MACKINNON OFTEN marveled over the fact that brilliance and stupidity could occupy the same body—the same mind—and a perfect example of that phenomenon was seated at the desk in front of her.
“Sons,” her father, Hamish MacKinnon, railed for what felt like the upteenth time. “I’ve got three of them—three,” he repeated, as if she weren’t aware of how many brothers she had. “And not one of them willing to take on MacKinnon Holdings so that I can retire properly with your mother and spend our golden years fly-fishing and vacationing in Majorca.”
Genevieve dutifully handed over another paper that required her father’s signature. She cast a glance out the window, observing passersby three floors below in Edinburgh proper. “I wasn’t aware that Mother wanted to take up fly-fishing,” she said mildly, her lips twitching with humor.
Her father shot her an impatient look. “You know very well what I mean,” he told her. “I’m sixty-five. It’s time for me to enjoy the fruits of my labor, to hand over the reins. With three sons at my disposal I never worried about not being able to pass the torch, as it were.” He grimaced, his face settling into one of heart-breaking disappointment. “Instead I’ve spent my life building a family business that none of them seems to want.”
Genevieve wished that she could disagree, but her father was right. Her brothers—Ewan, Cam and Alec—were all either carving their own path, or in Ewan’s case, still looking for it, and weren’t the least inclined to continue along the road their father had built.
They weren’t…but she was and always had been.
Pity that her father didn’t see it.
She handed him another document and inwardly sighed. How much harder could she work? How many hours must she log in before he realized that his company was her life, the only one she’d ever wanted? She was in her element at MacKinnon Holdings, had a knack for making good investments and had a better understanding of the business world than any of her dear brothers ever would. And yet they were better qualified in her father’s eyes because they had a penis? Ridiculous. Utter stupidity.
“Marshall Anderson will be here at one,” she said, trying to get a handle on her temper.
Her father’s keen eyes instantly found hers. “You’re ready for him, I presume?”
“I’ve reviewed the past ten years’ financials, interviewed all pertinent staff—” not to mention the non-salaried workers, who tended to give a better picture of a man’s character “—and am confident that the company is sound. It is not, however, worth what he wants us to pay for it.”
“Then I’ll leave the negotiations to you,” he said. “I’m meeting your mother for lunch.”
She nodded, presuming as much. He often “left things to her” yet seemed inexplicably reluctant to leave her in charge of the company.
“Don’t worry, Genevieve,” he said, sending her an indulgent smile. “At some point one of your brothers has to come round and when they do, I won’t depend on you so much.”
Could he hear the enamel grinding off her teeth? she wondered as it resonated through her own ears. Not trusting herself to speak, she merely managed a weak smile and left the office.
Obviously a talk with her brothers was going to be in order.
1
“SOME BEST friend,” Gemma Wentworth muttered between clenched teeth.
He’d left her? Here? In the wilds of Scotland, a little over half-way along the famous West Highland Way?
Gemma felt the impact of what he’d done fully smack into her. She stared at the young Irish couple who’d delivered his message.
“Are you certain?” she asked faintly. Her stomach gave a sickening little pitch. “You saw him leave?”
The girl nodded sympathetically. “We did. He climbed right into the lorry and took off, he did.”
But—but she’d only gone to the bathroom, Gemma thought, her mind gauzy with shock. She turned toward the little store, then scanned the parking lot and surrounding area just to make sure that Jeffrey—her oldest and dearest friend—wasn’t going to magically appear.
“He said to give you this,” the guy chimed in, handing her Jeffrey’s backpack. It felt lighter, meaning he’d taken his clothes and pounds of grooming products. Her friend was more particular about his appearance than she was, the great jerk. “Said he wouldn’t need it anymore and that…he was sorry,” the young man finished, evidently finding the message and the words distasteful.
Sorry? Anger bullied the initial shock aside as she considered what he’d done to her. Sorry? She gave a grim laugh. Oh, he’d be sorry all right. What sort of friend abandoned another so-called best friend without so much as a goodbye in the middle of a foreign country? One entirely too sure of her devotion, obviously. One who was certain he’d be forgiven. One who had met an attractive Scot ten miles back and, given the choice between her company and that of a handsome stranger, chose the latter. Argh!
In retrospect, she should have predicted this. After all, hadn’t Jeffrey disappeared at many a ball game and party over the years? Particularly when the possibility of romance had presented itself? She whimpered low under her breath. Still, the coward should have had the nerve to tell her he was leaving, not just disappear and leave it to this couple.
“You’re welcome to walk with us,” the girl offered with a pitying smile that confirmed she was under the mistaken impression that Jeffrey had been Gemma’s boyfriend. They were often mistaken for lovers, but aside from the fact that she’d never felt romantically interested in him, Gemma lacked something Jeffrey needed in a partner—a penis. The girl looked up at her companion. “Isn’t that right, Willem?”
Red-headed, gangly and freckled, Willem nodded. “Spot on, Jenny. It’s better to be with a group than off on your own,” he said.
“You are going to continue, aren’t you?” Jenny asked anxiously, as though the thought had just occurred to her. “You’ve come so far. It’d be a shame to quit now.”
That was true, Gemma knew. Still… The West Highland Way was a ninety-five mile hike that began in Milngavie and ultimately concluded at Fort William in the Scottish Highlands. Both her grandmother and mother had made the walk. It had been a rite of passage, so to speak, for the Wentworth women, who were of Scottish descent. While everyone had their own reasons for treading the path, according to her mother, Wentworth women had never failed to find clarity and peace on it, a sense of their higher purpose. They insisted that, for whatever reason, walking this trail had some sort of mystical way of putting their feet on their life’s proper path.
Truthfully, Gemma didn’t know if she bought into the hocus-pocus aspect of it—she was definitely dissatisfied with her life at the present—but she’d felt compelled to make the journey all the same, had felt this bizarre need to do as the Wentworth women before her. Though she would admit to feeling a strange sense of homecoming upon landing in Scotland, a loosening in her chest as it were, she was still no closer to discovering what it was that was going to make her life worthwhile, a credit to the world.
She grimaced. But she did know that her position at the bank, where she worked as a loan officer, wasn’t doing it for her and if she didn’t make a change soon—the
