Page 12 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

Chapter Three

My indignation spiked. Who the hell did he think he was?

I didn’t even know his name. I didn’t know anything about him. Yet he was asking to tag along with me on the drive to Scotland?

Ok, I thought with a stab of irritation. He was a treat for the eyes.

But to just invite himself along on my journey back to Strath Ross? The damned cheek!

Part of me did appreciate his intervention earlier, but the other part – the petty part – wished he’d let me chuck that drink over Fox.

I stared up, struggling to comprehend the boldness of this man. ‘You’re not backwards in coming forwards, are you?’

‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get.’

From the front of the manor, I could hear gaiety and the slamming of taxi cab doors.

Strobes of sunlight sifted through his dark hair, illuminating shoots of blue.

‘But I don’t know you,’ I blustered. ‘You could be anyone.’

‘Evan Lord,’ he replied, extending a hand.

I shook hands with him. ‘I’m Daisy Madden.’ He had elegant long fingers. I withdrew my hand as fast as I could under his intense gaze.

He fished his wallet out of the lining of his fancy suit jacket, produced a business card and handed it to me. His name, email address and other contact details were on it. It also said he was a freelance journalist.

I gave it a flap. Today wasn’t working out as I’d planned. All I wanted was to jump into Marlene and head back to Scotland, enjoying my own company and brooding over where my acting career was going or not going.

I realised I was studying him a little too long. I snapped my attention back to his business card and mentally scurried around, latching onto any excuse I could so as not to agree to him becoming my passenger. ‘You could’ve stolen this,’ I insisted. ‘There’s no proof this is yours. I’ve only got your word for it.’

Evan Lord’s mouth twitched. ‘Have you actually seen who was at this shindig? If I was a thief, you really think I’d be ignoring the bling being flashed around in favour of a business card?’

I scowled up at him. Was he laughing at me?

He sighed. ‘You’re still not convinced, are you?’ His eyes widened. ‘Wait! I’ve got my passport with me. It’s in my case in the cloak room. Come with me.’

I opened my mouth to protest, but I found myself being steered around, back through the kitchen door and along the great hall, to the mobile cloak room.

There was an attractive young woman with a long, dark plait handing stragglers their jackets. When she saw Evan smiling at her, her face lit up. It looked like he had that effect on a lot of women. Probably one of those shallow charmers. Another Leon, I concluded.

‘Excuse me. Could I have my case, please?’ he asked.

‘Of course, sir. Do you have your cloakroom ticket handy?’

Evan retrieved his wallet and pulled from it a pink ticket with the number fifty-eight printed on it.

The cloakroom attendant moved to the left, bent over and fetched Evan’s case. It was a plush, leather effort.

Evan thanked her and moved it over the desk. Around us, the final partygoers were saying long goodbyes to friends and associates.

Evan deposited his case on the grand hall tiled floor, unzipped the front pocket and slid out his passport. ‘There you go.’

He handed it to me. I stared down at the shiny navy-blue leather document in my hand. Who did he think I was? Passport Control?!

Feeling self-conscious under his burning gaze, I concentrated my attention on his passport and flipped through the pages.

I located his photograph and personal details.