Page 61 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

‘You haven’t given me a chance! Get back in, and I’ll tell you.’

Mitch clanked down the car boot and we headed back round to our respective sides and jumped back in. It was lovely, getting back inside the warm, leather scented car, rather than being buffeted by the wind.

Mitch angled round in his driver seat to look at me. His lush, black lashes jutted.

‘She said yes.’

My mouth sprung open. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Nope.’

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Exhilaration shot through me. ‘You mean she said yes to exhibiting my grandma’s work?’

‘No, she said yes to my marriage proposal.’ He raised his eyes up to the cream ceiling of his car. ‘She said yes to exhibiting the paintings.’

I gawped out of the windscreen in shock. I turned back towards him, a slow, delighted smile breaking out across my face. ‘I don’t believe this. What on earth did you say? What spell did you put on her? It was Ruth Mangan you spoke to, right?’

‘If you stop asking questions for one second and let me explain.’ It was at this point, that I noticed Mitch squirm in his seat. ‘I showed her the three paintings…’

His voice had tailed off and he was having difficulty making eye contact with me.

‘So, tell me what she said about the paintings. Oh, this is good. Did she like them? Oh, of course she did.’

Mitch was nodding, but he wasn’t saying much. I was doing all the talking.

‘I’m thrilled,’ I burst out. ‘And I’m grateful. You have no idea. Thank you!’

Mitch managed a smile, but there was something that he seemed to be holding back.

‘So come on. Stop being so modest and tell me exactly what you said to this Ruth Mangan then. Did you use witchcraft or hypnotism? How did you succeed where we failed?’

Mitch fixed his alluring gaze through his windscreen. He appeared fascinated by the bright whiteness of the gallery wall.

‘Mitch?’

He angled his head to look at me and there were spots of pink on his cheekbones. ‘Now, I never told Ruth Mangan this or led her to believe it, okay?’

‘Believe what?’

Mitch looked like someone had stood on his foot. ‘Things have become a little complicated.’

‘In what way?’

He squirmed in his driver’s seat. ‘She thinks I painted those pictures.’

‘You?!’ I sat up straighter. ‘Are you joking? What did you say to her? You pretended you painted them?!’

‘You’re doing it again! Firing a volley of bloody questions at me!’ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I did not lie about painting those pictures. I’m not in the habit of going around passing myself off as Scotland’s answer to Constable.’

I squinted at him. ‘Then how the hell does she think you’re the artist?’

Mitch let out a rush of exasperated air. ‘I’ve no idea. You would need to ask her that. She just jumped to conclusions.’ He looked rueful. ‘She barely let me get a word in, rather like someone else sitting inches away from me.’

I glowered at him.

‘She just assumed I’d painted them, and the conversation carried on like that.’

‘And you didn’t think to try and tell her that you weren’t the artist, but Tilda Michaels was?’