doesn’t pay to let them drive away new business, especially if you’re a small company like us. You just have to take the loss.”
Christopher shook his head.
She studied him. The irises of his eyes were a darker, more intense blue here in the pub. She sensed a serious side to him that hadn’t been as evident at Donan. He had a habit of locking his jaw when he was displeased with something—like the unfairness of con-artist travelers and thoughtless guests who dared touch his treasures.
“You’re not just in this hotel by coincidence, are you?” she asked intuitively.
He looked up from his glass of whisky. It was half-gone, and she suddenly suspected that, whether or not business had brought him to Edinburgh, he had been waiting here for her. The thought sent a warm, liquid shiver through her body.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“It wasn’t difficult. When you climbed in your van to leave, a brochure from the Caledonia lay on the passenger seat. I figured the odds were good you’d be staying here tonight. If I hadn’t found you in here, I would have called up to your room.”
A pleasantly nervous chill rippled up her spine. “And did you have any particular reason for tracking me down?”
He studied her, his lips firmly closed, his expression verging on severe, brooding. It took him a long time to answer. “I guess I just wasn’t ready for the tour to end.”
“You were the one who said the other rooms in the castle were off-limits.”
Slowly his mouth relaxed into a wicked smile. “Not that tour.”
She could feel the heat filling her cheeks like the diluted pink wash from a watercolorist’s brush when touched to paper. The way Christopher was looking at her felt dangerous, in a delicious sort of way. She told herself that her reaction was because she was so far from home, on foreign territory…alone. And she wasn’t accustomed to receiving propositions, if that was what this was, from castle-owning aristocrats. How many women were?
Jennifer looked down to find Christopher’s hand pressed warmly over hers on the tabletop. Desperately she tried to force her brain to function, tried to come up with something witty and sophisticated enough to impress an earl. Her mind was a maddening blank. A second later, it kicked into gear, only to deliver a troubling question. Does he have a girlfriend? She had seen his photo with a long-legged, spa-polished woman in that London tabloid. Had his companion been more to him than a simple date?
“Does this sudden silence mean the tour has ended?” he asked at last.
She smiled brightly and aimed for a politic line. “If you ever visit Maryland, be sure to drop in on us in Baltimore. I’ll show you the sights.”
“Those aren’t the sights I’m most interested in seeing.” His eyes. His eyes were impossible to escape. They drew her in. She tried to pull her hand away, but his fingers closed tightly around hers. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.
“Let’s try this again, luv.” The last word, which sounded more Liverpuddlian-Beatles than upper-crust British, took her by surprise. Christopher leaned across the table and looked into her startled eyes. “No more beating around the bush. How about going out to dinner with me tonight?”
“I’ve already eaten.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider whether or not she wanted to fib herself into a second meal.
“We could go somewhere for dessert and coffee,” he suggested.
Jennifer stared down at their clasped hands. She was beginning to be able to read him, which was a little scary after knowing him for so short a time. What she understood from his voice and body language was that Christopher Smythe wasn’t going to take no for an answer. And if he refused to listen to the word, where food was concerned, what did that tell her about his willingness to understand and honor her wishes when more was at stake than overeating? Her only countermeasure was to seek neutral ground, fast.
She looked around at the dark wood paneling, bronze sconces casting their golden light, the beautifully aged leather banquets, the other guests conversing in hushed tones—a classically masculine setting, very British, very earlish. Ver-r-r-y Christopher. But all that mattered to her was that it seemed safe here.
“I have an early morning tomorrow,” she said. “Why don’t we just stay here and talk.”
He appeared neither pleased nor disappointed. “Fine. What will you have to drink?”
“A white zinfandel, please.”
His hand barely raised above the level of the table before the steward appeared beside him. Moments later a glass of pale pink wine was set before her. Jennifer took a few cautious sips, and mellow warmth enfolded her.
Christopher settled back in his chair and observed her over the amber liquid in his own glass. “Why Baltimore? Why do you live there when you’ve obviously seen so many exciting cities?”
“I live in Baltimore because it’s my home,” she said simply, then came back at him. “Why do you live in Scotland when you’re English?”
He seemed startled by her question, and the muscles in his jaw visibly tightened. “I live in Scotland because I like it,” he responded brusquely.
Not satisfied, she set her wineglass on the table between them. “That’s no answer. Everyone chooses to do things because, for one reason or another, they find them appealing.”
“Not always. Sometimes we act in a certain way because we have no choice.”
“Everyone has choices.”
“Not always,” he snapped. Then, as if he thought he might have spoken too harshly, Christopher reached out for her hand again and rubbed his thumb soothingly over the back of it, creating a warm spot. “Life sometimes surprises you,” he said enigmatically.
Jennifer decided the level of tension in the air dictated a change of subject. She asked the first question that came to mind. “What are your favorite London restaurants?”
He seemed to welcome the new direction of their conversation. As he spoke, his voice grew less tense. She watched his thumb trace hot little circles over the back of her hand, entranced by the motion as much as by his touch.
At one point she caught a glimpse of him in the mirror beside them, and she thought to herself—though it didn’t seem logical at the time—this is a tormented man. But how could that be when a man had so much money, so many friends, so many opportunities in life? She dismissed the thought as overly romantic, far too Jane Austen: the lord, the castle, the dark moods.
When she turned back to face him, he was studying her and had stopped speaking.
“What?” she asked.
He shrugged. “You’re so pretty and so American.”
She didn’t know how to react to the compliment, or was it a subtle dig? She sipped her wine and decided to address the second part of his statement. “What’s that mean—to be so American?”
“You have an optimistic, nothing-ventured-nothing-gained attitude.” His eyes still seemed shadowed
