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Chapter Two
Bella kept the chain fastened and peeked through the opening at the large, agitated man on her doorstep. She knew the town of Portree was about as safe as any place on the planet. Still, she wasn’t inclined to be naïve when a stranger showed up demanding entrance.
“Hurry,” the man said, looking frantically over his shoulder. “I know your brother. I bought a motorcycle from him. Finley knows I’m here. I’m harmless, I swear. For God’s sake, let me in!”
Maybe it was the urgency in the man’s voice or the wonderful Scottish cadence of his speech. Perhaps it was hearing her brother’s name. Whatever the reason, Bella slipped the chain free of its mooring and opened the door. The tall lanky man brushed past her, his gaze darting around the room.
“You’d better hide out in the kitchen,” she said calmly. “Who exactly is after you?”
“Reporters.” He shuddered, his expression hunted.
“Right…” She drawled the word, wondering if her unexpected guest suffered from mental health issues. He made a definite impression, not only for his height and odd circumstances, but because he was gorgeous. There was no other way to describe it. His thick chestnut hair had a little cowlick at the crown. It was shaggy as if he needed a haircut.
Eyes the color of moss were framed in thick dark lashes. Broad shoulders strained the seams of a forest-green Henley shirt. He looked like the kind of man who could climb a mountain or tunnel out of a prisoner-of-war camp in an old movie. In other words, not her type at all.
Cataloging her guest’s features had to be put on hold when a ferocious knocking at the door made her wince.
The mystery man grabbed both of her hands in his, the grip firm and warm. “I beg you, Finley’s sister. For the love of God, give me asylum.”
Staring into those eyes made her pulse flutter. Refusing to be won over by something so superficial as masculine charm, she cocked her head toward the kitchen doorway. “Stay in there. Don’t make a sound.”
When he disappeared, she wiped her palms on the legs of her jeans and took a deep breath. This time she opened the door all the way as if she had nothing to hide. “May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
Two short, stocky men carrying fancy cameras stared past her intently. The professional-grade lenses of their cameras were huge. They could probably see footsteps on the moon. Or photograph film stars frolicking nude on a hidden beach. Bella had been a child when Princess Diana died fleeing paparazzi. She didn’t know what her mystery guest had done to deserve this treatment, but in an instant, she was on his side.
Bella repeated her question. “May I help you?”
“We’re looking for a bloke. Six three, brown hair, green eyes.”
She smiled gently. “Sounds hard to miss. But sorry. I can’t help you.” She settled herself in the doorway more deliberately as the men became restive.
One of them frowned. “Are you saying you haven’t seen him? He was running up this hill, and yours is the only house up here.”
“I would think if he were being chased…” She lifted her nose and grimaced. “He could have doubled back and headed down to the harbor. We’ve all sorts of boats down there, you know. I imagine your quarry is out on the water and long gone by now.”
For the first time, the reporters looked crestfallen, but no more so than the gaggle of women standing behind them. “You swear you haven’t seen him?”
Under oath, or confronted with a uniformed officer, she might have replied differently. Given the circumstances, she chose to sin by omission. “Good day, gentlemen. And good luck with your hunt.”
Then she closed the door in their faces. Leaning her back against it, she ran a trembling hand over her damp forehead. “You can come out now,” she said.
Her fugitive returned from the kitchen, his body language a mix of sheepish relief and guilt. “Thank you, Finley’s sister. You’ve saved me. I’m Ian Larrimore.”
She pointed at an armchair by the fireplace. “Sit there and don’t move a muscle until I’ve talked to my brother.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His hangdog expression was patently false. Nevertheless, he did as she asked.
Finley answered on the third ring, his voice slightly grumpy. Bella didn’t care. Finley had a bad habit of playing matchmaker where his little sister was concerned. If this was one of his elaborate schemes to put eligible men in her path, she would nip that in the bud immediately.
Ian picked up a magazine and flipped through it, seemingly unconcerned. Bella stepped into the kitchen and lowered her voice, keeping an eye on the intruder. “What’s going on, Finley? There’s a man here who claims he knows you. Ian Larrimore? Does that ring a bell?”
“Of course it does.”
“Tell me the truth. Is this a set-up? Did you think I was going to be lonely here without you?”
“Ian’s in trouble,” Finley said, clearly avoiding the question. “I told him he could lay low for a few weeks in the guest room.”
On the surface, the explanation seemed feasible. Finley’s home was listed on the island’s B&B registry. At Finley’s suggestion, Bella was sleeping in the master suite while bride and groom were traveling, so the guest room was available. Still, Bella was suspicious.
