Page 59 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

There was a sizzling silence between us. Then Zach seemed to recover himself. “Some of these entitled families like the Temple-Davenports are only concerned with one thing – themselves – and sod the little people. They make me sick.”

I landed back in reality with a fierce bump. I squirmed in my kitchen chair and made a show of tackling one of the crispy spring rolls. Zach sounded so disgusted, and rightly so, but not every titled family behaved that way. The idea he’d think that kept punching me in the chest. I realised I wanted to prove to him that there are always exceptions.

I decided to change the subject. “You haven’t said much about your background,” I faltered, trying to keep my voice steady. As soon as I said it, I realised with a huge bolt of hypocrisy that I hadn’t either.

I’d read up about Zach online, of course, but hoped I could keep that to myself. I didn’t want him thinking I was checking him out.

Zach’s fork hovered in mid-air. “There isn’t much to tell. I’m from St John’s Wood in London.” He took a sip of his iced water. “My late father was a journalist and my mother writes historical romances, so I suppose writings in my blood.”

I wondered if he was intending on saying more, but he snatched up his glass of water, took a thoughtful gulp, and returned to safer ground. “So, what about you? What’s your life story?”

I stiffened in my seat. “There isn’t much to tell. My parents and brother live in Edinburgh.”

Zach’s expression urged me to reveal more.

I stifled a pang of worry. “My mother undertakes a bit of charity work, my father retired after years being involved in land management, and I’ve just the one brother, who you met.” Again, I didn’t mention Marcus by name. The less personal information I furnished Zach with, the better.

“What does your brother do?” he asked, taking another spoonful of rice.

Oh God. All these questions. “He works in marketing.”

“Oh, whereabouts?”

“Edinburgh,” I answered vaguely, desperate to reroute the line of questioning. I daren’t give Zach any more details, otherwise he could look up my brother online and soon the trail would lead to the Bollinger Babe – and me.

“Does he enjoy it?”

“Oh, he loves it.”

All I wanted to do was divert any more questions away from my background. This was getting too close for comfort. I felt like I was skirting around the edges; prodding at a wound that at any time could burst open again. I moved the chat on. “Heather Moore is pretty, isn’t it? The scenery’s so spectacular and dramatic. It seems to change all the time and you always see something new.”

“So, you and your brother are both creative types then?”

Oh shit. We’re back to talking about me. I forced a smile. “Yes, I like to think so.”

Zach appraised me over the Chinese takeaway and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t probe any further, but he changed the subject.

“Oh, I forgot to say, I’ve had another interesting tip-off about Ezra King, and this time it seems legit.”

Inwardly, my stomach plummeted. I’d thought, or at least hoped, the Ezra saga might be dead in the water.

I forced a pleasant, curious tone. “Oh, yes?”

“Yes.” He flexed his brows. “As it turns out, my visit to Joan Webber’s house wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

A sliver of worry jabbed at me. “What do you mean?”

“She’s given me a pretty good steer on where exactly Ezra King lives.”

“Joan told you this?”

With Joan, if it didn’t have udders, she usually wasn’t interested.

Zach nodded. “Some local lad has been doing some work on her land. He previously worked on Ezra King’s house as a labourer, and Joan overheard him bragging about it to one of her farm hands.”

Shit. I could feel the colour draining from my face.

Zach examined me from under his brows. “Are you ok, Bailey? You’ve gone a bit pale…”