man. But never let it be said that Erin MacGregor didn’t go the distance to get what she wanted. “With…whatever it is you’re doing.”
“You’re offering to help me paint?”
She nodded immediately. “Sure. I’d like to look around the place anyway. Maybe you can give me the nickel tour on the way to…wherever it is you’re painting. And we can talk while we work. You can ask me about whatever concerns you might have. And when we’re done, we can sit down and look over the agreement specifically.”
His gaze narrowed and he was far from smiling, but if she wasn’t mistaken, the light that had entered his eyes now was one of faint amusement. Or maybe bemusement was a better word. It didn’t matter, as long as he let her in the door. A step forward was a step closer to a signed agreement.
She held his gaze directly, keeping a confident, sunny smile in place. As if she did this kind of thing all the time to placate her clients.
After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped back and waved a paint flecked forearm in front of her. “Come in, then.”
Not the heartiest of welcomes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, now could they? Erin stepped past him through the door and with one look knew she’d do a hell of a lot more than paint walls if it meant getting his signature on that lease agreement. The foyer area was extensive, opening upward two stories, dominated by a wide staircase leading to the second floor landing, and accentuated with a stunning, sparkling chandelier. The floor beneath her feet was slightly uneven hand-laid stone, most of it covered by multiple layers of heavy, ancient Persian rugs that were all the more interesting for how worn the coloring was in the intricately patterned design. She wondered how many generations of Chisholms had walked across them.
“Impressive,” she said, never more sincere, as she slowly turned around and took it all in. Only when she got back around to facing the staircase did she realize Dylan was already halfway up, assuming she was right behind him. Swallowing the myriad questions that were already springing to mind, she turned her attention back to more immediate matters. Namely her host. And her newest job. Painting.
Dylan didn’t wait for her at the second story landing either, and she had to hurry to keep up with him. And it was a good thing she did, as he turned left at the top of the second flight and disappeared through one of two sets of double doors just as she topped the last riser. Apparently each wing of the house was deep enough to have two parallel hallways running the length of them. Both sides of each hallway were lined with doors, though not evenly spaced apart, meaning some rooms were larger than others. The heck with a bed and breakfast, he could have opened a freaking hotel in this place.
The hallway was wide, carpeted with throw rugs, much the same as the foyer, which would be a nightmare for mobility with the cameras and crew people. It was lit with smaller chandelier fixtures hanging down in regular intervals and a massive window at the very end. More lighting would be required, she noted, looking at the paintings, mirrors, and wall sconces, some more ornate and gaudy than others, that filled the wall space between each door.
The whole effect was rather overwhelming, and she stood there, all but gaping as she took it all in. No wonder they had a hard time maintaining the place. Just this one hallway alone was a monster, and there were four of them on this side of the house alone, two upper, and two lower. Plus the rooms in the central part. She couldn’t imagine one family, much less one man, maintaining all of it. One thing was for certain, though, depending on the condition of the rooms behind those doors, there was no question the place was quite big enough to house their entire production.
She almost missed it when Dylan made a sharp turn and didn’t enter either hallway, but opened a door and began climbing yet another set of stairs that led, presumably, up to the third floor of the central section of the house. This staircase was far more narrow, straight up, with closed walls on either side. However her attention wasn’t on the walls, the jumble of paintings hung all over them, or the fact that the stairs were dimly lit with wall sconces only, no overhead lighting. No, her attention was pretty much riveted on the very fine backside of a certain Scotsman climbing the stairs in front of her, said backside showcased quite nicely in faded denim. He must do a lot of stair climbing, she thought, admiring the flex and play of his hamstring muscles as he charged up the stairs.
So intent was her focus, when he stopped short just at the top, she was unable to halt her forward motion in time and wobbled precariously on the next-to-top stair, grabbing for the hand-railing to keep from toppling backward.
Before that could happen, he caught her by the arms and pulled her up next to him, wedging them both in the narrow doorway at the top. Suddenly short of breath, she tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding far more like a soft little moan. Probably because it was.
“You seem to have a wee problem with balance,” he said, that intent gaze of his directly on hers, but no hint of expression otherwise.
“I—I’m normally not such a klutz, really. I even went to college on a sports scholarship. Honest. Team captain.” She was babbling when she should be extricating herself from his arms, and from the tight space they were presently sharing…but her body wasn’t exactly following her brain’s orders. Of course, that could be because her brain wasn’t entirely certain she should be going anywhere, either, especially since there were all kinds of benefits to staying right where she was.
Like the way the hard length of him felt so incredibly good against the not-so-hard length of her. Better than she’d imagined, better than that brief moment in the pub. He was solid, and strong, and she felt absurdly safe and in absolute danger all at the same time. Her heart was pounding…and she realized he wasn’t making any attempt to move either.
“Your clothes,” he said, at length.
“Yes?” she breathed, barely managing to get the words out, as images of him tearing them off and—
“Ye’ll get paint on them.”
“I—oh. Right.”
“I’ll lend you an auld shirt of mine to cover up.”
“Yes, that, that would be great. Super. Thanks.” She made a valiant attempt at an insouciant smile. Of course he wasn’t thinking of tearing her clothes off. It was far more typical of a man to want to cover her up. In fact, he was probably wondering why he hadn’t just let her tumble back down the stairs. Probably afraid of the lawsuit she’d file.
“Come on,” he said, and stepped into a short hallway, disappearing into one of the two rooms on the left. As if he hadn’t been remotely affected by their little moment.
Because he wasn’t affected, you idiot. You’re the only affected one here. She sighed. “Afflicted is more like it,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
She looked up to find him standing in front of her once more, a paint splattered, white dress shirt dangling from his fingers. Would she ever not look like a complete fool in front of this man? She took the shirt from him. “Thanks.” She felt the quality of the linen and glanced back up at him. “Nice work shirts you have.”
He shrugged. “No other use for them now.” He turned and walked into one of the two rooms that had paint buckets sitting in the middle of the floor. “Let’s get to it then.”
She slipped the shirt on over her own and rolled up the sleeves. Yes , she thought, let’s get over your fixation with the hot Scot and get back to business. She surreptitiously lifted her arm so she could breathe in his scent from
