located on the other side of the building, inside the factory proper, and that these workers would not be interfering with him—certainly not entering the managerial offices where he had only one day to gather the data he needed.
“No,” he snapped at the woman, hoping she’d go away. The worst thing he could let slip was a Scottish accent. If she found out why he was here and who he was affiliated with, it would be disastrous. Letting his guard down and smiling at her had been a mistake.
But the blonde only blinked at him. She was just so damn different from what he was used to. Younger than him. Female. Short and curvy, bundled up in a turtleneck and woolen jumper—sweater, he corrected himself. The building was so cold inside, it made his fingers stiff on the keyboard.
That’s why Andrew had suggested he set up shop in this cubbyhole of an office. For the heater.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding honestly contrite. “I shouldn’t have asked about that. But if you want, you can use a Scottish accent when you talk to me. I don’t mind.”
He crossed his arms. “That was a private conversation you heard. A joke between two people.”
She tilted her head at him. Loose, butterscotch-colored curls brushed the top of her shoulder. “So, you’ve never lived in Scotland?”
“No,” he lied. “What is this line of questioning about? Who are you?”
She crossed the room and reached behind some binders for a purse, hidden on the bookshelf. The sudden movement unnerved him. He had every right to be on guard. There were several very good reasons why she couldn’t find out who he was, who he worked for, and where he came from.
She held forward her company badge. “I’m Kristin Hart. I’m an engineer for Aura.”
He didn’t take the plastic-laminated name tag she offered, but he looked at her photo, verifying her name and job classification.
He felt his brows rise. Interesting. She was the last person he would’ve pegged for an engineer. He supposed he had an image in his head of one who practiced the profession, and she was definitely not it.
Not that he was prejudiced against women as engineers. On the contrary. It was just that she seemed too young for the job, for one thing. She was pretty, with a Botticelli face and shoulder-length blond hair that curled, giving her a soft look that, on second thought, maybe made her appear younger than she was. A staff position at Aura required a four-or five-year college degree.
Still, she looked more like a cosmetic salesperson than an engineer in a manufacturing plant with noisy, automated equipment. How did she hold her own within the realities of factory life? The CEO of the company—former CEO, though Kristin didn’t know it yet—was laid-back and kind. But Andrew, the man who’d deserted Malcolm to this young woman with the Botticelli face, was aggressive and foul-tempered. Not someone Malcolm would trust with his sister, but then again, there weren’t many people he did trust.
“What kind of engineer are you?” he asked her.
“Industrial.” A frown crossed her brow. “I’m with an overtime crew today. One of our labeling machines broke and we’re here to finish packing an order by hand.”
She was very free with her information. In a sense, it fascinated him.
“Does that happen often?” he couldn’t help asking.
She laughed. She had a nice laugh. As she tucked her badge into her purse, her gaze kept sliding to his. “How did you learn to talk in a Scottish accent like that? Because it sounded real to me. Did you ever live there?”
He slid his tongue over his teeth, debating how much to tell her. One tooth was chipped and uneven. A reminder to remain careful. “I left when I was young. I don’t remember much,” he decided to admit.
Her face brightened and she smiled—it was a remarkable transformation. She had a way of looking at him as if he was the most fascinating person she’d ever seen. “I knew it,” she said. “My grandmother was born in Scotland, too.”
“Really,” he murmured. He crossed his arms and leaned back. She was nattering on with him, unaware of the peril.
She nodded. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Maybe you should,” he said mildly.
“Yeah, right. I don’t even have a passport.” She laughed.
“That’s easily fixed.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, smiling.
Something stilled in him. He hadn’t expected the conversation to go quite like this. But he needed to convince her that he wasn’t a threat.
He looked her straight in the eyes. They were pale green and luminescent. The color reminded him of rolling fields in the springtime, but even more beautiful. “George Smith,” he said.
It was another lie. A complete and utter fabrication, but he didn’t feel a twinge of guilt, because it was his “security name.”
A look must’ve crossed his face, because a crease formed on her forehead. “What are you here for today, George?”
He tensed slightly. The moment he’d been waiting for. If she had chatted around the bush much longer, he would have thought less of her. As it was, she was utterly charming about it.
He opened his briefcase and handed her the folded letter. He’d hoped not to have to show it to anyone other than Andrew. It only increased complications.
She glanced questioningly from the letter to him. He kept silent, steepled his hands and waited as she opened it and read.
The printed orders were on letterhead from the CEO of Aura Botanicals, her company. “To Whom it May Concern,” it began, informing the reader to give “all and any assistance to Mr. George Smith, consultant.”
She put down the letter. “You’re a consultant? What kind?”
He frowned. “I specialize in brand expansion and cost savings.”
“So you’re a marketing guy?”
“Business strategy,