Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots (4 page)

T
he Lord
of the Isles had a spectacular ass.

Not that the fact had anything to do with why she was here.

Lilly crept farther into the bedroom. He lay on his stomach, the white cotton sheets twisted around his thighs and calves. The one beam of muted sunlight gleamed on the spectacular ass and lovingly stroked across a truly stunning, broad back. His skin looked like polished marble, as if a statue had dropped his pose and slipped into sleep.

He must have risen during the night at some point. To strip.

Her imagination had always been vivid, and within one second, it provided her with a colorful picture of Iain McPherson, strutting through the room, stripping off his clothes.

Speaking of clothes.

She forced her fascinated gaze away from his body and instead, inspected the mountain of garments she’d pushed to the floor last night. There were jeans and T-shirts, pullovers and underwear, towels and sweatpants. This would take her hours.

But by the look of him and the low snore coming from his mouth, she had plenty of time before his majesty awoke.

After sorting the mounds into new mounds of similar colored clothes, she piled the first group into a wicker basket she found in the corner and hiked it on her hip. Giving herself permission to take one last ogle, she ran her gaze over that fine ass one more time.

And remembered she hadn’t been with a guy for almost a year.

Not that it was a problem. She liked sex. It had its place and was enjoyable, yet nothing she couldn’t forgo if the situation wasn’t optimal. Or the guy wasn’t the easygoing sort.

This wasn’t anywhere near an optimal situation.

The McPherson was as far from easygoing as a man could be.

So the fine ass in front of her was for show only.

No touching.

Marching out of the bedroom, she soon found the small laundry room stuck in a corner hall right outside the den. With the first load of laundry churning in the machine, she walked into the kitchen and sighed. He was going to owe her a big thank you when he awoke.

She wasn’t holding her breath.

He’d have a hangover, so he’d be grouchy. He wouldn’t want to discuss his predicament at first. He’d also soon find his stash of liquor was gone, hopefully for good. The tower of cardboard boxes filled with whiskey bottles was the first thing she tackled. After two hours of hard work, the kitchen was clean, the whiskey was gone, and the third load of laundry was in the dryer.

She surveyed his den. The dirty dishes and empty bottles that had littered the trunk were gone and that was a good start. But the floor needed to be mopped, the rug in front of the fireplace needed to be aired, and the thick layer of dust on the furniture needed to be taken care of, too.

This room was still a mess.

Also a puzzle.

The computer equipment was top-notch. As a photographer, she’d come to know first rate techie stuff when she saw it. His stereo and TV were high-end too, the clean-cut lines and symmetry of the pieces screamed luxury. The rug she stood on was likely Persian and if she had to guess, the long, leather couch in front of her cost thousands of pounds.

The man knew good quality stuff and had no trouble spending money to get it.

She’d known Malcolm McPherson had money. How could he not, with the fishing licenses and land? Yet he’d always struck her as an anachronism, someone strutting out of the past, dragging tapestries and golden crowns behind him.

Now that wealth seemed to have leapt right into modern times with his son.

Why would a man who had so much and so much to live for dive headfirst into depression? What had happened to him to descend into a bad case of depression?

Why, he could do anything. He could create a whole tourist empire here on Somairie. The island had beautiful beaches and stunning scenery. This was a paradise for birdwatchers and fishermen and golfers. Fingal could sport a dozen B&Bs and fill its long main street with more restaurants than any one tourist could visit.

The possibilities crowded her mind.

A man with ambition and intelligence could take this place and create a miracle. Clearly, the McPherson was smart. He wouldn’t have risen in the Marines as quickly as he had if he hadn’t been. Wasn’t he some kind of leader of a group or something? She frowned, trying to remember the gossip. But she’d never paid much attention to the worship-fest swirling around the heroic Royal Marine.

So, whatever.

He was smart. And modern, too. Look at all this techie stuff.

What had he done instead, though? He’d walled himself in a castle tower like a male version of Sleeping Beauty. Lilly snorted. Time for someone to snap her fingers underneath his long nose and wake him up. Throwing a glance at the bedroom, she listened.

Yep. Sleeping Beauty still snored.

She’d take a duster to this den and do a bit of a sweep. If the great lord hadn’t risen by then, she’d bet the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling sausage would do the trick. Now that she had a good piece of the cleaning done, she was eager to get to her real goal.

Talking to the McPherson. Talking him into what was best for him, and best for his land and villagers.

The dusting didn’t take long, and the efficient whisk of the broom she’d found in the kitchen cupboard had cleaned most of the room when she ran into a problem.

A problem that made her curiosity about him turn into deep concern.

Underneath his big leather chair were guns.

Lots of guns.

“Dammit, McPherson,” she muttered, as she kneeled to peer under the seat. “You shouldn’t have guns when you’re drinking and depressed.”

This would not do. Not in any way. She’d gotten rid of the whiskey for his own good. There’d be no way she’d let these guns stay here, waiting to be used.

But pouring them down the drain wouldn’t work, and they were his property.

Dragging them all out along with a stash of ammunition, she glared at them. There were two pistols and what she thought might be an assault rifle. Didn’t Scotland have rules about guns? She eyed the pile of weapons as she stood. Where could she put these so they’d be safe, yet not easily available to a man prone to brooding?

The idea popped into her head.

The shed on the beach. They’d be safe there and on McPherson land, but far from any kind of temptation that might strike at the spur of the moment.

By the time she’d lugged the ammunition and firearms to the shed, it was noon. The morning sun had turned into a sullen sky. She’d only spent a month here every year. Still, she could tell by the whip of the wind there was a storm coming.

Shrugging, she turned back to the secret steps. Storms came and went in the Scotland Hebrides. By the time she’d talked to the McPherson and was ready to head back to her dad’s cottage, the sky would be predictably clear.

Time for the Lord of the Isles to rise to his new life and new possibilities.

Time for Lilly Graham to have her say and make him see straight.

Time to make breakfast.

It had been hours since her own, and her grumbling stomach reminded her of the fact. Good that the half-fridge and side pantry were filled with food. Apparently, depression hadn’t destroyed his appetite.

She hummed to herself when she saw the Lorne sausage. The square-cut meat had been a part of her childhood for as long as she could remember. Team it with fresh scrambled eggs and sliced tomatoes, and even a man with a hangover couldn’t be mad for long.

* * *

H
e must be mad
.

Iain didn’t open his eyes. He’d learned that wasn’t the best idea after drinking all night. He also didn’t move. That always caused his stomach to churn.

But his nose quivered.

Sausage. There was sausage grilling.

Madness.

He didn’t eat in the morning. His routine had become very simple. When he finally felt as if his stomach wouldn’t rebel, he’d roll out of his bed. Once he’d accomplished that, he’d crawl to the shower and sit under the hot blast of water until his head didn’t feel like it was going to fall off. Then, he’d gingerly wrap a towel around his waist and go find his special batch of coffee beans. Not until he’d had several big cups would he even contemplate putting anything into his stomach.

His nose twitched again.

That was definitely sausage. Someone was cooking sausage.

He grunted in disbelief.

“You’re awake.” The perky female voice pierced straight through the last fog of sleep and rang a bell directly inside his pounding head.

“Here.” A thud hit the bedside table where he usually found an empty whiskey bottle in the morning. “You must like coffee.”

The swirling smell of rich coffee hit his nose. His stomach grumbled, not sure about the break in routine.

“I like coffee, too.” The cheery voice kept banging into his reality. “I’ve tasted this, and it’s great.”

He grunted once more. He had gone mad.

“You have good taste.”

Finally, because she apparently wasn’t going to disappear into the mists of his mania, he opened one eye.

“Hi.” Her eyes were bright with friendliness. The sea-green of her gaze hit him like a wave of the ocean. “Good morning.”

“Go away,” he croaked.

She’d come back, dammit. Lovely Lilly with her perverse need to interfere and her peachy, golden skin. She hadn’t been a figment of his liquor-drenched brain. She was real.

All too real.

“No can do,” she chirped, disappearing around the arched doorway of his bedroom. “Go take a shower and then we can eat and talk.”

“Talk.” He rolled his head into his pillow and thought about suffocating himself.

His head pounded.

His stomach rumbled.

His body refused to stop breathing.

Turning over, he stared at the stone ceiling. He could hear the female humming in the kitchen, a low crooning that for some reason soothed his headache.

The coffee did smell good.

With a tentative shift, he eased himself to sit on the side of the bed and realized he was naked. The sheet clung to his feet and not much else. She must have got an eyeful of his arse. The thought zinged right to his cock and for the first time in months, he had a morning erection.

“
Shite
.”

Trying to distract himself, he lunged for the coffee. He closed his eyes as the hot liquid ran down his throat. She was right, he did have a taste for good, strong coffee. He’d learned to appreciate the dark Turkish flavors he and his buddies had found in the Middle East. Along with the coffee, he’d also developed a taste for the Iranian peaches that littered many eastern markets.

Peaches.

“You should jump in the shower.” Her voice strolled right into his head, accompanied by the image of her plush, round cheeks and pretty, curved lips. “I’m starting the eggs now.”

“Go away.” He took another deep sip of coffee.

Her only response was a laugh.

Iain opened his eyes and faced reality. The only way he was going to get rid of her was by physically throwing her out. To do that, he had to get himself awake and alert. He’d learned to take orders at a very young age, and only after years of work had he climbed into a position where he gave them to others. And look where that had led him.

Taking orders was a safer bet.

Even if they came from lovely Lilly.

Groaning, he pushed himself off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom he’d designed for himself last year. When he’d finished burying his da, he’d strode into the castle. Through the grand rooms on the ground floor he’d went, past the huge bedroom his da and mum had slept in, up the dramatic and imposing stone staircase. He’d ignored the tapestries and trophies his ancestors had accumulated during centuries of rule. He’d focused on taking one step after another, afraid if he lifted his head and took in his heritage, he might have to end his life right then and there. Because his honorable ancestors and lofty legacy would demand it as a needed sacrifice.

He’d ended his march here. In the tower.

The oldest part of the castle, it had been long-used as storage, a dumping ground for the past. Malcolm McPherson hadn’t believed in throwing any family heirloom away, although the rug might be in tatters and the mahogany bed set might be close to dust.

Iain had focused. Focused on moving it all down into the main part of the castle. Focused on clearing out everything until he ended up with nothing.

Which suited him.

He wanted to live like a monk. He wanted plain walls and cold furniture and empty rooms.

Only with his music and the bathroom had he allowed himself some comfort.

The stone walls rose two stories high, arching above the room like the ceiling of a medieval chapel. He’d placed the round, deep hot tub under the one window and the glass-encased shower on the other end of the narrow room. In between lay the rock-lined, double sink. He’d done the work himself, ordering the supplies directly from London. He wanted no interactions with hopeful villagers, and he wanted none of his money going to local businesses.

“Hurry up!” she yelled from the kitchen.