ection>
“WHAT EXACTLY IS IT YOU NEED MY
HELP WITH?”
He’d been lethal enough to her libido when barefoot, wearing paint-spattered jeans. Standing there all intense and enigmatic, framed by his prowling roadster only intensified things. If that were possible. “Fantasy dates.”
“Fantasy dates,” he repeated as he eased the car out of the garage.
She risked a glance at him. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there was a distinct air of amusement about him. “Yes.”
“A little fun indeed,” he murmured.
Any reply she might have made was lost on her sudden gasp as he floored the gas pedal and sent the little sports car rocketing down the rear drive. When she looked at him again, he was grinning. And a fiercer thing she’d never witnessed in her entire life.
Dear God, she’d unleashed a monster.
T HE G REAT S COT
DONNA KAUFFMAN
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
D ozens of sheep surged across the single track road and surrounded Erin MacGregor’s car, pushing the tiny rental to and fro, bleating and carrying on as if the event was one giant sheep rave. They leapt in hordes over the low stone wall on the opposite side of the road, apparently dying to discover if, in fact, the grass was greener on the other side. Erin could have told them that was impossible. As it was, the grass in Scotland already looked like Astroturf.
Her forward progress temporarily halted, Erin used the break to once again study the directions given to her by Brodie Chisholm, the pub owner back in Glenbuie. She’d already gone past the family-owned Chisholm distillery, driven through endless stretches of Chisholm-owned farmland, and was finally nearing the mountains north of the little highland village. During the time she’d spent nursing a pint of ale at Hagg’s and chatting up the locals, she’d learned, among other things, that the Chisholm whisky label was the backbone of Glenbuie’s economy and had been for several centuries. “Well, just maybe I can add to that bottom line a little,” she explained to the sheep, who paid the announcement little attention; quite unlike the villagers, however, when she’d mentioned the same thing to them.
She drummed her fingers steadily on the steering wheel, no longer cringing as, one after the other, the sheep banged around her car. She’d already learned that the horn didn’t faze them in the least. The first time the little bleaters had suddenly gone from being innocent woolly bystanders to abruptly leaping over the stone wall directly in front of her car in an apparent mass suicide attempt, she’d screamed and slammed on the brakes, terrified she might hit one of the adorable little black-faced darlings. One hour and four sheep-jackings later, her humanitarian instincts had rapidly receded. One of them gave her wheel well a thump as it passed, and she made a mental note to try the lamb before she left the country.
She nudged the car slowly forward, earning a few sheep glares, but was finally able to move past them. Minutes later the valley was behind her and no longer in sight, her rear view swallowed up by towering pines as she wound her way into the mountains. Almost there.
“Please, please, please be what I’m looking for,” she prayed, downshifting as the climb grew steadily steeper. She’d scouted locations a million times, confronting language barriers, cultural differences, and any one of a number of complicated obstacles, and usually got what she wanted. So there was no reason to feel nervous or edgy. Yet, she did.
When their London site burned to the ground ten days ago, it had been Erin’s bright idea to go to Scotland. She’d first gone to Edinburgh, convinced she’d find something in the ancient city to suit their purposes, but nothing had really grabbed her. So, this morning she’d headed north, intending on Inverness, and its proximity to both the mountains and the sea, but had gotten sidetracked the instant she’d wound her way into the tiny village of Glenbuie. It didn’t have the cosmopolitan feel they usually went for—the “class factor” as her boss, Tommy, termed it—but what it lacked in urbane sophistication, it more than made up for with its intimate charm and romantic appeal. Glenbuie was like Brigadoon come to life.
She rounded the tight turn near the peak and found herself facing a narrow rock strewn lane, fronted by two, massive stacked stone pillars. There was a small brass plaque on one of them, long since oxidized green from exposure. She rolled to a stop and read the raised lettering. Glenshire . She was here.
Low, stone boundary walls jutted out from the pillars and disappeared up into the rocky hills, but as they were mostly covered with ivy, and backed by more thick stands of towering pines, she couldn’t see how far they extended, or any of the property that lay beyond. She drove slowly up the rutted lane, thankful there was not one sheep in sight, and automatically began making mental notes about what would have to be done to make the entrance accessible and camera-ready. She doubted the owner would mind the upgrade.
The narrow drive wound upward almost another full kilometer before finally topping out on another hairpin turn. All thoughts of pre-production prep work fled her mind completely as she let the car roll to a stop. That familiar, much-wanted rush of adrenaline punched into her system as she hungrily took in the vision before her. Wow. And double wow.
So, Brodie hadn’t been kidding. In fact, he’d undersold the place. She sat at the entrance to a circular cobbled driveway. The centerpiece was a huge, beautifully sculpted fountain that had seen obvious repairs, but was all the more remarkable because of its age. Beyond the fountain rose Glenshire itself. Not a fairytale castle by any stretch, nothing so Disneyesque as that. No, this place had true character. It was a rather immense, battle worn pile of bricks, but with the ivy covering
