“Dad,” she managed.
Nathaniel had thought he was past surprise, but obviously he was not. He stepped back from the man striding out of the elevator, and he never stepped back from anything.
“Emma, what are you doing here in Manhattan?” the man demanded. “You’re supposed to be in Scotland.”
“Ah—”
Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck on the off chance someone had mistaken his unthinking motion for what it was—reaching for a nonexistent sword strapped to his back—then held that hand out toward Emma’s father.
“Nathaniel MacLeod,” he said briskly. “And you must be Emma’s father.”
“Frank,” Emma managed. “Frank Baxter. My father. Dad, this is Nathaniel MacLeod.”
“A pleasure,” Nathaniel said smoothly.
Frank Baxter sized him up with a brutality that Nathaniel couldn’t help but admire. If he’d been a lesser man or perhaps encountered Emma’s father at a different point in his life, he might have been pleased to have that sort of adversary to take on. At the moment, he was simply satisfied to let the man have his look and not give any ground.
He was, however, happy he’d bothered to comb his hair and do a decent job on the knot of his tie.
Emma’s father grunted, dismissed him without comment, then turned back to his daughter.
“What are you doing here,” he repeated, “and not in Scotland where you’re supposed to be?”
Nathaniel looked at Emma and winced. She looked as if she’d just walked into a clutch of medieval Highlanders who had decided she might make a good addition to the fire they already had going. He supposed he’d spent too much time in an environment where split-second decisions, made without regret, were the order of the day, but apologies could be made later. He stepped between Emma and her father, put his hand on her back and guided her into the elevator, then stepped inside himself. He turned and favored her father with his chilliest smile.
The man had, after all, destroyed a ’67 Jag. Unforgivable, really.
“Wait one min—”
The doors closed. Nathaniel supposed he was fortunate Frank Baxter hadn’t shoved his hand between them to keep them from closing, but perhaps things were looking up. He looked at Emma.
“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it in the slightest.
“He’ll be waiting,” she warned.
“One could hope,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll watch you have him for lunch later. We’ve got breakfast to face first.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a very good smile. “He does business here quite often, but I never would have expected to see him here this morning.” She took a deep breath. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“I’m quite sure you’ll return the favor at some point.”
“Well, I have been well-trained in the art of the dirk.”
“See?” he said pleasantly. “You’re just waiting for the right opportunity to exercise your prodigious skills.” He smoothed his tie down and buttoned his suit coat. “I will be your second, of course, standing just behind you whilst offering helpful suggestions in my best Windsor-approved poshness that I use when I want to intimidate. Your father will be bleeding from the crispness of my consonants alone.”
Her smile was a bit better that time. “What do you use with the gold diggers who hunt you?”
“Cockney, lass. Throws them off.”
She smiled. “And with Grandfather?”
“A bit o’ the old Gordie,” he said. “I learnt it from Brian, of course, who cut his teeth on the same from his da in Glasgow. Drives Lord Poindexter absolutely to drink. Watch and see if he doesn’t have a decanter at his elbow just in case.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “You don’t look at all nervous.”
He sighed in spite of himself. “I’ve done this too many times to be nervous any longer. Now, ’tis just an extremely tedious business to endure so I can get on to more pleasant things. Feel like a show later?”
“Anything but a variation on the Scottish play.”
