The Accidental Scot Page 3

  “Where else do you work?” And because he was a guy, and hadn’t had the bandwidth to date lately, the word positions got kind of caught in his mind, rolling around. And not in an innocent way either.

  “Ye’ll see me here and there.” She smiled evasively and scraped the last bit of snow from the walk. “Come. I’ll point you in the right direction.” She leaned her shovel against the building and took the lead.

  Inside, the lobby was the strangest he’d ever seen. No contemporary plush furniture or end tables with trendy magazines. This place was barebones. Three kitchen chairs, one folding, and one dilapidated Queen Anne rested against the wall. A crest and a sword hung above the seats. In the corner sat the grand prize, a damned Douglas fir, decorated with loads of Christmas cheer. The magnificent tree didn’t fit with the rest of the substandard decor.

  A brunette came from behind a worn receptionist desk with a hungry-for-men smile and a mug in her hand. “I saw you pull up and poured you a cup of tea. In case you needed warming up. I’m Bonnie, by the way.” She seemed to stick out her chest, flaunting her very large breasts in his direction.

  But Max wasn’t half as interested in her as he was in the strawberry blonde who’d put him in his place last night. He took his tea and thanked the receptionist just the same.

  Pippa unzipped her coveralls and slipped her arms out, letting the top dangle down. He was stunned to see that underneath, she sported an old, form-fitting Tau Beta Pi T-shirt.

  Tau Beta Pi? The Engineering Honor Society?

  If he could’ve put together words, he might’ve asked where she got it. But he couldn’t stop staring at her nipples. God help him! He jerked his eyes away, and in the process, spilled tea all over his suit from his chest to his knees.

  “Damn.”

  “Not to worry.” Pippa leaned over and whispered to the brunette who had resumed her position behind the desk. The only word he made out from the exchange was auction. From a nearby closet, Bonnie retrieved two items—a kilt clipped to a hanger, and a brown shopping bag. She handed them to Pippa.

  Pippa presented the clothing to him. “Here, put this on. We’ll take care of yere suit.”

  He frowned at the man skirt. “Thank you, no. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s company policy to be dressed in a kilt.” Amusement danced in her eyes, in addition to a fair dose of determination. “Everyone has to wear one for their company badge. For plant security.”

  That seemed highly unlikely. He glanced at her chest; she wore no badge.

  He tore his eyes away. “Don’t you have a guest badge?” Like a normal factory?

  “A guest badge is only good for the day. Ye said you plan to be here the month.” She planted her hands on her hips. “It’s company—”

  “Policy?” he finished for her.

  “You catch on quick, Mr. McKinley.”

  “That’s what they tell me.” He grimaced at the kilt again.

  She spun him toward a small door. “I’ll be the one taking yere picture when you come out.”

  “Another one of your jobs?”

  “Aye. Now change in there.”

  He marched into the small restroom and closed the door behind him. The brown bag held a white flowing shirt, black hiking boots, and thick, cream-colored knee-high socks.

  “Don’t be long, Yank,” she hollered through the door. “I’ve work to do.”

  He quickly dressed, surprised the clothes and boots fit pretty well, considering. He left his wet things over the towel rack and went back out.

  The brunette rose, giving him a low whistle. “Aye, Pippa, you were right about the Yank in a kilt.”

  Pippa nodded appreciatively at his legs. She grabbed a tartan and threw it over his shoulder. When she bent to fasten it by his hip, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t. She smelled like fresh snow and woman. He felt both turned on and a little like Rob Roy.

  She dragged him to the Christmas tree, positioning him in front of it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Just smile for the birdie.”

  He didn’t.

  She snapped several photos anyway.

  “Bonnie, pull the Queen Anne chair over to the tree and I’ll take a few more.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “What’s really going on here?”

  Pippa gave him an innocent I’ve-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about smile. “Are you sure ye’re not Scottish, Mr. McKinley? You have the name for it. And the stubborn attitude. A veritable Scottish warrior through and through.”

  “Stop buttering me up.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re up to something.”

  “Don’t be a prig, Mr. McKinley.” Pippa readjusted the sash on his shoulder. “Americans love to claim to be Scottish.”

  The receptionist slipped from behind the desk.

  He frowned at both of them and moved the Queen Anne chair himself.

  The way Bonnie sauntered up to him, there was no denying she was out to stake her claim. “So what are you doing later? How about we grab a few drinks and have some laughs at the pub?”

  Pippa put her hands on her hips. “Back off, Bonnie. He’s here on business. Not to be handled by the likes of you.”

  He felt like a spectator at a tennis match, looking from one to the other.

  Bonnie smiled, no offense taken to Pippa’s harsh words. “A lass can try, can’t she?” She slunk off, leaving them alone.

  “Can I change back into my clothes yet?”

  “Nay. We have to make sure you look right. For the badge and all.” Pippa snapped a few more shots. One with him standing by the Queen Anne chair. Another with him seated like the frigging king of Scotland or something. She even had the audacity to point the camera at his legs and take two more, mumbling, “Good, good,” to his shins.

  “So do all the employees have their legs on their badges?” he drawled.

  “Oh, aye, absolutely.” Pippa looked as if she could barely hold back from laughing. “Leg shots are imperative for security. Especially if someone is running from the building with our top-secret designs.” She gave him a pointed look, as if that was why he was here. Her own words had a sobering effect. “I think we’re done here.” She brushed her long curls out of the way as if being the photographer had worn her out. Or was that relief he saw on her face?

  “Go change now, Mr. McKinley,” Pippa ordered. Without a backward glance, she walked through the double doors leading into the plant with the camera swinging at her side.

  He stood all alone in the lobby; Bonnie was gone, too.

  Max looked again at the double doors Pippa had gone through. He wondered if her other jobs included sweeping the factory floor or cleaning the toilets. She perplexed him and he didn’t know why. He forced her from his mind and went into the bathroom to put his clothes back on.

  “What the hell?”

  His tea-soaked pants weren’t where he’d left them. Or his jacket. Or his dress shirt. He marched back out and found Bonnie had returned.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  Bonnie smiled helpfully. “Soaking in a bucket in the break room. Tea can be a bitch to get out.”

  He stared at her slack-jawed. “What am I supposed to wear?”

  Bonnie eyed him like her favorite box of Christmas candy. “The kilt, of course.”

  “I can’t go around like this.”

  “Och. It’s Scotland. Ye’ll be grand.”

  He peered down at his outfit, wishing to be anywhere else, and then tried to look at the bright side. At least the boots were warm. He approached her desk. “I assume Alistair McDonnell knows that I’m here?”

  Bonnie stilled. For a moment, he wondered if maybe she’d misunderstood. She seemed genuinely confused.

  He tried again. “Alistair McDonnell? We have an appo
intment.” He lifted his mug and drained the remaining dribbles of his now-cold tea.

  She frowned at him, picked up the phone, and put it to her ear. “The American says to tell ye he’s here.” She glanced up at him as if he’d been short-changed upstairs. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

  He wandered over to the coat of arms and studied it. After a few minutes, he chose a chair as far away from the Christmas tree as he could and checked his messages.

  One from his mom. One from his sister. One from his brother.

  And crap, Miranda wanted him to check in. He texted back quickly that he’d arrived, was staying in the room over the pub, and was about to meet with NSV’s chief engineer.

  As he hit SEND, the doors swung open and a professionally dressed woman came through. He stood. She had on a well-fitted navy suit with a tantalizing slit up the left side of her calf-length skirt. The way her heels clicked as she walked toward him sounded like a command—the same heels that made her almost as tall as him. Her loose hair from earlier had been stretched into a knot at the back of her head. However, it was her sea-blue eyes that shocked him.

  Pippa was also secretary to the owner?

  She stuck out her hand. “Alistair Philippa McDonnell. It’s nice to meet you.” She gave him a firm handshake.

  He fumbled with the mug. If there’d been any tea left in it, he would’ve doused his kilt and been forced to tour the factory buck-naked.

  She smiled, her professional aloofness daring him to acknowledge the switch-up. “Well, then,” she finally said. “Should we have a look around?”

  He seldom backed down from a challenge. “But last night—” he started.

  “Let’s not ruin last night by talking about it,” she purred.

  Bonnie’s head shot up.

  Pippa—no, Alistair—gave a throaty laugh and sashayed away, not seeming to give a damn about her reputation.

  Max trailed behind her through the double doors like her lowly servant. They went down a long corridor as a million questions rolled through his baffled brain. He’d been given a data sheet on the McDonnell with as much personal information as could be attained. How had he not known that Alistair McDonnell was female? He certainly knew now by the shapely derriere in front of him. Max’s only explanation for his file not being complete—privacy laws in Europe were much stricter than in the U.S.

  He didn’t let the subject drop. “Hold up. What should I call you?”

  She stopped and turned to him, the epitome of seriousness. “How about Yere Excellency?”

  “Alistair or Pippa?” he clarified.

  “Since we’re in Gandiegow, you can call me Pippa.”

  “Where’s the McDonnell? Is he waiting for me in his office?”

  Her eyebrows stitched together and she looked away, not meeting his eye. “Da took the day off.”

  Max frowned at her. “He knew I was coming, didn’t he?”

  She didn’t answer but pushed open another set of double doors. They stepped into a room filled with industrial sewing machines and bolts of canvas. In the corner stood . . . another Christmas tree?

  “What the devil?” Max said. Nothing was typical in this factory.

  “We rent this space to Agnes Bowie. She makes custom sails to sell on the Internet. Agnes needed a spot for her shop and we made room for her.”

  Apparently Pippa took umbrage to his shock. She scooped aside a sail as she walked by—much like a cat swishing her tail. And like a cat, her irritation was evident. He hadn’t been criticizing NSV or the sail shop, but it was too late to say so. She was already gone.

  Through the next set of doors was a machine shop, the place finally looking more like a manufacturing plant. However, the machines were ancient and antiquated, some held together with bits of wire and duct tape. Another Christmas tree, this one decorated with plaid bows, sat proudly in the middle of the room. Two old codgers, the same two from the pub last night, stood by a drill press, a flurry of heated words flying between them. They stopped at once.

  The bearded one bobbed. “We’ll be getting back to work now, Pippa.” He eyed Max’s kilt but didn’t act as if it was out of place.

  “Aye,” said the other one, nodding at the kilt as well.

  “You run a tight ship,” Max muttered, trying not to feel uncomfortable about his attire.

  She nodded. “I keep them on task. Taog, I told you to move the CNC machine in here yesterday.” She had the command of a drill sergeant. “Why haven’t ye?”

  Taog turned red. “The CNC’s too pretty to use.”

  The bearded one laughed. “And Taog’s uglier than his own arse.”

  “Murdoch,” Pippa said in warning. “We’ve discussed this before. No more insulting Taog or cursing on the job. I’ll not be having it.”

  “Aye, lass,” Murdoch said, rubbing his beard. “About the damned CNC machine. Taog keeps it polished up just fine. Not a speck of dust on it.”

  Max was impressed a small operation could afford such an expensive piece of equipment. “Can I take a look at it?”

  Pippa turned to him, seeming irritated. “It’s at the back of the building. I’ll show you.”

  She handed him a hard hat and a pair of earplugs. “Ye’ll need these.” She donned her own hard hat, making it look at home on her head. A funny thought hit him. She is the sexiest chief engineer I’ve ever seen. She pushed through another set of doors.

  Max was glad for the ear protection. Conveyor belts clapped, horns blew, and pneumatic drills hissed. Most people would find it annoying, but a wave of nostalgia washed over him. He missed working for the factory and being close to the end product. Now that he’d been promoted, he was a long way from actually making anything, except maybe a deal.

  He scanned the room and once again encountered the bizarre. In one corner sat three pleasure boats on blocks.

  Pippa’s eyes followed to where he looked. “Winter storage rentals,” she hollered over the noise.

  That explains the boats but doesn’t explain the farm’s worth of Christmas trees scattered throughout the factory floor.

  Max focused his energy on the assembly line. He immediately saw ways to streamline their process and make the plant more efficient, just by rearranging things. While she explained the different valves and their applications, he flipped open his notebook and jotted down his recommendations.

  “Ye better not be stealing our designs,” she warned.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” When they had a quiet moment, Max would share his ideas with her. “And the subsea shutoff valves? Where are they being made?”

  She frowned at him and he knew it was because he’d asked after their Golden Goose. Every oil and gas company in the free world wanted to get a good look at the McDonnell’s design. Perhaps others were being invited here as well. The fact that Pippa had let Max in the front door must mean MTech was in the running. Her glare in his direction, though, said she wasn’t pleased with him or MTech right now.

  She stood tall. “Mock-ups are in my office. Do you want to see the CNC machine or not?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she walked away at a clip.

  Sure enough, in the far corner of the factory sat a very large CNC machine.

  Max gave an appreciative whistle. “What a beaut.” CNC machines were used to build parts with efficiency and accuracy in manufacturing. He did his best to ignore what they’d done to the poor thing. The CNC was decorated like a damn Christmas tree as well: Garland was swagged around the circumference and an angel was crowning the top.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how did NSV afford this machine?”

  She cocked an eyebrow as if she did mind, but then deflated as if to say, what the hell. “It’s a gift from Corbie Engineering. Right before they went bankrupt.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed as if she understood all too well what was at stake. North Sea Valv
e could very well be the next to go into bankruptcy court.

  “There’s no need to worry,” he assured her. “I can help.”

  Her shoulders went back and she sucked in a breath before shouting over the racket of the machinery. “I’m concerned about MTech’s definition of help. I know I called yere company back to the table, Mr. McKinley, but the last time MTech was here, they tried to rob NSV blind.”

  This is going to be an uphill battle.

  He patted his notebook. “I’m not talking about the MTech proposal. I’m talking about reconfiguring your operations, moving things around. Things you can do right away to save money, and it won’t cost you a penny.”

  She sized him up but looked too stubborn to acquiesce.

  “Can we talk about it in your office where it’s quieter?”

  She glared at him for a moment before turning on her heel. “Follow me.” She marched in the opposite direction.

  Damn she was prickly. Why did she think the worst of him?

  For his whole life he’d assumed, by the easy trust others placed in him, that his honesty shone through. But to come to Scotland and be treated like a common thief felt . . . foreign.

  He wasn’t a shyster. He was a stand-up guy. Was it too much to ask for them to put a little faith in him? Were all Scots this distrustful? All he wanted was to make sure their subsea shutoff valve came to fruition. Preferably with MTech, so he could keep his job. He opened his mouth to try to convince her that his motives were pure. But hell, pleading wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. Everyone knew actions spoke louder than words.

  He focused his attention on her lovely backside as she paraded away from him, and unabashedly let the spectacle outshine his injured pride. The view also helped him to ignore how the workers were staring at his bare legs.

  She opened the office door and went in. He followed and his first thought was—Hoarders work here.

  She glanced around, too. “Organized chaos.”

  Bookcases packed with technical tomes filled the small room. Piles of manila folders sat on the desk and floor. Stray valves here and there acted as paperweights. In the middle of the desk was that damn camera of hers from earlier.