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Chapter Three
Ian winced as the kitchen door slammed hard enough to rattle the glassware in the cabinets. What had he said to upset her?
Slumping into a chair at the table, he drummed his fingers on the scratched wooden surface. This was his punishment for trying to run away from the insane press attention in London. Now here he was, trapped in a small house in the back of beyond with a woman who thought he was an idiot.
He never had been very good at personal relationships. His father raised him mostly in absentia, and the old man definitely hadn’t believed in coddling children. Ian had spent a lot of time on his own, particularly after he was old enough to dispense with the babysitter after school.
His stomach growled loudly, dragging him back to the present. He pondered his choices. There were a number of nice seafood restaurants in Portree. But after today’s harrowing sprint, he wasn’t yet ready to tangle with the paparazzi again. That meant invading lovely Bella’s refrigerator without an invitation. He had already incurred her displeasure. Surely this would be a minor infraction.
Even after raiding the fridge, his choices were limited. Either Bella subsisted on yogurt and Swiss cheese, or she went out for many of her meals. Fortunately, she had apparently brought her own stash of peanut butter, which Ian had learned to love while in the States. In the end, he fixed himself two PB&J sandwiches with strawberry jam and washed them down with a large glass of milk.
When he was done, he decided to go for a run. It was almost dark. No one would bother him. Then he remembered that his gear was still in his car. Hell. Now he had no choice but to retrieve his things. He would need to go and come on foot. To move the car to Bella’s driveway would be the equivalent of a huge neon sign announcing his presence.
Even accessing his car in the dark was taking a chance.
Fortunately, the cluster of reporters who had followed him from Inverness must have been convinced he had left by boat or else they were too tired to venture out at night. Ian was able to unlock the boot of his car and grab his two bags without incident.
He trudged back up the hill to Finley’s house wondering why the man hadn’t bothered to tell his lovely sister he had issued an invitation to the most hunted man in the UK at the moment. Ian snorted aloud, incredulous that his life had come to this. He should have stayed in London, perhaps, but he was tired of holing up in his flat. He missed the days when he could run and bike and walk in pleasant anonymity. One bloody magazine article and now his whole ordered existence was shot to hell.
The house was dark when he returned. He had left the front door unlocked, since he didn’t yet have a key. His hostess’s room was on the third level of the dwelling, so he had no way of knowing if she was still awake or not.
The structure was built into the side of a hill. At one time it might have been two separate houses. Now it jumbled together drunkenly, as if trying to climb the incline on its own.
He changed clothes and laced up his shoes. Despite the hour, adrenaline surged in his veins. He felt as if he could run a marathon.
The small town of Portree was built like an elongated bowl, sliding from higher ground all the way down to the harbor. Ian pushed himself hard, relishing the punishing elevation changes. Sweat dampened his shirt. His heart pounded in his chest. Every bit of accumulated frustration he’d endured in the days since the article was published gradually winnowed away.
In the dark crystal-clear night, he found a measure of peace.
When he was spent, he made the climb back up to Finley’s house. It didn’t take a genius to know that part of his earlier mood could be attributed to sexual frustration. He wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed one-night stands. They left him feeling empty inside, despite the physical release.
On the other hand, he rarely had the time or the inclination to invest in a relationship with the kind of woman who might stick around. That meant he usually immersed himself in his work until he was too exhausted to do more than fall into bed and go to sleep.
Staying in Finley’s house presented a new problem. In many ways, it was perfect. He had managed to elude reporters for the moment. Unlike London, the Isle of Skye was peaceful and charming, a low-key environment that lent itself to serious endeavors.
But what was he going to do about Bella?
His reluctant hostess was prickly and argumentative and sexy as hell. Already, she fascinated him. Was there a boyfriend in the picture?
After he showered and eventually climbed beneath the covers, he found himself fixated on the image of his housemate upstairs in her own bed. Was she nude? Did she sleep in frilly, feminine nighties? Her skin was fair, smooth as a magnolia blossom. The faint hint of a southern belle accent made him wonder what her husky voice would sound like in the throes of passion… calling out his name.
He shifted on the mattress and cursed. With one snippet of a fantasy, he had erased all the benefits of his run. He was hard now… everywhere. And he ached for a woman. One particular woman with the face of an angel and the personality of a cactus. Taking matters into his own hands, he found release and drifted at last into a restless sleep.
* * *
Bella awoke at dawn feeling guilty. The fact that she felt guilty made her mad. Every morning since her brother and McKenzie had left on their honeymoon, Bella had awakened in perfect harmony with the world in general and the little hamlet of Portree in particular.
She had sipped her tea and jotted notes and played with the adorable Cinnamon. Now everything was ruined.
An apology was in order, though there was a good chance it might stick in her throat. Finley had invited his friend to stay. Fair or not, that was the reality. In Finley’s absence, Bella was the de facto host. She had been touchy and rude yesterday, and she needed to make amends.
By the time Ian appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, yawning and stretching, she had rehearsed her speech a dozen times. When she saw her houseguest, her stomach curled and she caught her breath. Holy Queen of Scots. He was all warm and rumpled and sleepy-eyed. She wanted to gobble him up or wrestle him to the ground and kiss him from head to toe.
The man was a walking, talking romance hero. That was saying a lot coming from a woman who didn’t believe in romance. She cleared her throat and tried to ignore the way his faded jeans rode low on his narrow hips. Today’s soft Henley shirt was baby blue.
“Good morning, Ian,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve fixed sausage and eggs. There’s plenty for two. May I serve you a plate?”
He blinked owlishly. “Umm…”
