I was there and heard it all.” Margo gripped the armrests of her chair until her knuckles whitened. “What I can’t believe is that you didn’t see through him in the first place.”
Mindy gave up trying to get rid of the chocolate. “You’d have fallen for him, too,” she snapped, scrunching the napkin in her hand. “If he’d—”
“What?” Margo shot to her feet. “If I were a flight attendant working first class and he’d sat in the last row—wearing a wink and a smile—and with his kilt oh-so-conveniently snagged in his seat belt?”
“It wasn’t like that. . . .” Mindy let the words trail off.
It had been like that and she was the greatest fool in the world for not seeing through his ploy.
But his dimpled smile had charmed her and he’d blushed, actually blushed , when she’d bent down to help him with the seat belt buckle and her fingers accidentally brushed a very naked part of him.
When the buckle sprang free and his kilt flipped up, revealing that nakedness, he’d appeared so embarrassed that accepting his dinner invitation seemed the least she could do to make him feel better.
He’d also been incredibly good- looking and had a way with words, even if he hadn’t had a Scottish burr. He could look at a woman and make her feel as if no other female in the world existed, and topping it all, he’d had a great sense of humor. And, besides, what girl with red blood in her veins could resist a man in a kilt?
What wasn’t to love?
Everything, she knew now.
Furious at herself, Mindy slid a glance at the hearth fire. A portrait of one of his ancestors hung there, claiming pride of place above the black marble mantel. An early MacNeil chieftain, or so Hunter had claimed, calling the man Bran of Barra , his was the only ancestral portrait in the castle that didn’t give Mindy the willies.
A big brawny man in full Highland regalia and with a shock of wild, auburn hair and a gorgeous red beard, he didn’t have the fierce-eyed glower worn by the other clan chieftains whose portraits lined the castle’s long gallery. His portrait—the very same one—hung there, too. It was his mirth- filled face that she always sought when she was convinced that the gazes of the other chieftains followed her every move.
Bran of Barra’s twinkling blue gaze looked elsewhere, somewhere inside his portrait that she couldn’t see. Yet she’d always felt that whatever held his attention, if he’d been aware of her ill ease, he’d turn her way. His eyes would twinkle even more and he’d say something bold and outrageous, guaranteed to make her smile. He’d been that sort of man; she just knew it.
Mindy took a breath.
She couldn’t help but compare Hunter with his rough-and-ready ancestor. Where Hunter would have chided her for her fears, Bran of Barra would’ve banished them.
Silly or not, he made her feel safe. Only by keeping her eyes on him could she flit through the endless, dark-paneled gallery without breaking out in goose bumps.
Sadly, his roguish smile now reminded her of Hunter’s.
Scowling again, she turned away from the portrait and curled her hands into tight fists. How fitting that Hunter had also dashed her only means of reaching the upper floors of the castle without having a heebiejeebies attack.
“You can get back at him, you know.” Margo stepped in front of her, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Have you thought about turning the castle into an esoteric center? I know the customers at Ye Olde Pagan Times would love to hold sessions here. Fussy as Hunter always was about image , he’d turn in his grave.”
Mindy stared at her. “Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? I’m selling the castle. I want nothing more than to get as far away from here as—”
“But you can’t!” Margo grabbed her arm, squeezing tight. “The castle’s haunted. I told you, I got an orb on a photo I took in the long gallery
Mindy gave up trying to get rid of the chocolate. “You’d have fallen for him, too,” she snapped, scrunching the napkin in her hand. “If he’d—”
“What?” Margo shot to her feet. “If I were a flight attendant working first class and he’d sat in the last row—wearing a wink and a smile—and with his kilt oh-so-conveniently snagged in his seat belt?”
“It wasn’t like that. . . .” Mindy let the words trail off.
It had been like that and she was the greatest fool in the world for not seeing through his ploy.
But his dimpled smile had charmed her and he’d blushed, actually blushed , when she’d bent down to help him with the seat belt buckle and her fingers accidentally brushed a very naked part of him.
When the buckle sprang free and his kilt flipped up, revealing that nakedness, he’d appeared so embarrassed that accepting his dinner invitation seemed the least she could do to make him feel better.
He’d also been incredibly good- looking and had a way with words, even if he hadn’t had a Scottish burr. He could look at a woman and make her feel as if no other female in the world existed, and topping it all, he’d had a great sense of humor. And, besides, what girl with red blood in her veins could resist a man in a kilt?
What wasn’t to love?
Everything, she knew now.
Furious at herself, Mindy slid a glance at the hearth fire. A portrait of one of his ancestors hung there, claiming pride of place above the black marble mantel. An early MacNeil chieftain, or so Hunter had claimed, calling the man Bran of Barra , his was the only ancestral portrait in the castle that didn’t give Mindy the willies.
A big brawny man in full Highland regalia and with a shock of wild, auburn hair and a gorgeous red beard, he didn’t have the fierce-eyed glower worn by the other clan chieftains whose portraits lined the castle’s long gallery. His portrait—the very same one—hung there, too. It was his mirth- filled face that she always sought when she was convinced that the gazes of the other chieftains followed her every move.
Bran of Barra’s twinkling blue gaze looked elsewhere, somewhere inside his portrait that she couldn’t see. Yet she’d always felt that whatever held his attention, if he’d been aware of her ill ease, he’d turn her way. His eyes would twinkle even more and he’d say something bold and outrageous, guaranteed to make her smile. He’d been that sort of man; she just knew it.
Mindy took a breath.
She couldn’t help but compare Hunter with his rough-and-ready ancestor. Where Hunter would have chided her for her fears, Bran of Barra would’ve banished them.
Silly or not, he made her feel safe. Only by keeping her eyes on him could she flit through the endless, dark-paneled gallery without breaking out in goose bumps.
Sadly, his roguish smile now reminded her of Hunter’s.
Scowling again, she turned away from the portrait and curled her hands into tight fists. How fitting that Hunter had also dashed her only means of reaching the upper floors of the castle without having a heebiejeebies attack.
“You can get back at him, you know.” Margo stepped in front of her, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Have you thought about turning the castle into an esoteric center? I know the customers at Ye Olde Pagan Times would love to hold sessions here. Fussy as Hunter always was about image , he’d turn in his grave.”
Mindy stared at her. “Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? I’m selling the castle. I want nothing more than to get as far away from here as—”
“But you can’t!” Margo grabbed her arm, squeezing tight. “The castle’s haunted. I told you, I got an orb on a photo I took in the long gallery
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