McGillivray's Mistress Page 13

  Oh God.

  Lachlan shut his eyes. No good. He could still almost feel her hands…

  He opened his eyes again and then—

  “Hey!” he yelped when she lopped off a piece and dropped it back in the bucket. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  Fiona looked up, then laughed at his outraged expression. “I used too much.”

  “Did not,” he muttered.

  Their gazes caught. Held. Good God she was beautiful. And vibrant. And sexy. Her eyes were wide and luminous. Her skin was golden with freckles and a wonderful all-encompassing blush. He could see a tiny pulse beating at the base of her throat. His gaze dropped to her hands. They were still—and touching the clay intimately.

  Lachlan shifted, cleared his throat, cracked a grin. “I hear we’re having an affair,” he said.

  The blush turned as red as her hair. “We’re not!”

  “I know that,” he said drily.

  But she didn’t even hear him. She was pacing now, waving her hands, color still brilliant in her cheeks. “It’s ridiculous! It’s because they saw you leaving here in the morning. They think you spent the night!”

  “I did.”

  “No. I mean they think you slept with me!”

  “Not a bad idea,” he murmured, watching as she went from one side of the room to the other, practically caroming off the walls.

  “The whole damn island thinks that I’m your mistress!” She came to a halt directly in front of him and glared.

  Lachlan shrugged and grinned. “Now there’s an even better idea!”

  Fiona punched him in the stomach.

  “Hey!” He coughed, then caught his breath, and looked at her closely.

  Fiona wasn’t looking at him. She had retreated swiftly behind her worktable again and was staring at the sculpture, a shuttered expression on her face.

  “Is that a no?” he teased after a moment, wondering what the hell was eating her, trying to get her to smile.

  But she didn’t smile. She ignored him, focusing intently and completely on the sculpture, using her thumbs to do something to its face.

  Smash it in? Lachlan wondered.

  “Maybe you could write a letter to the editor denying it?” he suggested lightly. “As I recall you were pretty big on letters to the editor.”

  “No.”

  “So, you mean there’s hope—” He grinned again.

  “Writing a letter wouldn’t work. Taking an ad wouldn’t work. Believe me, I already considered it.”

  She had? Being his mistress was that distasteful? Lachlan scowled.

  “Don’t draw your brows down like that,” Fiona said. “I can’t get this right if you do.”

  So he glared at her without drawing his brows down. He frowned and she worked. He fumed and she sculpted until finally she stopped and said, “That’s fine. Thanks a lot. You can go.”

  Like it was dismissal time. Annoyed, Lachlan stalked off and made quick work of getting dressed again. No cold shower necessary this time. Fiona had solved the problem all by herself.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said as he headed for the stairs. She was standing in the doorway to her studio.

  She shook her head. “Not necessary. I’m far enough along now. I don’t need to have you model anymore.”

  He considered that, then cocked his head and said with a lightness he didn’t feel, “You sure? I’m always happy to get naked for you.”

  If he’d hoped that would help, he was disappointed.

  At the sight of his grin, Fiona felt her jaw tighten further. “No thanks. We’re done. I’m sure.”

  THEY WERE FINISHED, just as she’d told him. But the truth was they’d never even really started.

  There had never been anything between her and Lachlan McGillivray—not in real life. Only in Fiona’s mind and in her heart.

  She’d wondered how to tell him about the rumor. She should have known he already knew. She should have known, too, what his reaction would be.

  Why not? Great idea! To him it undoubtedly was.

  To her it was simply painful because in her heart of hearts she wanted so much more.

  And she’d wanted Lachlan to want it, too.

  She’d fretted about it all morning. Then she’d got a grip. And now, blinking back stupid tears and grateful for her sunglasses, she marched determinedly up the hill to Carin’s shop.

  Carin beamed when Fiona came in. “I see Lachlan’s back,” she said cheerily.

  “I saw him comin’ from your place this morning,” Elaine added with a knowing wink.

  Fiona ignored them. “Can I use your computer to send a few e-mails?”

  Carin blinked at the lack of reply and the hard tone. “Yes, sure. But—” she paused and looked at Fiona closely. “Are you and Lachlan—”

  Fiona gritted her teeth.

  “Never mind. None of my business,” she said wisely. “None of my business at all.” She nodded toward the back room. “You know where it is. Go right ahead.”

  “Thanks. Will you show me how to do attachments?” Fiona had had very little reason to e-mail anyone. She’d never sent an attachment in her life.

  Today she was going to send four of them.

  Carin’s brows lifted. “Certainly,” she said and followed Fiona into the back room.

  “I’m sending out my portfolio,” Fiona told her. It was no secret. In fact, the more people who knew, the better. “David helped me get it together last night.”

  “Portfolio? For what?”

  “Art school. He said you might write me a letter of recommendation. He said Nathan might, too.”

  Carin looked momentarily taken aback. Then she said, “Of course. If that’s what you want. Isn’t this sudden? Are you sure? Did Lachlan—?”

  “This has nothing to do with Lachlan,” Fiona snapped. “This has to do with my life. Once upon a time I did have one! I had a life before Lachlan McGillivray came back to Pelican Cay.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And it’s not sudden. I’d hoped to go to art school years ago before Dad got sick. It’s just—it took David to make me see I needed to follow through.”

  “Of course,” Carin said, apparently convinced by her fervency. “I’ll certainly recommend you, and I know Nathan will, too. We’ll write the letters tonight. But—” she hesitated “—it’s awfully late in the year, you know.”

  “I know,” Fiona said. “I need to get started. Will you please show me what to do?”

  There were four e-mails to go out with portfolios attached. Applications to the three schools in England that David had recommended. And a fourth to the school in Italy she’d hoped to attend all those years ago.

  She couldn’t refuse to apply to the English schools. Not after all the help David had given her. But she didn’t want to go there if it gave David the wrong idea. She didn’t want to lead him on. So she applied to the Italian one as well. It was a good school, emphasizing sculpture. And if once upon a time its geographic proximity to Lachlan had appealed to her, now the attraction was that it was halfway across the world from Pelican Cay.

  She typed in the personal application letters she had written out in longhand that morning. Carin helped her attach the files with the photos David had taken of her work. They weren’t a lot but they were all—almost all—she had. They would have to do.

  She sent them out one after another, then let out a deep breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.

  “All done,” she said and stood up. “Thanks.” She even managed a smile for Carin and Elaine as she left the shop.

  She didn’t notice Carin and Elaine going to stand in the window and watch worriedly as she walked back down the street. And she was well out of earshot when Carin said, “I don’t know what he did, but I’d like to kick Lachlan McGillivray to Nassau and back.”

  “MY, YOU’RE UP EARLY.” Suzette blinked in surprise when she walked into the office at seven the next morning and found Lachlan already there, porin
g over some specs for an inn in St Maarten.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered and tipped back in his desk chair, scowling at the papers in his hand. Couldn’t focus on the damn specs, either.

  He’d been reading them, trying to make sense of them since five-thirty. He’d awakened, like clockwork at five, had known a moment’s eagerness to get up and head over to Fiona’s, and then had remembered he wasn’t going anymore.

  Good, he’d told himself and rolled over to try to go back to sleep. But it hadn’t happened. Fifteen minutes of tossing and turning was all he could stand. Then he got up, went for a swim, then came back and got to work. Tried to get to work.

  He tossed the papers on the desk and stood up. He needed something more physical. Like tearing down a building.

  He went to find his brother.

  Hugh, naturally, wasn’t up yet.

  He squinted blearily when Lachlan walked into his bedroom and jerked open the blinds “What are you doin’ here? Wha’ time is it? Don’t you ever knock?”

  “It’s seven-thirty. Up and at ’em.”

  For months Hugh had been trying to get Lachlan to help him tear down the old hut on the land he’d bought beside the cricket field so they could build a machine shop there.

  “I’ve got time now,” Lachlan said, kicking the bed frame. “And if you want me to knock, put a lock on your door.”

  Hugh scowled and pulled the sheet over his head. “Come back when it’s morning.”

  “If I don’t go there, I’ll dig in here.” Looking around at the mess that was his brother’s house, Lachlan could almost relish the prospect.

  Hugh groaned, then scrubbed his hands through his hair and over his face, and finally hauled himself up. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Fiona kick you out?”

  FIONA HAD NOT KICKED HIM OUT.

  But try telling Hugh that. Or anyone else.

  Lachlan understood very quickly the difficulty Fiona had had in convincing anyone that she and he were not having an affair. Everyone on Pelican Cay had their own answers to questions before they even asked.

  “What are you doing?” Molly asked when she’d come to work to find Lachlan ripping out a window frame.

  “What does it look like?” he growled.

  Molly grinned. “Like you’re frustrated. Fiona dump you, then?”

  “No, damn it. Fiona did not dump me!”

  But if Hugh and Molly didn’t believe it, neither did Carin or Nathan or Miss Saffron or Maurice and Estelle or any of the kids on his soccer team.

  When he yelled at them to pay attention for heaven’s sake, they just shook their heads and smiled at each other.

  “My aunt dumped him,” Peter Dunbar said knowledgeably.

  And Lacey Wolfe nodded. “My mother says it must’ve been something he did.”

  “Yeah, well,” Tom Dunbar dribbled the ball in a circle, “Aunt Fiona doesn’t need a boyfriend anyway. She might be goin’ to England. Or Italy.”

  Italy?

  “What’s with this Italy?” Lachlan demanded.

  But the kids didn’t know. So he went to the shop and asked Hugh and Molly.

  Hugh was as baffled as he was.

  But Molly was a woman, even though she was working on Hugh’s truck and had a streak of grease on her cheek and a baseball cap on her head. And women apparently understood these things genetically.

  “She’s applied to art school in Italy. It’s where she was hoping to go back before her dad got ill.”

  “Oh, yeah?” First he’d heard of it. But then, when it came to Fiona, he apparently hadn’t heard a lot. “Where in Italy?”

  He hadn’t heard of the school, but he knew the town. It wasn’t a long way from where he’d played soccer.

  “When was that?” he said, trying to do the arithmetic.

  “Maybe ten, eleven years ago,” Molly said.

  What if she’d gone to school there when he’d been just down the road? Would he have ever run into her? Would she have come to watch him play?

  Had she had any idea he was there?

  Probably not, he thought. If she had, she’d have steered clear of Italy! But second thoughts told him just the opposite. She must have known. Molly surely would have told her.

  And that meant…

  But even at his most egotistical, Lachlan couldn’t believe she’d applied to art school in Italy all those years ago because he was playing in goal twenty miles down the road.

  He stomped out, kicking the air compressor and almost breaking his toe in the process.

  “Cranky, isn’t he?” Molly said.

  “I would be, too,” Hugh said, “if Fiona’d kicked me out.”

  WITHIN DAYS, Fiona heard on the island telegraph, their affair was over.

  “You two didn’t last long, did you?” Nikki at the bakery asked. “What’d he do?”

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Carin demanded.

  “I know he’s my brother and I know he can be an idiot, and I realize you might not want to tell me,” Molly said, “but why did you kick him out?”

  Anything she answered, Fiona knew was going to be wrong.

  “Lachlan is going his way and I’m going mine,” she said. That seemed most diplomatic—and actually closest to the truth.

  Or it would have been if Lachlan hadn’t started turning up on her doorstep again and again.

  The first time she opened the door and found him standing there, a disarming grin on his handsome face, she’d been momentarily speechless. “What are you doing here?” she asked at last.

  “You mean you don’t want me to strip off my clothes and model for you?” His grin broadened at the sight of her mouth opening and closing like a fish. He shrugged. “Just thought you might like to come to the game today.”

  “The game?”

  “The soccer game,” he clarified patiently. “The island team. Boys and girls. The one I’m coaching at your suggestion. I thought you might like to watch us play. That’s all.”

  “Why now?” She hadn’t been to a game yet.

  “Because you haven’t been to a game yet,” he said. “And I think the kids would appreciate the support.” There was a brief twinkle in his eyes before they got a faraway look.

  ‘“People who are going to take advantage of local amenities,” he quoted from memory, “should be willing to contribute their skills—however meager—to the betterment of the island’s children.”’ He gave her a meaningful look. “Even if it only means you stand there and cheer.”

  “Yes, I…I see what you mean. I’ll…do that. Sometime. Not now. I have work to do now.” She started to close the door.

  “Got a new naked guy in the studio?”

  “I’m doing Lacey Wolfe. Fully clothed.”

  He grinned. “Glad to hear it. Well, another time then,” he gave her a wink and bounded off the porch leaving her staring after him.

  He stopped by late that evening to tell her about the game. “Thought you’d want to know we won,” he said and walked straight past her without an invitation and went into the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator, took out the jug and poured them each a glass of iced tea. Then he paced the room, glass in hand, describing the game in vivid detail.

  Fiona huddled against the counter, clutching Sparks in her arms, as she feasted her eyes on him at the same time she wished desperately that he would go away!

  “Your nephew Tom, he’s a good player. You should have come to watch him.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Next time then.”

  “We’ll see.” She hugged Sparks tighter as Lachlan leaned back against the counter and made no move to leave. “Why are you doing this?” she asked him at last. “The ‘affair’ business was dying down. It was over! And now here you are again.”

  “Maybe I’m hoping.”

  “Well, stop hoping!”

  He shook his head slowly. “No.”

  Over the next week he turned up relentlessly. He stopped in at Carin’s shop when s
he was working. He ate at the bakery when she was waiting tables. He followed along when she was out at low tide looking for material for The King of the Beach.

  Fiona did her best to remain polite but distant.

  She sold him trinkets at Carin’s. She poured his coffee at the bakery and declined the offer to share his key lime pie. She said somewhat testily that if he was going to follow her while she was scavenging he could make himself useful and carry things for her.

  “Sure,” he said and held out his arms.

  So she loaded him down with whatever she found and worked intently in an effort not to notice him.

  With water-torture-like patience Lachlan persisted.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” Fiona demanded.

  Lachlan nodded. “I’m doing what it takes to succeed,” he told her gravely and kept right on turning up in her life.

  To succeed? At what?

  The answer was obvious. He wanted her in his bed.

  And every day Fiona hoped desperately that she would get word from one of the schools she’d applied to. She didn’t know how much longer she could resist.

  A LESSER MAN would have thrown in the towel.

  A week went by, then two, then three. He stopped by her house, invited her along to games or to dinner, made it a point to stop and watch every day as she worked on her beloved King of the Beach. He even made himself useful lugging stuff she found that washed up on the tide.

  And while she never gave him any obvious encouragement, every now and then Lachlan felt a ray of hope.

  He’d give her credit for stubbornness. She was doing her best to ignore him. But that was just the point. If she’d treated him with the casual ease she treated all the other guys on the island—even Lord Bloody Grantham before he’d gone back to England, thank God, last week—Lachlan might have worried.

  But she didn’t.

  She got a little rigid and flustered whenever he came around. And he’d seen her watching him on the beach, at the bar, playing soccer—after his needling, she had actually come to a game or two—when she thought he didn’t notice.