Page 92 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

My mouth turned to sandpaper, but I managed a casual shrug. ‘Er. Yes. Of course.’ I eyed him. ‘You started reading the journal yet?’

‘Almost finished it. Couldn’t put it down. Poor girl. What a life she had.’ Evan drew a little closer. ‘So now there’s no excuse not to start pulling together this script between us straight away.’

‘Yes, good idea.’ I tried to compose myself. He stood there, holding me to the spot from under his lashes. His attention glided from the top of my head to rest on my mouth.

I’d been an idiot, I realised with a sudden, embarrassed jolt. I hadn’t thought this through. The way he was looming over me, his jaw set like that. My frustration grew. What was with all the hot looks and the flirty voice? The sudden charm offensive? Was this some sort of game to him? Did he find it amusing, playing with people’s feelings? Sacha one minute and me the next? Had he noticed Dane flirting with me and got annoyed?

If Evan thought for one minute that he could play me like a violin, he was mistaken! I’d had enough of that with Leon.

My emotions kicked in with such force I couldn’t help myself. ‘You’re infuriating!’ I burst out.

Evan didn’t flinch. He just stayed where he was, his muscular, right arm propped on the bannister. ‘What’s the problem?’

I folded my arms. Heat seared in my cheeks. ‘There isn’t one.’

He raised his brows. ‘You could’ve fooled me.’

I didn’t want to be standing here, subjected to Evan’s penetrating attention. ‘Well, you’re mistaken,’ I replied in a strange, croaky voice.

‘Then why did you just tell me I’m infuriating?’

Another question shot out of me, before I could help myself. ‘Aren’t you preoccupied with Sacha? I would’ve thought you’d be too busy to work on the script.’

As soon as I’d said it, I wanted to shrivel away to dust on the staircase. What the hell had made me say that? I sounded petulant; jealous even. The thought pricked me over and over. This wasn’t like me.

Evan offered me a slow, wolfish smile that made my legs tremble. ‘Jealous?’

I hugged myself so tight it was like I was wearing a straitjacket. A weird laugh shot out of me. ‘Me? Jealous? As if!’ I pushed out my chin. ‘Right, so, we need to get cracking on this script.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘But I want to contact Cayla first.’

Evan shook his head. ‘I’ve got other deadline commitments, so I suggest we make a start on the script now. You can tell her that things are in hand then. Looks more professional.’

I moved to disagree, but Evan was already striding towards the study.

‘Well?’ he called over. ‘Care to join me? No time like the present.’

I bared my teeth at him and followed.

* * *

For the next few days, we toiled over a script outline. We began with Florence’s young life, her being taught to read and write by the kind piano teacher; then we detailed her interactions with Evan’s great-great-grandparents, the vase going missing and Florence being blamed; then her fledgling acting career floundering as a result; and finally her untimely death.

To my surprise, we worked well together. We bantered and joked, swapped ideas, disagreed politely and agreed with enthusiasm. I’d been sure the process would be a painful one, but instead Evan embraced the task, followed my lead and put forward some good ideas and suggestions.

It was still a relief, though, when the finished script was lying in front of us. But there it was nonetheless, all pulled together and telling Florence’s life story.

‘I’ll type this lot up now,’ volunteered Evan. ‘I’m good with my hands.’ He gave me a loaded look.

He was doing this deliberately.

I found myself hurrying off back up the stairs towards my room. My face was sizzling.

It was as if I wasn’t in control anymore of what I was thinking and saying. What had happened to all the promises I’d made myself after Leon? I’d meant every word at the time, but now it was as though they’d vanished, and I couldn’t even remember half of them anyway! ‘I’ll call Cayla now,’ I shouted over the top of the stairs, hoping my voice didn’t sound strangulated.

Waves of relief crashed over me as I clattered my guest room door closed behind me. I took a few gulps of air. Had I made a gigantic mistake, suggesting the Florence tour in the first place? I hadn’t thought of the ramifications of it. It was all well and good bringing in some extra revenue for The Ramblings and trying to restore Cayla’s belief in her acting, but I hadn’t thought about what that might mean for me where Evan was concerned.