Bessie - Scottish slang for a bad-tempered woman.
Chapter Fourteen
In which Mason courts Afton with his yacht and cake.
Afton…
“That’s a helicopter.”
Mason nearly bumps into me as I stop. “Yes, darling. You’re correct.”
“I thought you said we were going to lunch?” I didn’t even want to do that, but he’d worn me down with getting all cut up and me having to sew that wound shut last night.
He gives me his most devilish smile. “We are.”
“Uh-huh,” I say dubiously, pulling myself up into the helicopter before he can lift me. He’d tried to fasten my seat belt for me in the car, and I took care of it the second my butt hit the seat. I’m not going to allow any little charming, “nurturing” gestures. His mouth tightens, just slightly and spitefully, I enjoy it.
So, I’m all smiles as we leave Glasgow, fly over Edinburgh… and over the ocean. “Where are you planning to have lunch? France? Because I don’t think this helicopter is meant for that kind of trip.”
“No, not this time.” Leaning over me, he points at the water. “We’re having lunch on theBeau Soleil.”
Sure enough, there’s a white, three-story yacht that gets bigger and bigger as the helicopter approaches. There’s a huge landingpad on the top deck and for a moment, Mason’s lips tighten, a blank look in his vivid jade eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
He slips on a pair of sunglasses and an impersonal smile. “Nothing, darling. Just a memory.”
Of course. This is just maintenance, not actual honesty.
My plan to get out by myself is thwarted when I realize my door is locked and I’m forced to wait until Mason opens it as our amused pilot tries to hide his smile. This time, my husband’s hands are on my waist and he’s lifting me out effortlessly.
“Are you nuts? Do you not remember your stab wound?”
Mason pleasantly ignores my squawk of outrage, looping my arm through his and helping me down the stairs as I check his white shirt for blood.
I was raised in a wealthy household. My father had two yachts, in fact. But they do not compare to this beauty. The lines of the boat flow along each other like the waves of the ocean, the teak decks gleaming and out in the center of the main level is a small pool and a table with wicker chairs next to it. There’s already food laid out around a huge flower arrangement.
Handing me a glass of champagne, he taps his glass to mine. “Welcome aboard.”
There’s a chef. Of course. Jacques - “Just Jacques” - happily brings out an enormous platter of lobsters, scallops, mussels, and oysters as Mason refills my glass.
“Tell me something about you that no one else knows,” my husband says, eyeing me over his glass.
Tapping my fingers on the white linen tablecloth, “Tell me anything about you. At all.”
That merits a corner of his mouth tilting up. I’ll take it. That’s at least a sincere response. “Touche.’ What would you like to know?”
“Why don’t you have a Scottish accent?”
“I was raised in Canada. Halifax, on the east coast. My father Lachlan helped my mother rebuild the family business, the King Syndicate. However, I live here for most of the year now.” He leaned back, “Let’s talk about you. Why did you pick biotechnology?”
“It makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I pause, trying to think of how to explain it. “The kind of world people like you and I live in is always unstable. There’s no order to it. In my academic world, I know what’s going to happen. I can predict the outcome, well, most of the time. There may be surprises, but they follow an ordered path. I love science, but the thing that gives me the most satisfaction about it is being part of a world that isn’t…”
“Ours,” he finishes. “That makes sense. I suspect that’s why I prefer managing the finance division for MacTavish International. Numbers make sense. They can be controlled.”
