in its original location somewhere on a bleak and windswept Hebridean isle, but on the crest of a thickly wooded hill not far from the quaint and pleasant antiquing mecca of New Hope, Pennsylvania.
Even so, the castle was a haven for hermits.
A recluse’s dream.
Only trouble was that Mindy had an entirely different idea of paradise.
White sand, palm trees, and sunshine came to mind. Soft fragrant breezes and—joy of joys—no need to ever dress warm again. A trace of cocoa butter tanning lotion and mai tais sipped at sunset.
A tropical sunset.
Almost there—in her mind, anyway—Mindy imagined the castle’s drafty drawing room falling away from her. Bit by bit, everything receded. The plaid carpet and each piece of clunky, carved-oak furniture, and even the heavy, dark blue curtains.
She took a step closer to the window and drew a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she inhaled not the damp scent of cold Bucks County rain and wet, dripping pinewoods but the heady perfume of frangipani and orchids.
And, because it was her dream, a whiff of fresh-ground Kona coffee.
“You should never have dated a passenger.”
“Agggh!” Mindy jumped, almost dropping the mint chocolate wafer she’d been about to pop into her mouth. She’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.
All thoughts of Hawaii vanished like a pricked balloon.
Whirling around, she returned the wafer to a delicate bone china plate on a tea tray and sent a pointed look across the room at her sister, Margo, her elder by all of one year.
“What of your watercooler romance with Mr. Computer Geek last year?” Mindy wiped her fingers on a napkin and then frowned when she only smeared the melted chocolate, making an even greater mess. “If I recall, he left you after less than six weeks.”
“We parted amicably.” Margo peered at her from a high wingback chair near the hearth. “Nor was it a watercooler affair . He only came by when the computers at Ye Olde Pagan Times went on the blink. And”—she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing in a way Mindy knew to dread—“neither did I move in with him. I didn’t even love him.”
Mindy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snorting.
It wouldn’t do to remind her sister that she’d sung a different tune last summer. As she did with every new Romeo that crossed her path, whether he chanced into the New Age shop where Margo worked, or she just stumbled into him on the street.
Margo Menlove was walking flypaper and men were the flies.
They just couldn’t resist her.
Not that Mindy minded.
Especially not when she was supposed to be mourning an unfaithful fiancé who’d choked to death on a fish bone during an intimate dinner with a Las Vegas showgirl.
A fiancé she now knew had had no intention of marrying her, had used her, and—much to her amazement— had left her his family’s displaced Scottish castle and a tidy sum of money to go along with it.
Generosity born of guilt, she was sure.
The naked pole dancer from Vegas hadn’t been Hunter MacNeil’s only mistress. Mindy had spotted at least three other possibles at the funeral.
They rose before her mind’s eye, each one sleazier than the other. Frowning, Mindy tried to banish them by scrubbing harder at the chocolate smears on her fingers. But even though their faces faded, her every indrawn breath suddenly felt like jagged ice shards cutting into tender places she should never have exposed.
She shuddered.
Margo noticed. “Don’t tell me you still care about the bastard?” She leaned forward, bristling. “He used you as a front! His lawyers all but told us he only needed you to meet the terms of his late parents’ will. That they’d worried about his excesses and made arrangements for him to lose everything unless he became a bulwark of the community, supporting their charities and marrying a good, decent girl!”
“Margo—”
“Don’t ‘Margo’ me.
Even so, the castle was a haven for hermits.
A recluse’s dream.
Only trouble was that Mindy had an entirely different idea of paradise.
White sand, palm trees, and sunshine came to mind. Soft fragrant breezes and—joy of joys—no need to ever dress warm again. A trace of cocoa butter tanning lotion and mai tais sipped at sunset.
A tropical sunset.
Almost there—in her mind, anyway—Mindy imagined the castle’s drafty drawing room falling away from her. Bit by bit, everything receded. The plaid carpet and each piece of clunky, carved-oak furniture, and even the heavy, dark blue curtains.
She took a step closer to the window and drew a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she inhaled not the damp scent of cold Bucks County rain and wet, dripping pinewoods but the heady perfume of frangipani and orchids.
And, because it was her dream, a whiff of fresh-ground Kona coffee.
“You should never have dated a passenger.”
“Agggh!” Mindy jumped, almost dropping the mint chocolate wafer she’d been about to pop into her mouth. She’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.
All thoughts of Hawaii vanished like a pricked balloon.
Whirling around, she returned the wafer to a delicate bone china plate on a tea tray and sent a pointed look across the room at her sister, Margo, her elder by all of one year.
“What of your watercooler romance with Mr. Computer Geek last year?” Mindy wiped her fingers on a napkin and then frowned when she only smeared the melted chocolate, making an even greater mess. “If I recall, he left you after less than six weeks.”
“We parted amicably.” Margo peered at her from a high wingback chair near the hearth. “Nor was it a watercooler affair . He only came by when the computers at Ye Olde Pagan Times went on the blink. And”—she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing in a way Mindy knew to dread—“neither did I move in with him. I didn’t even love him.”
Mindy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snorting.
It wouldn’t do to remind her sister that she’d sung a different tune last summer. As she did with every new Romeo that crossed her path, whether he chanced into the New Age shop where Margo worked, or she just stumbled into him on the street.
Margo Menlove was walking flypaper and men were the flies.
They just couldn’t resist her.
Not that Mindy minded.
Especially not when she was supposed to be mourning an unfaithful fiancé who’d choked to death on a fish bone during an intimate dinner with a Las Vegas showgirl.
A fiancé she now knew had had no intention of marrying her, had used her, and—much to her amazement— had left her his family’s displaced Scottish castle and a tidy sum of money to go along with it.
Generosity born of guilt, she was sure.
The naked pole dancer from Vegas hadn’t been Hunter MacNeil’s only mistress. Mindy had spotted at least three other possibles at the funeral.
They rose before her mind’s eye, each one sleazier than the other. Frowning, Mindy tried to banish them by scrubbing harder at the chocolate smears on her fingers. But even though their faces faded, her every indrawn breath suddenly felt like jagged ice shards cutting into tender places she should never have exposed.
She shuddered.
Margo noticed. “Don’t tell me you still care about the bastard?” She leaned forward, bristling. “He used you as a front! His lawyers all but told us he only needed you to meet the terms of his late parents’ will. That they’d worried about his excesses and made arrangements for him to lose everything unless he became a bulwark of the community, supporting their charities and marrying a good, decent girl!”
“Margo—”
“Don’t ‘Margo’ me.
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