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I was cold and tired and basically homeless, but I couldn’t feel too upset about my misfortunes. This evening was the most excitement I’d had in my life for far too long. I’d been a model daughter…a model citizen for that matter. People respected me and relied on me. My friends, even the ones who didn’t go as far back in my history as Hayley and Willow, knew they could count on me in a crisis. Never once had I done anything truly reckless.
Now here I was, doubling on a wicked Harley-Davidson with Temptation himself. Already I could imagine the two of us taking long walks on a storm-washed beach. Or listening to classical music in a cozy room while I edited my photographs and Finley smoked a pipe. The image made me chuckle. Willow and I thought Hayley was naïve, but I was something far more dangerous. I was a dream weaver. A teller of tales.
Rarely did I allow anyone to see that side of me. Not even my two best friends. My imagination had kept me company during long years as an only child. Whenever I was sad that my parents weren’t around, I invented cousins and exotic aunts and uncles who whisked me away for weekends in Paris. Or long summer vacations at a cottage on the coast.
Without warning, Finley braked and put his feet on the ground, keeping us upright. I think I was practically asleep when the motorcycle crested a hill and we looked down on the lights of Portree. The small town sat like an elongated bowl, sweeping down to the harbor. From our vantage point, I could see the waterfront and the line of businesses and restaurants where I had eaten dinner earlier. The facades were painted in colorful shades reminiscent of Rainbow Row in Charleston, South Carolina.
I wondered if Finley was planning to make good on his assertion that a fellow townsman could vouch for him. We wound down the hill at a sedate speed. Finley parked the bike and helped me off. I handed over the helmet and fussed with my hair. He insisted no one would bother my carry-on, but I wanted my tote.
When he held my elbow as we walked down a flight of stone stairs, I didn’t fuss. A broken ankle would be no way to start my adventure. Soon we were standing in front of a familiar building.
“They’re closed,” I said, pointing at the sign in the window.
“He’ll still be here cleaning up and doing prep for tomorrow.” Finley used his fist to drum a tattoo on the glass. Moments later, a man I recognized peeked out from a hallway at the back of the room and hurried to open the door for us.
Finley ushered me inside. “McKenzie, this chap is Hamish Doune. We’ve know each other for a decade. Tell her, Hamish. Tell her I have a respectable room to rent. Tell her I’m not a threat.”
The restaurateur was a giant of a man with big hands that, incongruously, held a bleached muslin dishcloth. He dried his fingers slowly, his gaze darting from Finley to me and back again. “A threat?”
I perched on a barstool. My legs were quivery. It had been a long day with no prospect of bed anytime soon. “I’ve rented Cedric McCracken’s house for the month. When I arrived, the place was a mess. Apparently, he forgot I was coming.”
Hamish winced. “Aye…the dementia. He’s gone to Glasgow, I heard. With his daughter.”
Finley had been right. Portree was a small town with no secrets. I nodded. “The cottage is actually unlivable at the moment. I’m sure I can find a heavy cleaning service…can’t I? Mr. Craig has offered to let me stay with him until the house is fit to be occupied.”
Without asking, Hamish poured three shots of whiskey and passed one to me before handing Finley a small glass. “Sláinte!”
Finley leaned against the bar. Hamish lounged in the doorway that led to the back. In unison, the two men tilted their heads and knocked back the liquor with a shudder and a sigh of appreciation.
I stared at the small serving of amber liquid. On many occasions I had ordered fancy cocktails in flawless French. In Paris. And not to boast, but I was somewhat of a wine connoisseur when it came to Italian vintages. I confess, though, that I had never particularly enjoyed hard spirits.
Hamish grinned, noting my ambivalence. “Try it, lass. There’s none like it for miles. This is my private stash. For VIPs only.”
Finley only smiled, raising my temperature and making me dizzy.
With the two men staring at me, I could either plead abstinence or be rude or drink the damn stuff. With a quick prayer for luck, I downed the whiskey and thumped the glass on the bar.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then a nuclear warhead went off in my stomach. It had been several hours since dinner, so my belly was empty. Hamish’s whiskey was potent stuff. My eyes watered. My face turned red. I felt a little queasy.
“Very nice,” I said primly.
Both men roared with laughter. I merely held out my glass and said, “One more for the road?”
Hamish blinked. Finley glared. “Don’t you dare. I’m not carrying you up to the guest room.”
Even Hamish turned red this time. He frowned at Finley. “Don’t go propositioning the lass. She’s a visitor to our fair isle. We must treat her with care and respect.”
Hamish looked at me, his expression cajoling. “Forgive him, lass. He has a bit of the devil in him, but there’s no finer man on Skye. Finley doesn’t take in tourists on a regular basis, but if he’s offered you a room for a few nights, it’s an invitation with no strings attached. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”
