Page 4 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

He gestured towards a selection of my potted plants for sale. “Paperwhite narcissi. I always think they’re like mini white daffodils.” Then he turned. “And the daphne. Isn’t that beautiful?”

I smiled at him. “It is. I always think its reds light up beds and borders, particularly at this time of year.”

“Indeed, they do.”

I studied him – well, what I could see of him, which wasn’t much. “You seem to know your plants.”

“I’m a plant lover,” he confessed after a few moments’ pause. “And flower obsessed.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place.”

It was then that the man shot out one hand to his forehead. His voice became thin. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” He faltered a little on his feet.

I rushed closer to him. “Are you all right?” I reached for his arm.

“I’ve just come across a little dizzy.”

I led him behind the counter, to where there were a couple of chairs. “You sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

I went into the kitchen area beside my office and filled a glass from the tap.

When I returned, the man had thankfully remained seated, but he still hadn’t removed his hat, sunglasses or scarf. He thanked me for the water and took a grateful sip.

“Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

“Oh goodness me, no. I’m beginning to feel better already.”

I frowned down at him. “Are you sure?”

I lowered myself into the chair opposite him. “How did you get here? Did you drive?”

He nodded and took another mouthful of water. “I’ve taken up too much of your time already, miss.” He stood up and placed the glass on the counter, swaying a little.

I jumped up and angled him back down into his chair. “I think you should get checked out by a doctor.”

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, his voice growing stronger. “I’ve just been dashing about rather a lot, overdoing it.”

“Well, I don’t think you should drive.”

I could tell he was looking at me from behind his smoky sunglasses. “Perhaps you’re right. Better to be safe than sorry.”

At that moment, a lady in a thick cream coat came in and asked about our potted hesperantha. While I attended to her and rang up the purchase at the till, I could hear the mysterious man having a brief conversation behind me on his mobile. I was relieved to hear that it sounded like he was asking someone to come and collect him.

I thanked the woman and waved her off. I’d just turned the shop door sign to closed when there was a discreet knock on the door.

“Oh, that will be my lift home,” the man rushed, sounding relieved. He sprang up from his seat. “I’ll get that.”

“It’s all right,” I assured him. “I’ll answer it.”

I unlocked the door and opened it to find a tall, distinguished, middle-aged man decked out in full chauffeur regalia. “Sorry to trouble you, madam, but I’ve come to collect Mr King.”

From behind me, there came a resigned sigh.

The driver looked awkward, as though he’d said something he shouldn’t. He shuffled from foot to foot. “Oh hell! I’m sorry, sir.”

I turned around. “I take it you’re Mr King?”

My voice died.