‘Where shall we go to eat this?’ he asked, hefting the paper-wrapped parcel containing his portion of fish and chips. ‘The car?’
‘Good grief, no!’ Far too intimate. It had been bad enough sitting so close to him for the five-minute drive from her house. Talk about feeling trapped and claustrophobic! Ignoring the voice in her head arguing that it wasn’ttrappedshe’d felt, she said, ‘Let’s go down to the loch.’
There was a pretty place at the far end of the village where the burn trickled into the sea. It sported a couple of picnic tables and a view of the water. Giselle couldn’t think of anywhere nicer to eat her supper, even if she was forced to eat it with Rocco.
She plonked her bottom down on one of the benches, expecting him to sit opposite, but he squeezed in next to her, his jean-clad thigh almost touching hers. She scooted over a bit, disconcerted at his nearness when there was all this space around them. Was he deliberately trying to unsettle her, she wondered, determined for it not to work.
As she unwrapped the fragrant parcel, the aroma of vinegary chips and hot batter wafted up her nose and her stomach rumbled. Realising she was hungry, she popped a piping hot chip into her mouth and tried to cool it by sucking in air around it.
‘’Ot,’ she mumbled, desperately wanting to chew but scared of burning her already scalded tongue even more. She fanned her open mouth, embarrassment whooshing through her. She’d been a klutz when they’d first met, and it looked as though she still was. How galling.
When her face had cooled, along with the chip, she proceeded to eat her supper with a little more caution, pondering how best to broach the subject of potential wealthy buyers waiting in the wings for a castle to come on the market.
‘I bet it isn’t as stunning as this where you live,’ was her opening gambit.
‘Nowhere near it.’ His attention was on the view, and she suddenly understood why he’d chosen to sit next to her, rather than have his back to it. He continued, ‘No wonder so many people come here. The scenery is outstanding.’
‘And many of those people pop into the craft centre,’ she said. Subtle? No, but she didn’t think beating around the bush would do it.
‘I noticed. Cal reckons there are at least three or four coach trips a day, plus the motor home and caravan lot, as well as the cottage renters and the bed and breakfasters.’
She was nodding vigorously, until he added, ‘I bet it’s not half as busy in the winter. In fact, I know it’s not.’
About to ask him how he knew, she realised he’d probably viewed the accounts. ‘Is that why you want to sell it to a wealthy American?’ she ventured, licking her fingers.
‘I don’t care what nationality the buyer is, as long as they can meet the asking price.’
‘You don’t have anyone lined up?’
‘No.’
He shuffled around on the bench to face her. His lips glistened with salt, and her eyes were drawn to them. When his tongue flicked out to lick the crystals away, she swallowed hard.
‘Look, I didn’t know Mhairi,’ he began. ‘I knew I had a distant relative in Scotland, but I thought she’d died years ago. Inheriting her estate was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.’
Hardly, she thought. Giselle hadn’t even known his surname until Avril had told her in the churchyard on the day of the funeral.
‘I’ve got no use for a castle,’ he added gently. ‘I’ve got to sell it. I’m sorry.’
So was she. Sorrier than he’d ever understand.
Chapter 9
By Wednesday afternoon, Giselle was congratulating herself for keeping out of Rocco’s way. She’d heard rumours from Avril and Tara that he’d cleared Mhairi’s private suite, and if he wasn’t busy in there, he’d been holed up in her parlour.Hisparlour, she corrected, but the phrase didn’t sit right with her. The word ‘parlour’ conjured up open fires, tasselled table lamps, bone china tea services and chenille cushions, and she imagined him in more of a boardroom-type setting. Or in a glass and steel box of an office, with a computer slimmer than aVoguemodel and a mini fridge filled with sparkling Perrier water.
It was nearing the end of the day and Giselle was putting the finishing touches to the picture she was working on when the door opened.
She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air hummed with an electrical charge that sizzled along her nerve endings, making her skin tingle. It wasn’t unusual for her to be observed while she worked – that was the beauty of these studios: they were accessible to the public, with only a counter separating the visitors and her workspace – so she carried on doing what she was doing, as calmly as possible. But she hadn’t expected to be observed byRocco.
Ignoring him wasn’t easy. Every part of her was acutely aware of him, her body reacting despite her brain’s reluctance to engage. His nearness made her feel like the nineteen-year-old she’d been when they’d first met, and under different circumstances she might have relished it. But not right now.
Her concentration irritatingly scattered, she tried to focus on the simple, yet effective picture coming to life on the canvas in front of her. She’d painted a bare-branched tree using watercolours and was now choosing tiny fragments of glass for the individual leaves. Green frosted glass – emerald, lime, olive, chartreuse, sage, teal – was interspersed with the occasional citrine, amber, brown and opal, each granule carefully chosen for its shape and delicately arranged on a branch or twig.
‘You make it look easy, but I’m betting it isn’t,’ he said, as she glued the first piece in place when she was finally happy with the way the picture looked. Arrange first, glue later, was the general rule.
‘I’ve had some practice,’ she replied modestly, still not looking up from her work.
‘Can anyone do it?’
