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Suddenly, as she sifted through memories of the past half hour, something about Ian’s appearance surprised her. Though he was striking enough to be a film star, his clothes struck an odd note. The tweed jacket he wore was frayed at the cuffs and an inch too short for his long arms. His pants were wrinkled. Even his socks were mismatched.
It had been a very long time since a man had interested Bella in any way other than cerebrally. Ian Larrimore might have an impressive brain, but it wasn’t his IQ that was getting her all hot and bothered.
This was a very inconvenient time for her hormones to go haywire. She was here to work on her dissertation. To soak up the history hidden in the rocks and the hills, to immerse herself in the magic that was Scotland.
She definitely didn’t need a man to distract her from her goals.
Fortunately, Ian seemed set on making her dislike him from the start. When she went downstairs at six that evening to make herself a sandwich and a cup of tea, he showed up in the kitchen with an envelope in his hand. “This is for you,” he said, prowling around the small room with the old-fashioned appliances.
The envelope was full of twenty pound notes. She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
The man with the supposedly stratospheric IQ shrugged. “I don’t know how to cook. In London I order take away. That’s not really much of an option here in Portree. I can’t expect you to absorb the cost of feeding me. So I’m compensating you for your trouble and expense.”
Bella’s ire began to simmer. “You want me to feed you?”
Ian’s green-eyed gaze was guileless. “Well, if you’re going to prepare meals for yourself, I assumed it wouldn’t be that much of a bother to double the recipes. I’d be ever so grateful.”
Bella pushed her chair back from the table and stood, wishing she were half a foot taller so she could spit in his eye. “Unbelievable,” she said. “I’m a woman, therefore I must be willing and able to cook. Is that what you’re implying?”
“I meant no disrespect. The ability to cook is a valuable skill.”
“But a feminine one.” He should have been alarmed by the ice in her voice, but the poor man forged ahead anyway.
“Aye. It’s often the lasses who are best at it. I wouldn’t know. My own mum ran away when I was a young child. My father hired a combination nanny/housekeeper to look after us. She was no dab hand in the kitchen, I’ll tell you, but at least we didn’t go hungry.”
The fact that Ian had lost his mother at a young age just as Bella had lost hers slowed her down for half a second, but she was too riled up to make peace now. She shoved the puffy envelope against his chest, forcing him to grab for it. “Well, I suppose you’ll go hungry, Mr. Larrimore. I’m not your mother, your nanny, nor your housekeeper. So I’d suggest you learn how to fry an egg.”
