On Temporary Terms. Janice Maynard

       One

      Abby Hartmann liked her job most days. Being a small-town lawyer included more good weeks than bad. But on this particular Saturday morning—the dreaded once-a-month half day—things were definitely looking up. With her palms damp and her heartbeat fluttering, she smoothed her skirt and waved a hand toward the wingbacked chair opposite her large cherry desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Stewart.”

      She straightened a few papers and folders, and took a deep breath. The man whose sheer presence shrank the square footage of her office was a commanding figure. Close-cropped dark brown hair. Deep chocolate eyes. A lean, athletic body. And a stillness about him. An intensity. As if at any moment he could leap across the small space separating them, grab her up and kiss her witless. He seemed almost dangerous, which made no sense at all. Maybe it was the quivering physical awareness making her restless.

      Her reaction was disconcerting. Just because the guy had a sexy Scottish accent and a seriously hot body was no reason to lose her composure. Besides, no matter how attractive, the Scotsman embodied the rich, entitled male arrogance that set her teeth on edge. She’d met dozens like him, albeit not Scottish. Men who took what they wanted and didn’t mind who they left behind in the dust.

      Duncan Stewart seemed uncomfortable as well, but perhaps for a different reason. “I’m not sure why I’m here,” he said. “My grandmother likes to be mysterious at times.”

      Abby managed a smile, though she was entirely off her game. “Isobel Stewart is an original, that’s for sure. It’s no big secret. She’s updated her will and wanted me to go over it with you. Do you mind my asking why you’ve decided to relocate from Scotland to North Carolina?”

      He raised an eyebrow. “I’d have thought that was obvious. Granny is well past ninety. Grandda has been gone almost a year now. You know my brother, Brody, has a new wife and baby, and they’ve moved back to Skye.”

      “I had heard that. Your sister-in-law owned the bookstore down the street, Dog-Eared Pages—right?”

      “Aye. Since none of us have been successful in persuading Granny to sell out and leave Candlewick, somebody has to be here to look after her.”

      “That’s astonishingly generous on your part, Mr. Stewart. Not many men I know, young or old, would put their lives on hold for their grandmothers.”

      * * *

      Duncan couldn’t decide if the odd note in the lawyer’s voice was admiration or sarcasm. “I didn’t really have a choice,” he said. His reluctance to play a part in this drama shamed him. Still, he was going to do the right thing. It didn’t mean he was comfortable with the lawyer’s praise. The woman sitting across the desk from him seemed harmless, but he would be in no rush to trust her. He didn’t have a very high opinion of solicitors in general, or of the entire legal profession for that matter. He’d seen too much nastiness during his parents’ divorce.

      Abby Hartmann stared at him. “Everyone has choices, Mr. Stewart. In some instances, I might think you were in it for the money, but your grandmother has told me more than I ever needed to know about you and your brother. I’m aware that you’re extremely comfortable financially with or without your share in Stewart Properties.”

      Duncan winced. “I’m guessing she also told you our father isn’t getting a dime, and she made it sound like a big deal.”

      Abby gave him a small smile and nodded. “She might have mentioned it in passing. I Googled him. Your dad has a dozen thriving art galleries all over Great Britain, right? I doubt he cares about his mother’s money.”

      “He and Granny have a complicated relationship. It works best when they both live on different continents.”

      The lawyer grimaced, her face shadowed for a moment. “I can certainly understand that.”

      Though Duncan had not wanted to come here today, he found himself willing to prolong the conversation for no other reason than to enjoy the lawyer’s company. He’d been expecting a middle-aged woman in a gray suit and glasses with precise opinions and tightly controlled behaviors. What he’d found instead was a barely five-foot-three curvy bombshell.

      Maybe he had formed too many opinions of female solicitors from television and movies, but Abby Hartmann broke the mold. According to the diplomas on the wall behind her head, she appeared to be in her late twenties. She was warm and appealing, and nothing about her was rigid. Her hair was chin length and wildly curly, neither red nor blond, but an appealing amalgam of both.

      She wore a black knee-length pencil skirt that showcased a rounded ass and beautiful legs that were now hidden beneath her desk. The buttons on her red shirt struggled to contain her stellar breasts. In fact, Duncan had a difficult time keeping his eyes off that tantalizing sight.

      He wasn’t a Neanderthal. He respected women. Still, holy hell. Abby Hartmann was stacked. Her attire was not provocative. She had left only the first two buttons of her top undone. A tiny gold cross dangled at the upper slopes of her breasts. But that cleavage...

      Moving restlessly, he cleared his throat and wished he hadn’t declined the bottle of water she had offered him earlier. “I love my grandmother, Ms. Hartmann. She and my grandfather built Stewart Properties from the ground up. In her eyes, it keeps him alive.”

      “Call me Abby, please. She told me your grandfather chose to change his surname to her maiden name in order to keep the Stewart clan name going. That’s pretty extraordinary, don’t you think? Particularly for a man of his generation?”

      Duncan shrugged. “They had a grand love affair, one of those you read about in books. He adored her and vice versa. From his point of view, she gave up everything for him—her family, her homeland. I suppose it was his way of saying he wanted her to have something in return.”

      “I think it’s lovely.”

      “But?”

      “I didn’t say but...”

      Duncan grinned. “I’m pretty sure I heard a but coming.”

      Abby flushed. “I don’t mean to discount your grandparents’ devotion, but I doubt things like that happen anymore. The passionate love affairs. The epic gestures. The decades-long marriages.”

      “You’re awfully young for such pessimism, aren’t you?”

      “And you don’t know me well enough to make that judgment,” she snapped.

      He blinked. The lawyer had a temper. “My apologies. We should get on with the will. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

      Abby groaned audibly. “Sorry. Hot-button issue. Perhaps we could back up a step or two. And yes, we’ll go over the will, but first, one more question. If your grandmother left Scotland to settle here with your grandfather, how did you wind up a Scotsman?”

      “My grandparents had only one child, my father. Dad was always fascinated with his Scottish roots. As soon as he was an adult, he moved to the Highlands and never looked back. Scotland is the only home Brody and I have ever known, except for the occasional visits