The Right Kind Of Man Page 11

  ‘Even you?’

  They were turning back to the room together and suddenly found each other very close, far closer than they had let themselves be over the last two weeks. Their eyes met and held.

  Skye felt the breath dry in her throat and her heart began to thump slowly, painfully. The memory of his kiss was suddenly so vivid that she could almost feel his mouth against hers, his hands tracing patterns of fire down her spine. She could taste his lips and smell the warm, clean, masculine scent of his skin. Her fingertips tingled as if she could still feel his hard muscles beneath her hands.

  He was only inches away. Half a step away and she could touch him, slide her arms around him, raise her lips to his and beg him to kiss her again… Skye dragged her wildly careering thoughts to a halt. She didn’t need to take that step to know what Lorimer’s reaction would be. Pride, she reminded herself. That was all she had.

  Swallowing, she forced her eyes away from his and stepped back into the safety of the wide room. Her voice was so husky that she had to clear her throat. ‘Even me,’ she said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ANGUS BUCHANAN was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Lorimer seemed to shake himself free of the strain that had sprung up as he and Skye had stood by the window and looked into each other’s eyes. ‘The only problem is likely to be Duncan McPherson, as you know, Angus. If he refuses to sell, well, it might affect my investor’s decision.’

  Angus Buchanan looked troubled. ‘I doubt you’ll get very far with Duncan. He was never keen on the idea of a hotel here at the best of times, and after the business with that woman…’ He heaved his big shoulders. ‘Well, he’s downright hostile. You’ll be lucky to see him at all.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.’ Lorimer promised. ‘Don’t worry yet. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll try to raise the capital somewhere else again. I can always sell the manse.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Isobel Buchanan sounded shocked. ‘It’s such a lovely house and it so badly needs to be looked after. I do think it’s a shame it was allowed to fall into such a state—although anyone looking at this house might say the same about us!’

  ‘You can tell this house has been loved, though,’ said Skye, wondering what manse they were talking about. ‘It’s full of happy memories, even a casual visitor can sense that. That’s what makes it so welcoming.’

  Isobel looked approvingly at her. ‘Quite right, dear, I always feel that a house needs children and laughter. The manse is crying out for a family to live in it.’ She turned teasingly to Lorimer. ‘I hope you heard that, Lorimer! It’s high time you were married.’

  Skye was shocked at the coldness that gripped her heart. The Buchanans had obviously known Lorimer for some time and if they thought he was going to get married…

  ‘I don’t have any plans at present,’ said Lorimer, carefully expressionless.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry…’ Mrs Buchanan broke off in confusion and looked from him to Skye and back again. ‘I thought…’

  Skye felt a blush steal up her cheeks. ‘I’m just a secretary,’ she said hastily at the same time as Lorimer said,

  ‘Skye’s just helping me out until Moira Lindsay’s free to start work. You know Moira, don’t you?’

  ‘Er, yes, of course.’ Isobel was obviously mortified by her faux pas. ‘Such a nice girl.’

  There was an awkward pause as they all walked out to the car. ‘Are you going to the presentation dinner on Saturday night?’ Angus asked Lorimer to fill the silence. ‘You’re a member, aren’t you? And if you’re staying at the Kielven Inn, you’ll be right on the spot. You can’t do better than the local golf club’s annual thrash when it comes to making local contacts—and believe me you’re going to need them if you want to make a success of this hotel idea.’

  Lorimer hesitated, glancing at Skye. ‘Would you mind staying another day?’

  ‘Of course she wouldn’t!’ said Angus heartily before she had a chance to reply. ‘She looks like the kind of girl who’d enjoy a party. I’ll make sure there are a couple of tickets for you at the door.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Lorimer apologised to Skye as they drove off. ‘I can put you on a train if you’d rather go back to Edinburgh tomorrow night.’

  ‘I don’t mind staying.’ They were being very polite to each other, very strained. The winter afternoon was closing in rapidly, and the headlights cast a blurry beam through the dark blue mist. ‘I didn’t realise that you knew the Buchanans so well.’

  ‘I don’t know them very well, but I grew up not far from here, so I remember them, of course. They were very kind when…’ Lorimer broke off abruptly. ‘When my father died,’ he finished after a tiny pause, but Skye had the feeling that that hadn’t been what he was originally going to say. His face was closed and there was a note in his voice that warned her not to ask any more.

  ‘What’s this manse they were talking about?’ she asked instead.

  ‘It’s an old house down by the coast,’ he said, and she sensed he was relieved at the change of subject. ‘I hadn’t been back for years, but I was driving around one day last year, looking for a suitable site for the hotel, and I found it at the end of a road.’ He paused, remembering how he had first seen the manse, and unconsciously his face softened. ‘It was practically a ruin, and not nearly big enough for a hotel, but I suppose you could say that I fell in love with it. The builders have been in all summer, and it should be weatherproof by now. In fact, I’d like to go over and check what they’ve done if we have time.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ said Skye, enjoying the unguarded look on his face when he talked about his house.

  ‘It’s right by the sea,’ he said, ‘and it looks across the estuary at the hills. It’s all sea and sky and light.’ He shrugged, half embarrassed by his eloquence. ‘It’s also far too big and quite impractical. Isobel’s right. It needs a family.’

  Skye looked out of the window and concentrated on keeping her voice light. ‘You might have a family one day.’

  There was a short silence. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Lorimer flatly. ‘Marriage and a family are for people who believe in happy endings.’

  ‘And you don’t?’ she asked, shocked by the cynicism in his voice.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

  Lorimer parked the car off the track beneath an old oak tree. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way,’ he said from the back, pulling on a pair of old gumboots. ‘You heard what Angus Buchanan said about Duncan. He’s still feeling bitter, so it’s best if he doesn’t see you at all. You stay here and wait till I come back.’ He shut the boot and walked round the car to tap on her window. Skye unwound it with an enquiring look. ‘Please don’t wander off or do anything stupid,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t see how I can do anything stupid stuck in a car,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Nor do I, but I wouldn’t put anything past you.’

  Sulking, she watched his tall, massive figure stride up the track and out of sight. The car seemed very empty without him.

  Last night had been awkward. As Lorimer had predicted, they were the only guests at the Kielven Inn, and they had eaten in an empty, echoing dining-room, desperately making polite conversation to disguise the tension that was still strumming in the air between them. In the end, Skye had pleaded a tiredness she didn’t in the least feel and had escaped to her room. She had lain on her bed listening to the sounds of cheerful chatter from the bar below and wondered why Lorimer was so bitter about marriage. His warning, if that was what it had been, had only seemed to exacerbate the strained atmosphere between them. There had always been a snappy edge to their relationship, of course, but this was different. The snappiness had disappeared and in its lace was an unease, a feeling of disquiet that Skye couldn’t identify and that had intensified over dinner as they found themselves picking their words with as much care as if they had been making their way over a minefield.


  Staring up at the ceiling, she tried to work out just what had changed, and when, and why. Something had happened as they looked at each other by that bedroom window, but just what it was she couldn’t decide. All she knew was that it was much easier when Lorimer was being disagreeable. Anything was better than this strained awareness.

  She had changed her mind the next morning when Lorimer had insisted on taking her to the Kielven golf course to introduce her to the game. She hadn’t known whether he had come to the same conclusions as she had, but he had certainly been very bad-tempered and by the time they had reached the first green Skye had decided that she might prefer him strained and polite after all.

  The lesson had not been a great success. Skye was not a natural sportswoman, and she seemed to spend a lot of time missing the ball altogether and swinging the club helplessly round her head. Lorimer had ground his teeth and barked instructions at her until she began to giggle, which had made him even crosser. Then she had begun to get frustrated at her inability to hit that stupid little ball, and Lorimer’s attempts to curb his temper and show her how to hold the club had only made her cross. Both had been tight-lipped when they’d left the course after nine fraught holes.

  Skye settled back in her seat and watched a rabbit peer cautiously out from a hedgerow before it plucked up the courage to hop across the track and disappear into the long grass on the other side. Cautious; that was what she should be, she reflected glumly. She should think before she jumped gaily into situations that got rapidly out of control. Look where pursuing Charles had got her: stuck in a car halfway up some God-forsaken track waiting for a man who barely troubled to disguise his dislike of her.

  Skye sighed. There had been a time when she had been convinced that Charles was all she wanted; now she could hardly remember what he looked like. She thought about the last time she had seen him, and then somehow she found herself thinking about how Lorimer’s hands had felt against her skin. An unsettling feeling shuddered down her spine and clenched its base whenever she remembered his mouth.

  Desperately trying to think of something else, anything else, Skye switched on the radio, but it was a dull programme about personal finance and kept fading off into crackles. She tried twiddling the knob, but the reception was terrible on every station, and after a while she gave up. She peered into the glove box to see if she could find any tapes instead. Reaching inside, she discovered a couple of cassettes before her hand closed over something softer and flatter. Curious, she pulled it out and turned it over. It was a silk scarf still in its presentation packet.

  Skye stared down at the soft heather-coloured pattern and the way it had been folded so that the mono-grammed ‘M’ showed through the cover. M for Moira?

  What else? Lorimer was obviously waiting for the right moment to produce it as an unexpected present. It was very lovely, and would suit Moira’s colouring beautifully. He must have chosen it with care.

  With love?

  Skye thrust the packet back into the glove box and banged it shut. It was none of her business if Lorimer wanted to buy Moira presents.

  Suddenly restless, she got out of the car and stood hugging her big Peruvian knit cardigan about her against the cold. The wind blew her hair about her face and she held it back with one hand as she leant against the rickety wooden gate. Before her a rough field led down to the river, and on the far side she could just make out the granite chimneys of the Buchanans’ house, half hidden in the trees. This must be part of the land Lorimer was so anxious to acquire.

  It didn’t look very special to Skye but on an impulse she climbed over the gate to have a closer look. It was too cold to stand still and she was too bored to get back in the car with its reminder of Moira in the glove box. It wasn’t as if there was any stock to disturb, and if Lorimer was ensconced in some warm farmhouse with Duncan McPherson he could hardly object if she took a brisk walk round the field.

  The turf was wet and springy beneath her feet and she soon began to regret not having boots to change into, but she plunged her hands into the pockets of her cardigan and soldiered on, enjoying the sharp wind against her face. It looked as if it had been raining recently up here, for the river was churning angrily against its banks, swirling dead branches and the odd tattered piece of plastic along with it.

  Skye went closer, impressed by its energy, and curious about the lump that had come to rest against the near bank, wedged between a gnarled tree root and a trapped branch. It was a sheep, she saw, and grimaced, assuming that it had been drowned. Poor old thing, it must have fallen into the river and been swept away.

  She was about to turn away when the sheep gave a feeble struggle. Caught by the branch, it couldn’t quite reach the bank, and its wool was so waterlogged that it could hardly keep its head above the rushing water. Skye hesitated, biting her lip. She should really go and find the farmer, but as that was presumably Duncan McPherson Lorimer wouldn’t thank her if she came bursting into the middle of his delicate negotiations. Besides, it might take ages to find them, and the wretched sheep looked on its last legs as it was. She couldn’t just walk away and leave it.

  Making up her mind, Skye slithered down the bank. She could see the occasional tell-tale imprint of a hoof but for the most part the bank had been trampled into a muddy mire and her shoes were already ruined.

  She edged closer to the water and leant out to try and get a grip on the sheep’s wool, but it was just too far away. There was nothing for it; she was going to have to get her feet wet.

  The water was freezing as she stepped gingerly into the river. Gritting her teeth, Skye took another step towards the sheep and promptly sank up to her waist as the mud slipped away beneath her.

  ‘Aagh! Aagh!’ For a minute, she could do nothing but shake her hands and gasp at the shock of the intense cold rushing through her clothes. Why hadn’t she at least taken her cardigan off? ‘Another case of not looking before you leap,’ she muttered grimly through chattering teeth. Oh, well, she was in now. She had better get on with it.

  Shivering violently, she waded over to the sheep and tried to pull it free of the branch, but her presence only served to panic it into a sudden struggle that entangled it even further and managed to submerge Skye completely in the process.

  She surfaced, choking and spluttering and swearing loudly. ‘I’m trying to help you, you stupid animal!’ It took some time, and several more dunkings, but at last she managed by a combination of pushing and dragging to get both sheep and branch to the bank where they lay equally motionless. Skye clambered out on to the mud after them, wheezing with effort.

  ‘Come on, you can’t die now,’ she gasped, staggering to her feet and bending down to haul the sheep further up the bank. Somewhere in the distance there was a shout, but Skye was too busy with the sodden, uncooperative sheep to hear. Swearing fluently, she wrapped both arms round it bodily, and as if suddenly realising that there was solid earth beneath it once more the sheep erupted without warning into life. One second it was a lump, barely alive, and the next it had shot out from between her hands and was up the bank and shambling across the field without so much as a thank-you.

  Thrown off balance by its sudden bolt, Skye staggered on the slippery mud, windmilling her arms like some pantomime act in a frantic attempt to stay upright, but her shoes were even wetter than the mud. They slid from beneath her and sent her crashing face down into the mud.

  For a long moment, Skye simply lay there, wondering whether, if she squeezed her eyes tightly enough closed, this might all turn out to be some horrible dream, but the cold, slimy mud pressing against her nose was all too real and with an exclamation of disgust she struggled to her feet, spitting out mud and flicking it from her fingers. She was plastered in it!

  ‘I hope you’re grateful, sheep,’ she muttered and lifted her head to see what had happened to it, only to find herself staring into two faces which wore identical expressions of incredulous exasperation. Lorimer was standing next to a tough, wiry-looking o
ld man with a lined, weather-beaten face and fierce white eyebrows, and they were both staring at her as if they didn’t want to believe what they were seeing.

  There was a frozen pause. ‘Hello,’ said Skye brightly. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. She offered them both her best smile, which was returned by neither. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Lorimer demanded through his teeth.

  ‘Well, there was this sheep, you see…’ Skye looked around for it as if to prove her story. It was standing in the middle of the field watching her with a decidedly suspicious expression. So much for gratitude.

  The farmer looked from Skye to the sheep incredulously. ‘You mean to say you jumped into the burn for that old bag of bones?’

  ‘She was drowning,’ Skye tried to explain. She knew that farmers were notoriously unsentimental, but this was ridiculous. ‘I couldn’t just leave her there.’ She glanced at the sheep once more. It was hard to believe that only a few minutes ago it had hardly been moving. ‘Do you think she’ll be right?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Duncan McPherson grunted and cast an unsympathetic glance at his sheep. ‘They’re tough.’ A touch of malicious amusement gleamed in his eyes as he turned his attention back to Skye. ‘Tougher than you, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘You’re shivering,’ said Lorimer abruptly. He stepped to the top of the bank and reached down his hand. ‘Come on out of there,’ he ordered with about as much sympathy as Duncan had shown his sheep. ‘God, what a mess!’ he said as Skye let herself be pulled inelegantly up the bank to stand beside him, sodden and filthy, her hair hanging in rat’s-tails about her face. His hand was warm and strong and infinitely reassuring and she wanted to cling to it, but Lorimer obviously couldn’t wait to let her go. Disconsolately, Skye wiped her hands against her trousers, but it only seemed to make things worse.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Duncan,’ said Lorimer, making a worthy if not altogether successful attempt to disguise his fury. ‘This is my… this is Skye Henderson.’