The Accidental Scot (18 page)

Deydie raised her eyebrows at the lass. “Pippa thinks he's right handy, too.” She wondered if the McDonnell was blind or what. Couldn't he tell that his daughter had lain with the Yank?

“I don't need any help,” Pippa complained.

This time Bethia gave her a ye-better-play-along stare.

“Maybe a little,” Pippa acquiesced.

Deydie was done pussyfooting around. “That's not the main reason ye need to have the Yank here.”

Pippa shook her head
no.
Bethia seemed to have given up.

The McDonnell sighed. “I don't understand. What are ye trying to say?”

“I'm going to speak plainly,” Deydie cautioned.

“Don't you always?” the McDonnell said
.

“The Yank needs watching.”

“Oh, Deydie, Da trusts Max. He took a
reading
on him.”

Deydie
tsk
ed. “Reading or no, you better keep that lad under yere roof so ye can keep an eye on him.” She paused to see if she would have to spell it out for him.

Surprisingly, Bethia stepped up. “Gandiegow girls can be a randy lot,” she said matter-of-factly. “They get bored during the long winter months.”

Deydie plunged back in. “Keeping the Yank here at yere house is the best way to keep Pippa out of his bed.”

Pippa gasped and turned as red as Deydie's sugar beets in the heat of summer.

The McDonnell shifted in his wheelchair, turning toward his daughter.

“We don't want any accidents—if ye know what I mean—in case another storm blows in,” Deydie finished.

“Ross never needs to know,” Bethia added.

The McDonnell went deathly still. “Send Max to me.”

“Da, don't—” Pippa cried.

He turned to her with a cold calmness. “Get back to the factory, daughter. My body may be sick and broken but I'll have a word with Max McKinley.”

She grabbed her coat and briefcase and stomped out with her face blazing.

Bethia wrung her hands in her apron. “Maybe ye should take a minute to think about this. It can't be good to have yereself so riled.”

“Send him to me now!” the McDonnell boomed.

Deydie and Bethia hurried from the house.

Outside, Bethia grabbed Deydie's arm. “Maybe we shouldn't have interfered.”

“Nay, it had to be done.” But Deydie wasn't exactly happy with how it had gone.

Bethia dropped her arm. “Well, we could've handled it better.”

Deydie bobbed her head. “Aye. I should've told him in Gaelic. It might've softened the blow.”

*   *   *

Just as Max finished rinsing off his plate, the door to Quilting Central opened and Deydie and Bethia appeared. He hadn't even realized they were gone. The two women came straight for him. Probably with more tasks for him to do. But they looked worried.

“Why the long faces?”

“Ye're needed,” Deydie said. “The McDonnell has requested you come to him.”

“Sure. Let me get my coat and I'll be off.” He turned to leave.

Bethia reached out with a bony hand and held on to his arm. “The McDonnell is known for his temper when he's piqued. Prepare yereself.”

“Prepare myself, why?” he asked.

Deydie shot him a hard stare. “He knows about—the storm.”

He glanced from one guilty face to another. “What exactly did you two do?” he blurted.

Deydie's sheepish contrition of a moment ago turned
to righteous indignation. “Just protecting our own, Yank.”

“Ye're in hot water,” Bethia confirmed.

“But you two were the ones who put the kettle on to boil.” Why would they do this to him? “I thought you liked me. Hell, I've been your free labor since I walked into this godforsaken town.”

“Watch yere damned language,” Deydie barked.

Max walked out, not feeling like the polite Texas boy he was raised to be.

As he let himself into the McDonnell's house, Max wondered if the old codger would have a shotgun at the ready. And here they'd been getting along so well.

“Come in the den, Max.” The McDonnell sounded as if he had a hell of a lot more energy than when he and Pippa were here yesterday.

An old feeling hit him. As if he'd been caught messing around in the backseat of his ancient Camaro.

He walked in. Perched by the fire, the McDonnell was clearly not well, but he seemed ten feet tall today in his wheelchair.

“Sir?” Max said.

“I'll get right to it. When I asked you to watch after my daughter, I never dreamed you'd do it naked.”

Shit.

“What are yere intentions toward Pippa?”

Max flinched at the fastball out of left field. A myriad of answers hit him at once.

My intentions?

How about: It's no one's freaking business.

Or: To wring Deydie's freaking neck.

Even better: Get the freaking MTech contract signed so I can get away from this fishbowl.

My intentions toward Pippa . . . only one: By God, to make her moan again while I'm inside her.

The moment stretched out.

Finally, Max answered, “Respectfully, sir, it's between me and Pippa.”

The McDonnell glared at him. “Spoken like a man without a daughter. I will tell you exactly how this is going to play out.”

“Play out?”

“First, ye're going to pack your things at the pub.”

Was this man running Max out of town?

“Secondly, you'll bring yere things here and move in before Pippa gets home.”

What the hell?
“Sir?”

“And third, ye will promise to keep your hands off my daughter, or by God . . .”

Max felt dazed. “I don't understand. Why would you want me here?”

“I mean to keep my eye on ye while I make up my mind about what's going to happen next.”

That sounded both ominous and intriguing. Max finally nodded to the other man. “All right. I'll stay in your house.” He ran a hand through his hair, and couldn't keep from telling the truth. “But I can't promise to stay away from your daughter.”

*   *   *

As the door closed behind Max, Lachlan deflated. He'd let Pippa down. He was terrified for his daughter. Look what he'd done to his own Sandra. He'd gotten her in the family way, and not even a year later she was dead, with
Pippa only a wee bairn. Now it could happen all over again. He had to put a stop to it. But how?

His inadequacies were adding up.

The factory's financial troubles.

The idiotic accident that left him physically unable to protect his daughter.

The damned bachelor auction. Oh, aye, he'd gotten wind of that, the scheme cooked up by Pippa and the townsfolk to take care of him, because he wasn't man enough to take care of himself. Scots did not take charity, but apparently, he was going to be forced to.

He missed Freda terribly. He was a wretched person to have yelled at her. And he felt proud of her for staying away. It served him right for being such a bastard. She deserved better than him. She deserved every happiness.

Unfortunately, the thought of Miranda slid in and rattled him more. Had Max seduced Pippa to get a better deal for his company as Miranda had tried to do with him?

And here he'd assured Pippa that Max could be trusted and sent them on their merry way.

Lachlan leaned his head back and closed his eyes. And now, his people-seeing skills were gone, too. He had thought Max was the best of the best.

Lachlan had nothing left. He couldn't even trust himself anymore.

M
ax stomped to his rental car, feeling like the rug had been pulled out from under him. He had to talk to Pippa, whether she wanted him to or not. It wouldn't be fair for her to come home from work and find him with his feet propped up, warming himself by the fireplace with a whisky in his hand . . . like he belonged there.

He could've argued with the McDonnell, but it seemed best to have Pippa talk some sense into him.

Max drove straight to the factory and walked in like he owned the place. He didn't greet Bonnie or ask permission to go through the double doors leading into the plant. He just did it.

He ignored the curious looks from the employees as he marched to Pippa's office. Without knocking, he slung the door open and slammed it shut behind him.

Pippa jumped. Her surprised expression transformed into a glare.

The place had been cleared considerably. Pippa had gone on a cleaning jag. Two stacks of files were gone from the floor. She was standing with the third stack at the new filing cabinet by the south wall.

He locked the door. He wanted no interruptions and he wasn't letting Pippa escape this conversation either. He pulled all the shades, too. He wouldn't make it easy
for the natives to overhear, though he didn't doubt for a second that everyone in town knew absolutely everything that transpired between them. They certainly all seemed to know about last night. Maybe he should invite them to watch next time!

Pippa dropped her files on the desk.
“Thalla is bheir ort.”

“No,” he said firmly “I won't ‘
get lost.'
”

“How did—”

“Pippa,” he cut her off. “I think I know you well enough to have a clue what you're saying. No matter the language.” He gave her a pointed look. Half the time while they were making love last night, she'd purred Gaelic approval in his ear. The other half of the time, she issued orders.

“Time for a chat,” he said.

“There's nothing to say, Yank. We hooked up. It's over.”

“It's not over.” A brief thought raced through his mind.
It would never be over between them.

She got a funny look on her face as though she'd read his thoughts, then washed it off as quickly as it'd come. “I say 'tis over,” she hissed.

“Batten down the hatches, lassie, because you're about to be hit with a major storm.” He paused, but it wasn't for effect. He was still getting used to the idea himself. “I'm moving into your house for the duration.”

She slumped against the cabinet. “My da?” she sighed heavily.

“What?” He stared at her for a long moment. “You knew your father wanted to skin my hide but you didn't have the decency to give me the heads-up? Do you know
how humiliating it is to come before the
father tribunal
? I'm not a teenager. I'm thirty-frigging-four!”

“At least you weren't there and witnessed them telling it.”

“Deydie and Bethia,” they both hissed together.

“Can't you stay in the other quilting dorm?” Apparently Pippa understood that he and she under the same roof would be impossible . . . like putting together lit matches with gasoline and telling them not to ignite.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “That's not the point. Your father is intent on keeping his eye on us.
On me.
”

As if she couldn't help herself, she assessed him from head to toe, glanced at the closed door, then chewed her lip.

“Stop it, Pippa. This is no time for fun and games. We need to figure out how to get out of this mess.”

“Oh, I don't know. There might be
some
advantages.” Subconsciously, her tongue touched her top lip.

He stepped forward and got in her space. “Don't start anything you're not willing to see through to the end.” If she wasn't careful, he'd find interesting ways to use her newly cleaned desk.

She grabbed a manila folder and fanned herself. “I don't know what ye're talking about.”

He stepped back, satisfied he'd made his point. “Now, about your dad. Can you convince him to give up this asinine plan?”

Her hackles went up. “Don't speak of my father like that. He's the most levelheaded man I know.”

“Then you think it's a good idea for me to sleep in the bedroom next to yours?”

“Of course not.”

“Then speak to him. Convince him that if he insists on me staying there, he's basically giving me his blessing to ravish his daughter.”

A spark shot through her gaze. It was either satisfaction or desire. Max couldn't tell which. He didn't care. He went on autopilot and took her into his arms. And he didn't wait for permission to kiss the hell out of her.

She pulled him against her and in return, his weight pressed her into the new filing cabinet. It would be so easy to push her skirt up and get some release . . . Next thing he knew, she was unzipping his pants. He couldn't argue with her decisiveness, but . . .

“Tell me what you want, Pippa,” he whispered in her ear.

“No,” she said breathlessly.

“Say it,” he growled.

“Dammit, Max.” She pushed desperately at his clothes, trying to get to his skin. Finally, she stilled and looked him square in the face. Her desire was as evident as his hard-on. “I want you,” she whispered. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yes.” He tugged her back to him, smashing their mouths together while he fumbled to get his wallet out of his back pocket with the condom tucked inside. He was frustrated with her, attracted to her, wanted her . . . and had to have her. He could sense all of the emotions roiling through her as well. She pushed his pants and briefs down, took the condom from him, and suited him up. Without hesitation, she wrapped her legs around him and slid down on him hard. She bit his lip and he groaned, enjoying the delicious pain of it. He hushed her moans with kisses and did his best to keep his own climax from
announcing to the factory what was going on behind Pippa's locked door.

When they'd both had their release, he lowered her gently to the floor but held her tight, breathing hard, their foreheads resting together.

He loved the satisfied look still lingering on her face, knowing he was the one who'd put it there. If he stayed at her house, he'd be seeing her like this often.

“We can't seem to control ourselves.” He gave a half laugh, but what he was feeling was more serious. “Pippa, I care for—”

She cut him off. “Ye're right, Yank.” She pulled her panties up and then pushed down her skirt, all business now. “Something will have to be done. I'll convince my da that you should stay elsewhere.”

She had gone aloof on him again, but he understood. Pippa needed to step into Alistair's shoes every now and then to regain the upper hand when she thought she'd lost control.

Max's cell blipped. He checked the text. “Crap.”

“What is it?”

“Miranda.”

Grenades shot from Pippa's eyes. She pulled away. “She's back already? What does she want? A booty call?”

With his free hand, he cupped Pippa's face and stared into her eyes. “You're the only one I want in my bed. Do you hear me?” It was true. Honest to God true.

She removed his hand.

His cell rang this time.

“Answer it outside. I can't bear to hear you whisper sweet nothings into Miranda's ear.”

He righted himself and went to the door, the phone still ringing. “This isn't over, Pippa. Not by a long shot.”

*   *   *

As Max walked out, Pippa dropped into her chair. She waited until she knew he was truly gone before letting her head fall on her desk.

“Idiot,” she said to herself. Honestly, why couldn't she control herself when she was around Max?

And the jealousy was consuming. Until Max, Pippa had never experienced it before. It felt foreign to be so irrational, so crazy. It left Pippa shaky. But Miranda herself had said she was gunning for them to be a power couple. And Pippa's instincts told her Miranda would use every one of her assets—which were considerable—to get Max.

Pippa sat up. What could she do to keep Miranda away from him? Maybe she should search Google for a flamethrower.

As if the filing cabinet had called out, Pippa's eyes fell on it. A heavenly twirl danced across her stomach and her nethers ached for him again. Damned Yank! What was he doing to her?

Pippa didn't stay long at the factory. She should write herself up for truancy, but she needed to go home and clean up. She grabbed her coat and bag, leaving the building without an explanation to anyone, and headed to her car.

She had to speak with her father alone before Max showed up with his duffel bag and his damned good looks. She'd make her da see reason.

“My father practically forced me into bed with the American,” she muttered as snow plastered her face. She
got in her vehicle and started it. “If only Da hadn't insisted that I stay in Max's cozy room and care for him while he was sick.” Yes, it was all her da's fault.

Carefully, she drove back to town and made her way home. She found her da where she'd left him—in the den. He stared off into space.

“Why aren't you out in the parlor? Didn't Freda show up today?” Pippa was starting to worry. She hadn't seen Freda since their shopping trip.

Da shook his head, the light behind his eyes dimmed.

“Can we talk?” Pippa had so much to say. She needed to talk to him about Max staying here at the house, and how that was impossible. She needed to tell her da about the changes to the contract so he'd stay informed. And maybe, just maybe, Da was finally ready to hear what she had to say on the matter of Ross.

“Nay,” her da said. “I'm too tired to talk.” He'd been proclaiming that a lot lately.

“May I sit with you for a while?” But she could see the answer before he even said it.

He shook his head. “I need my rest. Turn the light out now.”

Tears stung Pippa's eyes. But she did what he asked and left. She hated seeing him like this. His spirit was broken. Pippa was at fault here, but damned Deydie and Bethia should take some of the blame, too. She ran upstairs, cleaned up, and put on jeans and a sweater.

Before she left, she stuck her head in the dark den. “I'm going out for a few minutes.”

“Don't be long.”

She'd never had a curfew before, but it felt as if at
thirty, she had one now. Feeling wrung out, Pippa grabbed her coat and left.

Sure enough, Pippa found Deydie and her minion at Quilting Central. Earlier, she'd been too stunned when the women had ratted her out to her da, but now she was armed with resentment. She went straight to the ladies, cutting to the chase.

“If ye ever tell Da about my comings and goings again, I'll put ye in the factory's metal press and flip the switch.”

Bethia frowned, but Deydie cackled.

“Like ye scare us, lassie.” Deydie thumped Pippa on the back as though she'd told a bawdy joke. “Ye'd have to catch us first.” And she waddled away.

“Well, hell.”

Bethia
tsk
ed at her. “We thought we were doing right by ye and Ross.”

“And the pickle ye got me in with my da? How was that helping exactly? Max is furious, too.” But Pippa couldn't think about him without thinking about the damned filing cabinet, too.

Pippa glanced at Bethia. “Gandiegow needs to leave me in peace and let me handle this thing with Ross by myself.”

Bethia wrapped a thin arm around her shoulders. “Nay. Gandiegow is here to guide ye. It's our way.” She nodded at the sewing machine Pippa had been using. “While ye're here, lass, ye should put in a little time on yere quilt.”

“Aye. The auction.” It would be here before she knew it. “I think I will.”

Pippa grabbed her project from the cubby and sat at her machine. But instead of working on the quilt, she decided to finish Freda's Christmas present. The pillow wouldn't take long and then she'd get back to the quilt for the auction.

Everything was riding on the auction. Once she fixed her da's health, then she could worry about everything else.

But dread covered Pippa. It might be too late for her father. Until recently, he had remained positive and upbeat. He'd been a pillar of strength for her and for the whole town. But now . . . he looked defeated.

*   *   *

As Freda lay in bed, she stared at her frosted window. She could no more see out than she could make herself get up and get dressed. Since leaving Lachlan a day and a half ago, she hadn't eaten. She'd managed only as far as the loo and then back to bed. Her broken heart left her feeling dull and dead, like the gray of the frost on the window.

She hadn't cried for Lachlan since she was a young girl, but she'd made up for lost time. She was still wearing her new clothes, but now they were twisted around her and rumpled. She grabbed the glass from the little table beside her and drank the last of the water. She crawled out of bed and went into her small bathroom. Unfortunately, she caught a horrible glimpse in the mirror of the person she'd become. Her eyes were a puffy mess. Her mascara made jagged lines down her cheeks and her lipstick was smeared. Her mother would be ashamed of her if she wasn't dead and buried in the cemetery at the top of the bluff.

Freda had lived her life loving Lachlan McDonnell, sacrificing everything for him, making all her decisions with him in mind. Fifty-nine was pretty late to finally wake up and get a clue. She couldn't go back and change the things she'd done, nor pick up and start over. But she could start living life for herself.

She'd gone to work at NSV as Lachlan's assistant—to be close to him—but along the way she'd fallen in love with the business. And she was good at it. When the stubborn bampot injured himself, she'd left NSV to care for him. But no more. No more putting her own life on hold!