Page 29 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

My brother rubbed his shadowy red stubble. ‘Knowing that lot, money will be at the root of it.’ He stepped back into the confines of the annexe. ‘He’s always been full of it. Just ignore him and concentrate on this place.’

I gave Caleb an unconvincing nod, before pinning on a smile for Katie and Joe, who came ambling in. And as we chatted about our grand opening in a few days’ time, as well as enjoying some Danish pastries Katie had brought along with her, I knew I had to tell Mason about Alex Lapley turning up again.

‘I’ll give Mason a call and tell him what’s been going on,’ I said to Caleb as he prepared to leave.

His hazel eyes glittered. ‘I thought you weren’t interested in him.’

I fired a warning look. ‘I’m not.’ I edged a bit closer to the doorway. ‘Mason told me to ring him if Alex ever came sniffing around again.’

Caleb hitched his rucksack tighter over his shoulder. His red brows wriggled. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you and Crocodile Dundee?’

‘For pity’s sake, there isn’t,’ I insisted. ‘At least not in the way you mean.’ I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my black jeans, not knowing what to do with them. ‘It’s just all local gossip with no truth in it.’ I swallowed. ‘And you said Mason was spotted with a woman anyway.’ Caleb kept studying me, but I kept talking, realising I was trying to convince myself every bit as much as my brother. ‘Just believe me when I tell you Mason will want to know about Alex hanging around again.’

Caleb sighed. ‘All of this sounds like an episode of Scooby-Doo.’ Then he broke into a grin. ‘Does that make you Daphne and if so, Mason will be Fred?’

‘Enough with the attempt at humour.’

Once my brother vanished, I gave Mason a call and told him about the latest developments.

‘Why don’t you pop over to my place this afternoon?’ he asked.

I blinked in surprise at the end of the line. ‘Sorry?’

‘I’m waiting for a phone call at any moment from a TV producer friend of mine about this documentary I’m pushing about the Scarlet Highwayman and would prefer to take the call at home, if that’s okay.’

I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times. Mason had just invited me over to his flat. My heart did a weird squirm. I thought about what Caleb had told me about the mystery woman he’d been seen with. But then again, there was nothing between us, so what did that matter? I put my sensible head on. ‘Oh. Okay. Right.’

‘My address is Apartment 3, Chestnut Lane. Why don’t you come over at two and you can tell me everything then?’

Mason’s apartment was on the ground floor of the block, angled towards the edge of the harbour. McKerron Castle could be seen shooting upwards in all its crumbling greystone glory as it jutted out a little further along the coastal road. Its reflection shimmered on top of the expanse of ice-blue water. The block where Mason lived was built from butterscotch brick and each apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows and boasted a wrought-iron balcony.

My stomach somersaulted as I raised my hand to the entry system and pressed the circular silver button for Apartment 3. I tried to give myself a mental shake.

Remember to keep him at a distance, I lectured myself. One minute he’s going on about remaining single, and the next he’s seen taking evening strolls on the beach with some mystery woman. Maybe that was the same woman he had that dinner date with. He could be a player.

Not that it mattered to me whether he was or not. Mason could do what he liked. The important thing was that I wasn’t prepared to get caught up in his games.

There was silence at the other end of the intercom. Maybe he wasn’t in. Perhaps he was strolling along the beach with Darwin and his girlfriend. Again.

I bit back an irritated image of Mason and this faceless woman and then became even more frustrated with myself for giving the matter more thought in the first place.

A loud crackle made me jump. ‘Hello?’

I found myself tightening my swish of blonde ponytail and snatching a glance at my lipstick in the reflection of the chrome entry panel.

When I realised what I was doing, I gave myself a stern talking to. ‘Er … hi, Mason? It’s me. Poppy. Poppy Summers.’

‘Hi. Come on in.’

The glass entry door made a whooshing sound and I entered a squeaky-clean, dove-grey-and-white-carpeted hallway. As I turned the corner, Mason was already waiting for me at his apartment door.

His light-grey eyes bore into mine. ‘Please come in.’

I followed him into the apartment, which seemed to consist of mainly unopened boxes, a black-and-white marble kitchen cluttered with mismatched crockery and a sitting room in the midst of organised chaos.

Two bottle-green velvet armchairs sat at the main window, as if inspecting the craggy dips and lurches of the Port Starr landscape. Along the cream-painted back wall had been pushed a small, two-seater sofa. This too was of green velvet and was scattered with three plump black-and-white-striped cushions.

On one shelf sat a series of books, their spines boasting everything from biographies of Christopher Columbus and King Richard III to travel guides for France and the memoirs of Winston Churchill. There were even the odd Wilbur Smith and Dan Brown.