A Novel Seduction (32 page)

Without missing a step, Axel turned, gave her an approving smile, and continued on his way.

Axel filled the goblet with a nice Spanish Rioja, then grabbed a pint glass, tilted the tap and let the straw-colored Belhaven run down the side, ensuring an adequate but not overly pretentious amount of foam. It had been a long time since he’d been on this side of a bar—he’d practically put himself through college working at the Maple Leaf Tap in Toronto—and it brought back a lot of fond memories.

“What do I owe you?” asked the woman who had ordered the drinks, pulling a handful of bills out of the pocket of her sleek leather blazer. Her cheeks were flushed and he suspected the whiskey-tasting earlier this afternoon had been more than just a taste for her.

“Open bar,” he said. “They just announced your company’s picking up everything.”

“I can think of one thing I’d like them to pick up,” she said, and leered at the hem of his kilt.

“Ah, ah, ah.” He waved a forbidding finger at her, and she gave him a big smile.

Someone had set up a tip jar, and the woman pushed a bill toward it. “There’s ten pounds in it for you if you tell me what’s worn underneath.”

A white-haired gentleman sitting at the far end of the bar snorted, and Axel sighed, dropping the dirty pint glasses in the suds. “Nothing’s worn, I assure you. It’s all in perfect working order.”

The joke was as old as Cairnpapple—he’d heard his father say it dozens of times—but she burst into giggles and slipped the bill into the jar. “Linda!” she called, grabbing the Rioja and Belhaven. “You have to hear what the guy at the bar said.”

Axel shook his head. “Jesus, that’s the fourth woman who’s made a comment about the kilt. One of them tried to grab it. I feel like I should be getting combat pay here.”

The man chuckled. “There’s something about a kilt, lad. It unleashes a woman’s inner…” He groped for the right word.

“Beast?”

“Man, I’m afraid. It’s the only time they get to turn the tables on us. The sly looks. The innuendo. It’s rather scary to be on the receiving end, don’t you think?”

Dr. Albrecht walked up to the bar, gave the older gentleman a close scan from head to toe, then with a point at the bottle of Rioja said pleasantly, “Vhy, Reggie, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a pair of knees quite so pink before.”

Axel peered over the bar. Reggie was wearing a kilt as well, a light-blue one. He gave Axel an I-told-you-so look and pulled the hem a little lower.

Axel poured the last of the bottle and pushed the glass toward Dr. Albrecht.

“Vhere’s Ellery?” she asked.

“I doubt she’ll be coming.”

The sociologist searched his face so hard, he felt compelled to add, “It’s not me, I swear. She’s on a call. It’s pretty important.”
Sheesh.
It was like having his mother here. Next she’d be checking to see if his nails were clean. He gave them a discreet look. Not bad.

“I’m glad you mentioned her, though,” he added. “She’s going to need a flight back to the States as soon as possible, which I guess means a flight to London from here.”

“Tonight?”

He thought of the worry in Jill’s voice. “Yes, if it’s possible.”

“Let me run back to the house to check the schedules. There may be time to make the last flight. Vhat about you? Vill you be going vith her?”

He’d be about as handy as mud flaps on a speedboat in that tête-à-tête. “No. I’ll finish out here and catch the train as planned.”

“And then vhat?” The sociologist narrowed her eyes.

Axel knew she wasn’t asking about his London hotel plans.

“I don’t know. Hard to say.” He had no idea what if anything the kiss had meant, though he had passed on both the food and the Belhaven in order to keep the fresh melon taste of Ellery in his mouth.

Dr. Albrecht made one of those noises his father used to make when Axel said his homework was mostly done, and she scurried off. As he washed the glasses, the band began a rousing version of “Scotland the Brave.” He
wouldn’t have guessed a tin whistle could take the part of the bagpipes in that song, but the little instrument was doing a yeoman’s duty. A number of the guests were dancing, and still more were drinking, talking or eating. The barn was a perfect spot for a party. He could see why Dr. Albrecht did a good business in céilidhs.

“So, are you one of the hired hands here too?” he asked Reggie. “Though perhaps I should say ‘hired legs.’ ”

Reggie chuckled. “Oh, no. I own the distillery next door. I’ve known Gerty for years. Archie and I curled together.”

“A curler, eh? I’ve done a bit a curling myself. More of a hockey man, though. You don’t look like a curler. You look more like a rugger. The shoulders, I think. You’re not a Scot, though.”

“No, just a Northumberland bloke who loves whiskey. By the way, I couldn’t help but notice you’re not a Scot, either.”

Axel felt his ears pinken. “Sorry,” he said, dropping the borrowed accent. “Part of the conditions of employment. I feel like I’m a spy or something. Probably not required for you, though.”

“No, the kilt’s more than enough.”

Axel laughed.

“It’s quite good, though,” Reggie said, “your accent, I mean.”

“My father was from Fife but moved to Canada as a child. That’s where I’m from.”

“Ah, the great kingdom of Fife. Have you been?”

“Never.”

“You should go. I recommend Kirkcaldy. A lovely
town. And if you go, I suggest Fyfe Fyre, a great bitter from Fyfe Brewing.”

Axel straightened. “You a beer drinker?”

“A man needs something to wash his whiskey down, aye?”

Axel grinned. “I’ll drink to that.” He picked up his club soda and clinked Reggie’s glass, but he didn’t drink.

“Not thirsty?”

“Something like that. Say, I almost bought a micro-brewery this week.”

Reggie raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Couldn’t come up with enough money.”

“You know anything about brewing?”

“Yes. A lot. Enough to know it’s what I want to do.”

Three more women approached the bar, and Axel poured a chardonnay, a Coke and another Belhaven, enduring only a single giggled comment about his theoretical lack of underclothes in the process. He was amused to discover, however, that bending for the clean glasses consistently doubled his tip. Perhaps he would end up with a brewery after all.

Reggie signaled for a refill.

“I’m Axel, by the way.” He held out his hand. “Axel Mackenzie.”

Reggie shook it. “What are you doing in Bathgate?”

“I’m a photographer.” He grabbed Reggie’s glass and ducked his head toward the tripod and equipment bag tucked into the corner. “I’m here for a story.”

“On what?”

“Romance novels.”

Reggie nodded. “
Kiltlander
.”

“Among others.” He filled the glass and set it down again.

“Have I seen your stuff?”

“Probably. I do a lot of magazine work. God, did you see the moon out there? I’m dying to take a crack at that.”

“What was the stramash about the lassie?”

Axel made an unhappy grunt, hoping it would be answer enough.

“I see.” Reggie sipped his beer. “I’ve had a run of bad luck myself. My soon-to-be ex-wife wants half of everything.”

“Well, fortunately, I’ve got nothing to be halved. And in any case, we broke up a long time ago.”

“Mm-hm.”

Axel couldn’t quite put a description on what had happened between him and Ellery. He was relieved to know she hadn’t cheated on him, though in his heart he’d never really believed it. But another part of him was unexpectedly sad to discover something that would have brought them such joy had been lost.

Right woman, wrong time.

“Reggie,” he said, slouching against the wall behind the bar, “it sounds like what you need to do is find yourself the right woman.”

“Have, my lad. Two problems. First, I’m na’ divorced. The ex-wife’s dragging her feet, and it wouldn’t be right to ask the new lady until that was settled.”

“And?”

Reggie’s shoulders settled a degree lower. “And I can’t get the new lass to pay me the slightest mind.”

Dr. Albrecht ran up to the bar, nodding briefly at Reggie.
“There is a flight,” she said to Axel. “I’ll let her know. How are vee doing on the beer?”

“Tons left. This is definitely a harder-drinking crowd.”

“Would you like me to send over a cask of whiskey?” Reggie asked, the eagerness to help written clearly on his face.

“Thank you, Reggie,” she said absently, scanning the dance floor. “You can send me the bill.”

“No, no, it’s on me,” he said, but she had already flitted away.

“I see what you mean.” Axel pulled out a bottle of aged whiskey he’d found under the bar. “This yours?”

“It is.”

Axel put down two shot glasses. If he was going to give up the taste of Ellery Sharpe, it might as well be for a shot of eighteen-year-old Scotch.

He gave each glass a generous pour and picked up his. “To someday figuring women out.”

Reggie picked his up and threw it back.
“Sláinte.”

Axel drank his.
And then she was gone.

“Do you like it?”

The exquisite peaty smokiness rolled past his lungs and into his belly. It was great, but not as good as what it had replaced. “It’s marvelous.”

Reggie smiled.

“Are you planning to get some dinner?” Axel asked. The caterer had opened a resplendent buffet with a lamb roast, parsnips, potatoes, meat pies, beans, stewed cabbage and Dr. Albrecht’s soup. He could smell the garlic of the lamb all the way over at the bar.

“I believe I might.”

“What do you suppose those things are?”

Reggie looked toward the platter where Axel was pointing. It was piled high with some sort of dough pockets.

“Pasties, I imagine. More of a Cornish treat than Scottish, but I doubt this crowd will notice.”

“They look like pierogies,” Axel said, thinking of that delectable Pittsburgh treat. “Only with a pastry crust.”

“‘Pierogies’?”

“Rolled dough folded in a half-circle over mashed potatoes and sautéed onions. Fried in butter and served with sour cream. A-mazing.”

“Mmmmm. Wonder what they’d be like with neeps and tatties? Are they a Canadian dish?”

“Oh, God, no. Pittsburghian. Not fattening enough for Canadians. Our national dish is poutine—chips topped with brown gravy and cheese curds.”

Reggie’s eyes blinked dreamily. “This I must try.”

“Poutine, a couple of Labatt Blues, the Maple Leafs on the big screen…” Axel stared happily into the distance. “But,” he added quickly, “pierogies are nearly their equal. I don’t know why, but I have a real soft spot for them.”

“I don’t suppose the lassie’s from Pittsburgh?”

Axel’s cheeks warmed.

“Mm-hm.”

“That’s where the brewery I almost bought is too.”

“A sort of regional hat trick?”

Axel laughed. “You, my friend, know your sports.”

“If only I knew women as well.”

“I hear ya.”

Reggie climbed to his feet and gave Axel a nod before heading toward the food. Axel grabbed his camera and
began to reel off some shots of the band as they wound down, slowing the shutter speed in order to get blurs of movement. There wouldn’t be an article—there was little chance Black would publish what Ellery had written—but Axel could probably pull the photos together into something for a travel magazine.

Dr. Albrecht reappeared. “Axel, vill you close the bar? The bigvigs vant to do some speeches during dinner, and they don’t vant people getting up for refills until it’s over.”

“Sure. No problem.” He’d worked enough places over the years to know you could always count on the suits to shut down the fun. “Say, is there going to be dancing afterward?”

“Oh, I’m sure there vill be. The place is booked until one.”

“Reggie would like the first dance.”

She frowned. “Vhat do you mean?”

“The first dance, Frau Doktor. With you.”

“vith
me
?” Her face filled with surprise. Good Lord, how subtle had Reggie been?

“Who else?”

“I, vell…” She stammered out a few more sounds, dimples puckered, and fell silent.

“I’ll let him know?”

“Yes,” she nodded, eyes sparkling.
“Danke.”

Axel closed up the bar, grabbed his camera and found Reggie in the food line. “You’re lined up for the first dance after dinner,” he said, thumping him on the back. “Make the most of it.”

“What? How—”

“I told her where you stand. Knocked her right back into German.”

“But the divorce…”

“A dance isn’t a marriage proposal, pal. Keep it clean.”

Axel hitched the camera onto his shoulder and made his way to the guitar player. “Great set,” he said; then, slipping the guy a five-pound note, he added, “First song after dinner? Make it a slow one.”