The Accidental Scot (11 page)

“Aye,” Pippa said, directing her comments to Miranda. “And nearly his one-night stand. Thanks for interrupting. You did me a favor.” Pippa cocked her eyebrow at Max and he glowered back.
Good, at least he knows I'm still in the room.

He spun back on Miranda. “You didn't answer the question. Why are you here? I have things under control.”

“You certainly do.” Pippa grabbed her coat and pulled it on. “I'll leave you two alone.” She nodded in Max's direction. “I have to get to the factory,” she said flatly.

He frowned at her but she kept walking toward the door. Before she left completely, she had a weak moment and looked back. Part of her hoped Max would—
what?
—kick Miranda out and insist Pippa stay? But his eyes were glued to Miranda. The scullery maid had become invisible.

Pippa found refuge in the lonely hallway. “God, I'm so freaking stupid,” she whispered. The way Miranda looked at Max, and the way he acted in return, Pippa knew they were more intimately involved than boss and underling. How could Max be with a woman like Miranda? She was all wrong for him.

Shades of the past wrapped around Pippa, all the asinine mistakes she'd made with men. Starting with Derrick from college—smooth-talking, charismatic, all-the-right-moves Derrick. He'd taken her virginity in his dorm room, making all kinds of promises about their future together. Pippa later found out that he and his girlfriend had been together for four years. Pippa felt awful about being the other woman. Then she'd discovered that she wasn't the first freshman to fall for his line . . . or the last.
Two-timing bastard.
If only he'd been her only lapse in judgment. She'd dated Tony, then Patrick. Neither one had broken her heart, but both had given her further glimpses into the casual dishonesty and vast unfaithfulness of men. She'd given up trusting in the opposite sex then.

But why had she sidelined her beliefs when the Yank walked into Gandiegow? She wanted to bang her head against the wall.

As she quickly descended the steps, she looked on the bright side. Thank God the universe had intervened to keep her from making another monumental mistake. What did she really know about Max McKinley? Nothing. Except he was a helluva kisser.

There was only one man she trusted and he was back at the house in a wheelchair. Pippa hurried home to her da.

The cold air outside made her eyes water; those certainly weren't tears on her cheeks. She wiped her face with her scarf before opening the green door to her house. She hung up her things and went in search of her father. She found him and Freda in the parlor. They both looked over when Pippa entered the room.

Freda shoved her hand-stitching project into her bag. “I better get home. I need to bake some cookies for Mr. Menzies. His nephew is coming to visit in a few days.”

“Thanks for sitting with Da.”

Freda glanced at the McDonnell first, then she gave Pippa a warm smile and lightly touched her arm as she passed. “It was my pleasure.” But then Freda glanced down at the oversize T-shirt that Pippa was wearing. Questions filled her face, but Freda had the decency to keep them to herself. Pippa wanted to hug her.

Da didn't seem to have noticed his daughter's strange attire. “Night, Freda. Will ye be by tomorrow?”

“Aye. I'm making you fish soup.”

“My favorite,” Da said appreciatively. “And chocolate fudge?”

“That, too.” Freda gave Da one of her fond glances before heading toward the door.

“I'll be right back.” Pippa slipped upstairs and donned her Edinburgh University sweatshirt, shoving Max's T-shirt under her pillow before returning to her father.

“Daughter?” the McDonnell called out. “Can I have a minute of your time?”

Panic, mixed with guilt, washed over her. Maybe he'd seen Max's T-shirt after all, and her splotchy face.

Pippa stepped into the parlor.

“Sit here by me, where I can see ye.” Da seemed a little down, pensive.

Pippa chose the chair next to him instead of the one across.

“Now that ye're home for good”—her father's eyes fell on her, as if he was ready to weigh her reaction to his words—“I think it's time you consider settling down.”

Even though she'd known this day was coming, Pippa felt blindsided. Ever since returning home in July, she'd been consumed with getting her da back on his feet, helping to heal his broken body, and getting the factory in the black. No one had expected her to jump right in and seal the deal with Ross, and he'd seemed in no hurry either. But now apparently the reprieve was over.

Da went on. “It would mean so much to me if I could see you wed.” He sighed heavily. “I may not be able to walk ye down the aisle, but I could be there and see it with my own eyes. Don't ye think it's time ye took Ross off the shelf and married him? It would be a comfort to me to know that ye're settled.”

Pippa didn't answer. She couldn't . . . her throat was too tight. She'd do anything for her da. Anything. But did she have to marry Ross to prove it?

A crazy thought hit her.

What of Max?

If Miranda hadn't shown up when she had, Pippa wouldn't be here right now discussing Ross and the prospect of marriage. Her face flushed. She'd be naked in Max's bed. Ross wouldn't even be an afterthought.

Da took her hand. “I worry about ye. Tell me that ye'll at least think about setting a date.”

It broke her heart to know her da was worried he
wouldn't be around to see her married. But she couldn't give an answer. Hell, what could she say? She rose and kissed the top of his head, giving a noncommittal grunt instead, before hurrying from the room.

Outside the doorway, she plastered her back against the wall. She didn't want to lie to her father or disappoint him. For as tough as Pippa came off to the rest of the world, deep down, she was still her daddy's little girl and wanted to please him.

But how pleased would her da be that she'd come close to sleeping with MTech's deal maker? Pippa felt her cheeks burn hot again. She ran upstairs to transform herself into NSV's chief engineer, hoping the right clothes would put her in the correct frame of mind. She pulled her most professional skirt from the closet and dressed quickly.

As she hurried across town, she couldn't shake off that her father wanted her to set a date. This time, she wasn't sure she had it in her to be the obedient daughter. That this time, she didn't have the option of running away from what her da and what the town wanted her to do. She squeezed her eyes shut.

This time, she might have to dig her heels in and fight.

*   *   *

When Lachlan McDonnell heard his daughter leave, he exhaled. Pippa was an independent sort, but he had a pretty good idea that she was a lot like him. She just needed the right kind of person to help her settle down. Ross would do that, just as Pippa's mama had done it for him. It'd been a blessing when his Sandra had turned up pregnant. When he'd married her, he finally felt at home in his skin. Though their marriage was brief, he still
thought of Sandra often, with her pink cheeks and her brilliant blue eyes. Eyes that Pippa had inherited.

A knock sounded at the front door but Lachlan didn't stir. Everyone in Gandiegow knew to come on in as he could hardly answer the door with his body so banged up.

“Hallo,” Bethia called out.

“We're here,” Deydie added helpfully.

“I'm in the parlor.” Lachlan felt disappointed it wasn't Freda, even though she'd just left. Freda was always so pleasant to sit with. Deydie and Bethia were pleasant enough, they just weren't Freda.

Deydie lumbered through the doorway first, Bethia following with a plate in her hand.

“I brought you some Christmas cookies,” Bethia said.

“No new medicinal tea for me?” Lachlan asked, hopeful.

Bethia shook her head.

So she'd run out of things for him to try. The doctors had all but given up on him and now Bethia had, too.

“I'm glad ye're here,” he said. “Sit. I need to talk to you. The both of you.”

“We need to talk to ye, too.” Deydie took the plate from Bethia and snatched a cookie from underneath the plastic before handing it off to him.

“It's about Pippa,” Lachlan started. “She's going to need yere help to plan the wedding.”

The women looked at each other, shocked.

Deydie clapped her hands. “So it's finally happening.”

“They're finally going to tie the knot?” Bethia asked.

“Aye.” Lachlan would give his daughter the little
nudge she needed. “I need you ladies to plan the wedding of the century.”

“It's been a long time coming,” Bethia added joyfully. Then she looked a little perplexed. “But only yesterday . . .”

“What are ye jabbering about?” Deydie barked. “We've been waiting years for those two to get hitched.”

“But only yesterday”—Bethia seemed determined to try again—“that Max McKinley did something that made me think . . .” She paused for a long second while Deydie glowered at her. “I got the feeling something might be going on between the Yank and Pippa.”

“What?” Lachlan said.

“Bethia's imagining it,” Deydie assured him. “There's nothing going on between Pippa and that lad. She only has eyes for Ross.”

“Are ye sure?” Lachlan was stuck in this damned wheelchair or else he'd find his daughter and ask her himself.

“We're sure,” Deydie said with finality. “Pippa belongs to Ross, and he to her. We'll make certain it's the best damned wedding Gandiegow has ever seen. Besides, if the Yank does have his sights set on Pippa, maybe that new woman in town, that American, will keep him busy.”

“What woman?” Dread grew in Lachlan's stomach as he started to put it together.

“Another one that works for that company of his. Miriam something.”

“Miranda,” Bethia corrected. “Dougal met her as he was delivering mail. Pointed out the pub to her.”

Deydie leaned closer to Lachlan's chair. “Now let's talk about the wedding.”

But he had lost his appetite for conversation. “I'm tired.”

“We should make it a Christmas wedding.” Deydie acted as if she hadn't heard him.

Bethia, though, looked at him with worry. “Let's go, Deydie. The McDonnell needs his rest.” She patted his shoulder. “Don't worry about a thing. We'll take care of all the preparations. It'll be a wedding for the ages.”

They left and he was glad of it.

He'd concentrate on Pippa and Ross's wedding . . . he just hoped he was around to see it. He didn't need a physician to tell him that he was growing weaker by the day.

He did
not
want to think about Miranda and what she might be doing in town. He'd buried his shame and pretended it never happened. But apparently she was back in Scotland. He might have to face what he'd done the last time they'd been together.

*   *   *

Max hurried down the pub's stairs to find Pippa. He sure as hell hadn't made any headway with Miranda. Why did she have to show up and screw with things here? Just when he and Pippa were
finally
coming to some kind of understanding and were going to get to the MTech proposal . . .

But he was only kidding himself. The understanding between them had nothing to do with any valve.

His life had gotten so complicated. He was so conflicted and wanted it both ways—the deal and Pippa in his bed. He marched straight to his rental car, slamming the door when he got in.

The bigger question loomed: Had his past come back to haunt him? Miranda hadn't said anything yet to make him think otherwise, but he had an awful feeling it could.

He glanced one more time in the direction of the pub, but then tore out of the parking lot, the car slipping dangerously toward the edge of the drop-off. An image shot across his mind. Jake, lying in the hospital, paralyzed. A senseless accident. Max took his foot off the accelerator. He didn't care so much what happened to him, but his mother would be devastated. He remembered how she'd trembled in the emergency room as they'd wheeled Jake off to surgery. His strong mother, pale and shaking. Max pushed the images from his mind, and along with it, every Christmas that had caused his family pain. He forced himself to drive slowly the rest of the way up the hill toward the factory, ready to have it out with Pippa once and for all.

W
ith the workers now gone for the day, Pippa sat in her quiet office, thankful for the e-mail from MTech with the proposed contract attached. A diversion was good.

She bluidy well needed time away from everyone . . . especially the Yank, and what he was doing to her.

She felt bad for the waste of trees—the contract looked as if it had taken at least two reams' worth of paper to print—especially when she was having so much trouble making out the gist of it. It had purposely been written to be as clear as Muddy Pond.

She wasn't sure, but thought it was saying that if NSV didn't make the agreed-upon numbers, MTech would assume control of her father's factory. Did that mean they could take control of his patents, too? She needed to get fresh eyes on this. If only her da were himself; he'd ferret out the truth of the contract in no time. Maybe she could call Mr. Corbie and see what solicitor he'd used. Or maybe not. Corbie had lost everything; even sold his patents to help pay the legal fees.

She closed her eyes. She couldn't let that happen to NSV. It would kill Da to lose his company. She was already worried by how
off
he seemed this morning. She didn't know if it was because he wasn't healing, or the stress over what was going to happen to his beloved
factory and patents. The only thing that seemed to brighten his day was the thought of her marrying Ross.

But she couldn't think on that now.

Or that her da had been totally wrong about Max.

Pippa rubbed her temples and looked up. Like some terrible magic trick, Max stood in her opened doorway. He looked great—jeans and a dark maroon long-sleeved polo that made the flecks of green stand out in his eyes. If she closed her eyes, would he just as easily disappear?

Parallel frown lines sat between his eyebrows. “May I come in?”

“That depends.” Pippa leaned back to peer around him. “Where's Maleficent?”

His frown deepened at her assessment. “I left her at the pub. She's jet-lagged and had to lie down.”

“I bet she did. With you on top?”

He took a step forward. Pippa suspected it was to intimidate her. But she wouldn't back down.

She gave a low whistle. “You are some stud. Two women from two continents in one day.”

“Pippa—” he said in warning, pulling the door closed behind him.

“It must be some kind of record. Maybe we should call Guinness and get you in the next book.” She stood, repositioning her skirt, feeling more than a little self-conscious under his gaze. “What's wrong, McKinley? Are you upset that I pegged you from the beginning?”

“What are you talking about?”

She shrugged as if her chest didn't hurt. “That you thought it would help MTech's cause if you got into my pants.” She held her fingers up an inch apart. “Ye were
this close. Good job.” She dropped the act. “Now, get out.”

Max stalked closer. “We have business to discuss.”

Her stomach fell. So he didn't come here to make sure she was all right—especially after the embarrassment of Miranda nearly finding her half-naked. Pippa was such an idiot. When would she ever learn?

She flipped the contract closed. “We're not talking until I get this monstrosity examined.”

Max's eyes zeroed in on the double stack of paper. “Is that it? The contract?”

“Aye.”
Of
course
the MTech deal was the only thing he cared about.

“Good, I want to talk about that, too.” He ran his hand through his hair. “But first we have to discuss what happened—what's happening between us—”

Pippa couldn't take any more. She was removing herself from the game. “Nothing's happening between us. Seriously, Max. We had a few laughs. The kissing was adequate.” A total lie. Them together? Crazy hot. “Now I've got work to do.”

“Why are you being this way?” he growled.

She gave a brittle laugh. “I'm not interested in some heartfelt girl talk right now, McKinley. Go back and see if Her Bitchiness wants to be all touchy-feely. I don't.”

He turned an inflamed shade of red and was in front of her in a flash, grabbing her arms. His grip didn't hurt but he seemed hell-bent on making sure she couldn't free herself until he'd had his say.

“Drop the
Alistair
act. I'm not some employee you can boss around. I'm not one of your fisherman buddies
either. We've got something . . .” Maybe it was her glare but he faltered and dropped her arms.

Part of her wanted him to finish his sentence. But the smart part of her wasn't interested in his next words. She was pretty sure that pining over the American would only lead to regrets . . . bigger regrets than she'd ever had over Derrick, Tony, or Patrick.

Max seemed to have come to the same conclusion—there couldn't be anything between them. He pointed to the contract. “Do what you have to do. Talk to the McDonnell and then get back to me. My ass is on the line.”

*   *   *

Max sat in his rental car, more screwed up than when he'd driven to NSV. Pippa may be something special, but God, she drove him crazy. “She's exactly the reason
why
I'm single!” he snapped.

The woman was a pain in the ass. How could she be so heartless? They had a connection. Why couldn't she see it?

He put the car in gear and drove away from the factory. But, crap. Pippa was right. He was acting like a sappy girl. He didn't need to talk about his feelings. He was a man, dammit. Acknowledging the sick feeling in his chest only made him weak.

He pulled into Gandiegow's parking lot and trudged back through town.

Without realizing where he'd been going, he found himself outside the house with the red roof and the green door.

Merry freaking Christmas.

Max was a man with no place to go. He couldn't go back to the pub; Miranda was sleeping there. What was
he supposed to do? Hell, where was he supposed to stay?

He frowned at the green door. Strange, but being here seemed logical. He rationalized that it couldn't hurt to ingratiate himself with the owner of North Sea Valve
.
But it was ballsy to come here, especially when Max had come close to ravishing his daughter. But he genuinely liked the big Scot. They'd hit it off from the beginning.

He let himself into the house and found the older man dozing in the den. He started to tiptoe out but the McDonnell called out to him.

“Don't leave. I could use some company.”

Max walked into the room and was struck by the thought that the McDonnell had shrunk a little from the last time he'd seen him. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

“I guess whisky's out of the question?” The McDonnell chuckled at his own joke. “Tea would be grand, though. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Max slipped from the room. When he returned the older man was sitting up straight, looking more awake.

“Do ye know what my daughter is up to? Have ye seen her?” The McDonnell looked worried.

“She's at work.” Max hoped his voice sounded casual and that the McDonnell wouldn't ask more. “I'm sure she'll be home soon.” Which meant Max couldn't stay long.

For the next half hour, he and the McDonnell had companionable conversation about Gandiegow and how the factory had changed the economics of the village. He should be thinking only about making money for MTech,
but it played on his conscience that peoples' livelihoods were at stake.

After he said good-bye and left, Max was once more at loose ends. As soon as Miranda woke up, he'd pack his things, and maybe sleep at NSV, in the machine shop next to the CNC machine. Perhaps there was a cot he could appropriate.

Another cot came to mind.
Pippa's cot.

She'd been good to him while he was sick—but he wouldn't get all girly over it now. He didn't want to remember how they'd held hands.

Besides, that damn cot wasn't good for anything. It certainly wasn't wide enough or strong enough to hold him and Pippa when they made love.

Holy hell.
He had to stop with the fantasies. Wishful thinking wasn't doing him a bit of good, only making things worse.

His cell phone rang. With dread, he put the phone to his ear.

“Where are you?” Miranda's irritation was as clear as her words.

Couldn't she have slept a bit longer?

“Never mind. Let's talk with Lachlan and his son, Alistair, right now.”

Lachlan?

“No.” Max was firm on this one point at least. “Now isn't a good time.” He didn't want to explain about the McDonnell just yet. He should check with Pippa first. “You'll meet with Alistair later.”

“Set up the meeting, then. I want to meet his bastard of a son. I want to see for myself why he's dragging his feet.”

What could Max say? You've already met? And you royally pissed her off? Or, you're the last person in the world
Alistair
wants to see? Except maybe for Max himself.

Besides, MTech had sent her the contract just today! And he hadn't even seen it!

“We'll talk about it. I'm almost back to the pub.”

“Is there a restaurant in town?” Miranda asked.

“I'll pick up something on the way.” Max wanted to keep her contained. He was afraid if he didn't, Miranda would go in search of the McDonnell and Alistair without him.

“Get me a kale salad,” she ordered.

“I'll try.” Max hurried to the restaurant, pretty sure kale couldn't be found this time of year in Gandiegow.

When he arrived, there was a small crowd, and he immediately noticed Ross Armstrong and an old man sitting at the counter, each with a mug in his hand.

Claire motioned to Max. “What can I get for ye?”

The double swinging doors to the kitchen whooshed open, and Dominic joined her, wearing a matching white apron and carrying two plates of food. He held one up in Max's direction and said, “Would you like a plate of lasagna?”

“Yes. And a salad.” Max wouldn't mention the kale.

“I'll have it out to you shortly.” Dominic set the plates in front of customers, then kissed his wife soundly on the mouth and went back to the kitchen.

“Have a seat. I'll have Moira bring you over a hot cup of tea while you wait.”

Andrew was sitting by the window, looking miserable. Max started to leave him in peace with his problems, but
he felt bad for the guy, so he moved toward the Episcopal priest.

“Mind if I join you?” Max said.

“Aye. That would be grand.” But Andrew's voice didn't sound all that enthused. A moment later, Moira made her way toward them with downcast eyes. She didn't even look up when she placed the hot water and teacup in front of Max.

“Moira?” Longing was evident in Andrew's voice. He looked worse off than Max felt.

Moira moved away quickly without acknowledging the town's pastor.

“Your girl?” Max asked.

Andrew focused his attention back to him. “Aye. Or at least I thought she was.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Max cringed. Pippa was right; he was acting way too touchy-feely. But hell, he was all-in at this point. “What's going on?”

Andrew shrugged. “I don't know. Things changed.”

They always do.
But Max wouldn't share his pessimistic view about the opposite sex with a man who had clearly gotten the crap knocked out of him by love.

“Did you two have an argument?” Max probed.

“Nothing like that. We were fine, grand really.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don't know. I only know after Glenna came to live with Moira, and her father got worse, Moira withdrew.”

Yeah, Max could commiserate. Pippa had withdrawn from him, too. But he didn't want to share that with Andrew or anyone, so he changed the subject. “I met Glenna at the Christmas Roundup. She's a sweet girl.”

“Aye. She didn't deserve to be orphaned. I find myself
questioning why God would allow such a thing.” Andrew pulled at his cleric's collar, looking more miserable. “But my training tells me I shouldn't.”

Max felt for him. “I heard about Moira's father, too. It has to be hard on her.”

“It's been hard on all of us. Kenneth was a good man; the best. Moira should be leaning on me. Instead, she's completely shut me out since her father passed. Won't talk to me at all.”

Max understood. “It's the grief. It has a way of kicking a person in the gut. Give her time. She'll come around.”

Moira took that moment to glance over at them. Pain was etched into her face, too, as if it'd been written there with a permanent marker.

“Yank?” Claire called. “Yere food is ready.”

Max looked back at Andrew.

“Go. I'll be fine.”

“I'd stay if I could, but my boss is here,” Max explained.

“I heard another visitor had arrived. I hope she'll be able to come to the Christmas pageant.”

“We'll see.” Max wasn't making any promises. It was natural for the pastor to welcome all the sheep; he just didn't realize that this particular sheep was a wolf and could bite. He said good-bye and went to the counter to pick up his order and pay Claire. Then he headed outside.

When he opened the front door of the pub, Miranda was standing there in her coat with a Louis Vuitton briefcase looped over her shoulder.

“Where are you going? I told you I was bringing food.”

“I got tired of waiting.” The aroma of Dominic's lasagna must've hit her nose, because she stopped suddenly, and sniffed. “That doesn't smell like kale salad.”

“The pasta's for me. The salad's for you. No kale, though. Come on, sit down. I have questions for you.” Max walked farther in and headed toward a booth.

Miranda chose a table instead, looking dignified but clearly feeling indignant. She didn't belong in this joint. This was Pippa's territory. For a brief moment, he thought about that first night at the bar and how Pippa had pulled one over on him. He smiled.