To Scotland With Love Page 2

  “Caitie Macleod?” Graham said incredulously.

  Caitie. Her mother had called her that, and the villagers had called her that, too. Her stepmother, however, had refused, insisting Cait drop the i-e from her name along with her other Scottish traits.

  The men stared at her, gape-mouthed, in the entryway.

  Finally, Graham found his voice. “I knew your mother, Nora, well.” Then, a lot sterner, “Does Deydie know you’ve come?”

  “No, but I plan—” she started.

  “Are you daft?” Graham took her arm and ushered her into a small but cozy living area. “Call her.” He pointed at the black 1960s-era wall phone hanging on the real-wood paneling.

  Cait crossed her arms. “It’s late. I’ve been up more than twenty-four hours. I’ll see her tomorrow.” Graham might be a superstar, but he couldn’t tell her what to do. “Listen, I feel too wet, too tired, and my brain too jumbled to deal with Deydie. Is there a hotel in town?”

  The men looked at her in disapproving astonishment, like she’d stubbornly sailed a dinghy into a hurricane. A churlish Deydie hurricane.

  Duncan prodded her, much gentler than his da. “You must call her. She’s family. You don’t want her upset.” It sounded like a warning, the bell of a danger buoy.

  He was right about one thing: Cait didn’t want to upset Deydie, the most daunting woman in all of Scotland. But there’d be no avoiding it. Cait was the prodigal granddaughter, and that was some powerful unpleasantness she’d rather face when she was dry and when her feet didn’t feel like a couple of stumps in her six-hundred-dollar heels.

  She tugged at her Barbour trench coat. She’d never tell them the real reason she wasn’t asking her gran to put her up. Rejection. Cait had had it up to her wool cap with being dismissed, denied, rebuffed, and repudiated. “Tomorrow. I’ll see Deydie tomorrow. Tonight, I need a hotel.”

  Cait got more frowning from Graham. “Gandiegow doesn’t have one,” he said, irritated.

  “True,” Duncan said with an edge of resentment. “But he can help you out.” He gestured toward his da.

  She didn’t know what was going on between the two of them, but at least someone was on her side. Cait used her best downtown-Chicago scowl to stare Graham down.

  Finally, Graham caved with a sigh of resignation. “If you insist on being obstinate, then you can stay in the room over the pub.”

  She was the one to be circumspect now. “You know this for sure about the room? Shouldn’t you speak with the pub owner first?”

  The men shared a knowing look.

  Graham pulled the handles up on her suitcases and started walking toward the door. “Aye, you’re in luck. The owner won’t turn you away tonight.”

  Cait turned to Duncan. “It’s nice seeing you again.”

  “Then you do remember me?” Duncan said.

  “How could I forget little Dunkie MacKinnon? I used to babysit you at your grandda’s house,” she said.

  Duncan smiled. “I remember getting extra biscuits when you took care of me.”

  “We’ll catch up later,” she said with a genuine smile, then realized that Graham was already out the door.

  She stepped outside and found the rain had turned into sleet. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

  Graham shook his head. “What did you expect? It’s December in Scotland.”

  She felt like an idiot and pulled her lapels around her face to block out the December in Scotland welcome. “The rest of my bags are back in the parking lot.”

  “Let’s get you to the pub first, and then I’ll go for the rest.”

  “Thanks.”

  The conversation died, and a million thoughts converged in on her. Was this where Graham went when he disappeared for months at a time? If Duncan MacKinnon was his son, how come the press didn’t know? Even more perplexing, why hadn’t she known? She’d grown up in Gandiegow.

  Cait slipped and grabbed for Graham. He dropped the bag handles and reached for her, catching her around the waist with a strong grip. For a moment, they stood toe to toe with her hands holding on to his biceps, his made-of-steel biceps. Time downshifted to a complete halt. Before this moment, she wouldn’t have given two cents for a muscly man. In a twinkling of an eye, Graham Buchanan changed all that. She looked up into his face and turned into a hot puddle in his capable arms.

  Geesh, Cait. Get a grip.

  She dropped her hands, made sure she stood on solid ground and then continued on, not looking over at him. Thank God it didn’t take long to get to the pub or she might have gone so far as to ask for his autograph . . . or if he needed a warm bod to snuggle up to tonight.

  Graham withdrew an old-fashioned skeleton key from his coat, unlocked the door, and held it open for her. “The switch is on your right.”

  Her own lightbulb went on. “You’re quite the joker, aren’t you?” She mimicked his baritone voice. “The owner won’t turn you away tonight and all.” She flipped the switch. The place lit up with old-world ambience—all dark wood on the floor, booths, and counter. The chairs had been upended on the tabletops, and the bar and floor had been polished by Mr. Clean. It only lacked a band of rowdy Scots and it would’ve been perfect.

  “Why isn’t the place hopping?” Cait asked.

  “Renovations. Tomorrow night is the grand reopening of The Fisherman.” For the first time, he actually smiled. “Let’s get you upstairs and dried off. Over here.” He made his way past the bar to a narrow set of stairs. He had to duck his head to make the climb.

  She followed him, getting a gratifying view of his man-butt in his jeans. At the top landing, she found a small hall with two doorways.

  He pointed to one. “The bath’s in there.” He opened the other door. “The bedroom. It’s not much. It should be enough for tonight, though.” He frowned at her, the frown he’d given her earlier. “Are you sure you won’t stay with Deydie tonight?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, then, I’ll be off to get your other bags.” He pointed at the armoire. “Towels and linens are in there.” Then he was gone.

  Cait hurriedly slipped out of her ruined heels and freed herself from her coat. Her Jones New York slacks would never be the same, and she stepped out of those as well. When she dropped her tailored white shirt to the floor and stood in nothing but her lacy white bra and her French-cut undies, the door opened.

  Graham stood there, slack-jawed. “I . . . I . . . just came back to tell you I’ll leave your other bags out in the hall.”

  Bless him, he was embarrassed. But not enough to look away. He gave her underthings an appreciative nod. “I’ll be going.” The door shut.

  Cait should’ve been incensed by him barging in. Instead, her belly warmed with excitement, and adrenaline made her tremble. What was wrong with her?

  “What female wouldn’t get a little flustered with Graham Buchanan gawking at her underwear?” she rationalized to the wall.

  The mirror caught her flushed face and bright eyes. “Oh, shut up,” she muttered to her reflection.

  Chapter Two

  Cait hurried into her pajamas, unpacked her mother’s Double Wedding Ring quilt, wrapped herself in it, and reached for the People magazine in her bag.

  The Graham Buchanan article stretched for four pages even though there was precious little information in it. The sexy actor had a penchant for disappearing for months at a time, sending the press and his fans into a tizzy. “How have you given the paparazzi the slip for so long?” she asked the handsome face so many women adored.

  She’d fallen in love with him, too, back when he played the tall and brooding Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. More recently, he’d played Colonel Brandon in a new BBC production of Sense and Sensibility, and he was delectable with his long dark hair and piercing brown eyes. He was all Jane Austen’s heroes rolled into one.

  Sh
e ran a finger over his square jaw, strong nose, and sensuous lips. “Yummy. Too bad I’m done with men. Unfaithful dirty dogs.”

  She flipped the page to a picture spread of Graham at different times in his career. He wore a kilt for Courage at Midnight, a sharp suit in The Last Hour, and of course, his waistcoat and cravat as Darcy.

  It hit her again. She’d found the missing celebrity. Dumb luck, but this could be the big break she’d been hoping for. The way to revive her career. A way to get back some semblance of a life.

  Being a journalist had once defined her. And she’d been good at it, the youngest investigative reporter at the Chicago Sun Times. She never should’ve let Tom pressure her into giving up something she loved. She stared out the window, the last few weeks haunting her in vivid detail.

  It had been surreal standing over Tom’s grave with his mistress parked only a few feet away. She had been decked out in a leather miniskirt and thigh-high boots and wailed as if she were the long-suffering widow. As revenge, Cait had gone home and sold Tom’s pristine 1968 Ford Mustang to the teenager down the street for fifty bucks. Tom should’ve thought twice before screwing his whore girlfriend in the backseat of the ’Stang. In their driveway, no less. Didn’t he think the neighbors would notice the thing rocking like a martini shaker?

  Cait massaged her forehead. Forget Tom. Forget all the other men, including her father, who’d let her down.

  Some women might think the best revenge lay in spending the dirty rat’s life insurance money, but more than anything, Cait wanted her career back. She could see the first headline:

  DOORMAT TRANSFORMED INTO SELF-RESCUING WOMAN

  Of course, the same article that would resuscitate her career might hurt Graham Buchanan and his family. Clearly, he’d hidden them away here for a reason. But in this world, it was every woman for herself, and she would be damned if she’d let a man get in the way of her career again. Before she could sleep on it and talk herself out of it, Cait plugged in her adapter and her cell, then looked up the number she’d stumbled upon and stowed a while back—the phone number for the executive editor at People magazine.

  After two rings, a voice came on the line. “Margery Pinchot.”

  “This is Cait Macleod. I know where Graham Buchanan is,” Cait said, feeling strong and determined and only a little breathless. “I want an exclusive, and I want a big deal.”

  “Tell me where he is,” Margery Pinchot pressed. “I’ll send a photographer to you.”

  “No way. I’ve got it covered. E-mail me a contract, and I’ll send it back if it’s all in order.” They exchanged addresses.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Macleod,” Margery said in conclusion.

  “You bet I do.” Cait hit the END button.

  Shaking just a little and ignoring her travel-weary exhaustion, she went to work, scribbling Lost Actor Found on a page of her notebook. She wrote as if her life depended upon it, ignoring the guilt. There was no going back now. The reporting world was small, and her name would be mud if she reneged. So what if Graham was a living, breathing person with feelings? This was the opportunity of a lifetime, the perfect way to jump-start her career. She was sick of playing Ms. Nicey-Nice.

  Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, Cait slipped her notebook under the mattress and spread out Mama’s quilt, climbing underneath. She should’ve passed out immediately, but unfortunately, her doubts snuggled in under the quilt with her, too.

  Normally, by this time of year, her house would’ve looked like Christmas had detonated. There’d be holly and mistletoe, bells and lights, and presents all tied up with bows. Before she’d left Chicago, the only thing underneath her tree had been pots of dead flowers from Tom’s funeral. The dried petals mingling with pine needles in the carpet had been a heads-up that Christmas this year was well and truly screwed.

  Just like her once promising career, now reduced to editing a beauty salon newsletter, various PennySaver ads, and the local fishing magazine from her kitchen table. How could she have gone from investigative journalism to fish guts and split infinitives? Tom, that’s how. He’d wanted her home to take care of him, clean his house, and entertain his business associates. She’d given up piece after piece of herself until she was barely recognizable. Well, the article about Graham Buchanan would certainly change all that.

  She smiled with hope at the dark ceiling. But as the wind howled outside, other worries floated in. After eighteen years, would her cranky grandmother welcome her back? Deydie had asked her over and over to come visit, but every time, Tom had thrown obstacles in her path or talked her out of it. Now she knew she had been an idiot for wanting to please her husband.

  She pulled the covers up to her chin. Maybe she was still an idiot. Maybe she should turn tail and run back to Chicago, resume her miserable existence in her big empty house before it sold. Her cottage here was charred beyond recognition, an incinerated mess. Dead. A goner. Like her marriage. And her stupid husband.

  Cait reached over and touched her mother’s urn, which she’d had a helluva time getting through airport security. “What am I going to do, Mama?”

  The only answer she got was sleet relentlessly pelting the roof above her head. Running away might not have fixed anything, but at least she’d escaped the coffin of a life that Tom had buried her in.

  * * *

  When Cait awoke, she felt better. The sun was shining high in the sky. She pushed the covers down and immediately pulled them back up. “Jeepers, it’s freezing.” She waited a few minutes longer, steeling herself against the bitter cold, and then reluctantly climbed out of bed.

  She quickly dressed in a chocolate cashmere turtleneck, a brown plaid J. Crew blazer, tan corduroy pants, and leather boots. She still felt cold. She wrapped a coffee-colored scarf around her neck, pulled on a coat, and shoved a dark brown wool cap on her head. Now a little warmer, she went in search of coffee. At the top of the landing, she peered down.

  Graham stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting. “I heard you get up.” His voice sounded as comforting as the steaming mug he held.

  She walked down the stairs toward him, determined that there wouldn’t be a repeat of last night. No gushing over him like the president of his fan club. Cait would treat him like anybody else. He might be great looking and a movie star, but he still had a Y chromosome. She was off men, period. “Is there no heat in the pub?”

  He shrugged and handed her the mug.

  “Just what I needed.” She took a sip, and the guilt about the article started to creep back in. Surely there’d be some cosmic retribution for outing him. He’d been nice to her. Let her stay in his pub. Lugged her gigantic suitcases through gale-force winds. And now a hot cup of java. She shoved her self-recrimination to the side and gave him the once-over, committing the facts to memory.

  He looked casual in his gray wool sweater and dark chinos. He smelled great and was more handsome in the light of day than he was last night. Un-freaking-believable. But the way his eyes bore into her made her think he could read her every thought.

  “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” he announced, his brows creasing together. “Deydie knows you’re here.”

  “Crud.”

  “You’d better hurry over there,” he said.

  Cait heard the or else in his voice and thought about her gran. Was Gandiegow truly the fresh start she needed? Cait had history here. Yes, it was the last place she remembered being truly happy, but it was also the place where her soul had been ripped from her.

  She frowned at Graham. “I’m not going anywhere on an empty stomach.”

  His eyes turned dark with warning. “Deydie expected you first thing.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Defiantly, Cait sank down into one of the booths.

  He shook his head. “It’s your funeral.”

  “Not my first,” Cait said into her mug. Then she ba
tted her eyelashes at him. “Any scones in the kitchen?”

  Graham walked away, muttering as he pushed through the swinging doors. Hardheaded was the only word she caught.

  “I like mine warm,” she hollered. She relaxed back and gazed out the window.

  The wind whipped the sea into a frothy foam and sent it crashing against the shore. Like friendly barnacles, small crofter dwellings and cottages hugged the rocky coast. A handful of boats bobbed off the long dock to the east. It all felt familiar and foreign at the same time.

  Graham ambled back into the room with a plate of warmed bangers and a single scone. It hit her again how surreal this was. Graham Buchanan, her waiter. Last night, Graham Buchanan, her bellboy. What should she tip a zillionaire? He set the plate down and started to walk away.

  She patted the seat beside her. “Take a load off and tell me how the fishermen are doing.”

  He stopped short and slowly turned, tilting his head to the side. “Why should you care?”

  “It’s my hometown.”

  Studying her closely, he hesitated a moment longer, then slid into the booth across from her. Finally, he spoke. “The village has all but died. Most people left for Lios or Fairge for work after the Great Storm. Some to Aberdeen or Inverness or farther.”

  Cait searched his face. “And you? Why are you here?”

  He shook his head, staring out at the sea.

  Dang it. She’d found Graham Buchanan, but she still didn’t have the story.

  He turned to her. “What will you do now that you’ve seen your cottage?”

  She gazed out at the sea, too. “It may be a wreck, but it’s mine. I’m staying, and I need your help.”

  He put both hands on the table. “My help?”

  “The room upstairs. Let me rent it while my bungalow is being rebuilt.”

  “Forget it,” he said ruthlessly. “Go stay with your gran.”

  “Can’t do it,” Cait shot back. “Staying with Deydie in her one-room cottage? It won’t work. There’s no room for me. I won’t put her out.”