The Great Scot. Donna Kauffman

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the flirty question it could have been, despite the hint of amusement that had crept into his tone. In her experience, men who looked like Dylan generally didn’t make innuendo-laden, sexually suggestive small talk with women who looked like Erin. Which was to say average. Dead average.

      And up until right that second, she’d been perfectly okay with dead average. Average was non-threatening and it enabled her to get what she wanted more often than not. As long as what she wanted was a production location and not…well, what she found herself suddenly wanting right at the moment.

      “I’m interested in booking Glenshire. I understand you’ve turned part of it into a bed and breakfast.” She forced a steady, confident smile, when she, surprisingly, felt anything but.

      “Ah, I see.” As understanding dawned in his eyes, he seemed to relax a bit. “I appreciate the interest. I’ll have to thank my brother for sending business my way, but I’m afraid we dinnae open for guests for another fortnight.”

      “Oh, I know. That’s okay. Preferable really.”

      He quirked one eyebrow and frowned a little, somehow managing to look even hotter doing so. “I’m afraid, as much as I’d like to accommodate you, I’m no’ ready for guests as yet.” There was the slightest twitch at the corners of his mouth, teasing at those intriguing creases, but the smile didn’t emerge. “Still more work to be done before we’re presentable.”

      Erin grinned. “I don’t think you understand. I want to rent out your entire bed and breakfast. For the next two months.”

       Chapter 2

       “I beg your pardon?” Dylan couldn’t have heard the Yank properly. One of his brothers was having a go with him again, no doubt. “Did Brodie put you up to this? Because his humor can be found a bit wanting at times.”

      “I’m perfectly serious.” The young woman stuck her hand inside her jacket pocket, fished around, came up empty, then patted down her other pockets, before smiling at him and pulling a card from the rear pocket of her jeans. “Sorry. I apparently handed out all my other ones in Glenbuie. I have more in the car.”

      She’d handed out cards? He took the somewhat dog-eared business card and glanced down at it. “Erin MacGregor. Location Coordinator. Thomas Marchand Productions.” He looked back at her. “Wha’ exactly would ye be coordinating?”

      “I’m scouting sites for one of America’s top-rated television shows. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Your Prince Charming. We’re getting ready to film our eighth season.”

       Your prince what? “I don’t watch much of the telly, sorry.”

      “We’re not syndicated over here,” she hurried on to say, “but we’re talked about in print and online all over the world. We’ve used locations in Italy and France, Brussels, Sweden. It’s a watercooler show.” When he frowned, she added, “You know, the show everyone talks about the morning after it airs? At work? We score very well with the broadest demographics. Advertisers love us.”

      He handed the card back to her. “Well done, I’m sure. I’m sorry to say, however, that it won’t be possible to stage part of your show here. There is still work to be done and I’m booked up in less than a fortnight.”

      Her smile didn’t falter. “Glenshire has been in your family for centuries, is that true?”

      What was she on about now? “Aye, that it has.” Why was he still standing there, talking to her? There was more work to do than a battalion of laborers could tackle, and he was presently an army of one.

      She stepped past him and walked a few paces toward the house, her stride confident, as if she was certain he’d follow. A determined sort, this Erin MacGregor.

      She stopped next to the fountain, her gaze taking in the house in its entirety, her expression one of both awe and almost palpable excitement. “It’s amazing. I don’t know how you manage it.”

      “Mostly I don’t.” He had no business standing about, having a chat, yet he made no move to dismiss her. Five minutes ago he’d been wrestling with a particularly stubborn spot of plumbing, before noting his visitor from the central window above. He still wasn’t entirely certain this wasn’t one of his brother’s practical jokes. Or worse, another matchmaking scheme. “Mostly it manages me.”

      “I can well imagine. Quite the restoration project. Brodie told me,” she added by way of explanation. “Which, I understand, is partly why you’re opening the bed and breakfast.”

      Dylan scowled. Didn’t his brother have anything better to do than flirt with Yankee lasses? The man was newly married, and shouldnae be consorting about. Of course Dylan knew full well that Brodie was naturally gregarious and equally affable with all who entered his pub, and totally besotted with his new wife. But that didn’t give the man license to spout on about personal family business with every straggler who wandered in the door, now did it?

      She glanced over at him. “You’re the oldest, right? The clan chief?”

      “Aye, that I am,” he answered absently, his thoughts momentarily diverted by the lecture he was plotting to deliver to all three of his younger brothers the first chance he got. It was one thing to nudge their lone, solitary sibling back into the land of the living, and, truly, he had arrived there some time ago now, but it was up to him when and if he chose to delve into a new relationship. They had no business tossing women in his path, no matter how well intended. Not that any lecture he delivered would likely stop them. Or any of the villagers for that matter. Bloody hell. He just wanted to be left alone to get the place into shape for his upcoming guests. Was that so much to ask? He looked at the smiling face of the woman before him. Apparently it was.

      “I can’t imagine what it’s like,” she went on, “being responsible for maintaining the collective assets of your entire ancestry.”

      “If ye only knew the half of it,” Dylan muttered. He stared at the crumbling heap, trying to see it as she must, and no doubt failing.

      He’d grown up inside those moldering walls, feeling the pressure of all those eyes staring down at him from the endless rows of portraits hung in every available nook and cranny, knowing very early on that no matter what he did during his lifetime, the place would never be restored fully. Though his grandfather, Finny, had done his best to maintain a positive outlook, the burden would overwhelm even the most optimistic of souls. He’d tried to teach Dylan how he focused only on the most dire of Glenshire’s maintenance needs, and no’ the whole pile at once, or it would drive a man mad.

      Unfortunately, Dylan had never been good at compartmentalizing. Perhaps he’d have been a better partner, a better husband, had that been the case. Perhaps he’d have better handled the sudden loss, too.

      He swallowed a weary sigh, knowing it was indeed a talent he still sorely lacked. Exhausting as his birthright was, he’d long since come to the conclusion that maintaining the physical remnants of the Chisholm clan legacy was still a whole hell of a lot easier than overseeing the human element that came along with the title of clan chief. Which was more truthfully why he avoided the latter on most occasions.

      “I know nothing about my ancestry,” she said, still taking the measure of the place.

      Her easy confession startled him out of his ponderous musings. “Never traced your heritage?” As unimaginable as his burden СКАЧАТЬ