He steps closer, rainwater tracing the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. ‘And you? Are you enjoying this?’
‘Watching you sulk like a toddler denied a biscuit? Immensely.’
His harsh laugh is swallowed by the wind. ‘You’re shitting yourself that I’ll tank your precious PR circus tonight.’
‘Maybe,’ I admit and turn into the gale, letting it whip salt spray against my burning cheeks.
The ferry slices through the Sound of Islay, the island’s pelt of heather and pine emerging through the mist. It’s a bit savage here. Beautiful in a way that claws at your ribs.
The ferry dips, and our shoulders brush. Neither of us moves away.
‘I’ll behave.’ He turns those peat-dark browns on me. ‘But only because you asked so nicely.’
‘I didn’t ask,’ I say.
‘Exactly.’
‘Dal Riata’s master distiller is a former Scotland prop player. Show him respect and schmooze a little, and he’ll have every whisky connoisseur in Argyll funding your comeback.’
‘And if I don’t?’ The challenge in his voice skims down the nape of my neck.
‘Then I’ll have to find creative ways to motivate you.’
‘Like what? Threaten to leak another false betting story?’ His mouth edges upward. Not a real smile. More like he’s baiting me to deny it.
He knows I can take it. That I’ll hit right back and he’ll love every second of it.
Something about the rough, stubbled line of his jaw catching the light just enough to highlight how chiselled it is, about the stubborn tilt of his angular chin, makes my belly pull tight, heat curling between my legs.
For one reckless second, I want to lick the rain from his throat.
‘You’re paranoid, MacRae. Not everything’s a conspiracy.’
The ferry horn blares, signalling Port Askaig. I shift back, pulse rabbiting against my collarbone. The deck judders as we dock.
Brodie shoulders his duffel, nodding toward the waiting cars. ‘Coming, agent?’
His broad shoulders part the misty drizzle as he walks ahead. I press my fingers to my lips, tasting salt and dangerous, dangerous wanting. Impossible, out-of-the-question, vagina-flooding, career-killing wanting.
His BMW’s heated seats are a luxury. I sink into leather, knees skimming the gearstick as Brodie takes a corner a smidge too fast. My Maserati would’ve handled this single-track road like a queen.
But he insisted on driving and taking his car, so…
For once, he’s not filling the silence with complaints. I should be grateful, but it makes me wonder what’s eating at him.
Peat bogs streak past, rain sluicing over windscreen wipers stuck on intermittent. The hotel appears ahead – a whitewashed inn with slate roofs and squat dormer windows.
Brodie parallel parks with maddening precision, tyres kissing the kerb. Not that I’d ever tell him that he out-parks me. He kills the engine as I step out into the Hebridean air, crisp despite the last trace of summer warmth in the September grey.
‘It’s atmospheric.’ I grab my Rimowa suitcase from the boot, wheels sticking in gravel. ‘Authentic.’
He swings his duffel over one shoulder. ‘Authentically mouldy.’
‘You’re hopeless. Okay, bags, then venue. Unless you have to style your hair for an hour first, MacRae.’
‘Unlike some, I can dress in under ten minutes. I’m not high maintenance.’
‘Because you’re no maintenance.’
