The Accidental Scot (10 page)

Pippa was looking at him, apparently expecting an answer.

“Fine,” he finally whispered back. He didn't mind helping people out. He never had. But Christmas wasn't the only thing that he'd boycotted. The last time he'd used a hammer for more than hanging a picture was before his dad died. He felt too guilty to work with a tool since.

Crap. He hated when he remembered stuff like that. Even to this day, grief could overtake him, making him
feel helpless. Automatically, he reached for Pippa's hand, but stopped himself, jerking back.

When she looked at him questioningly, he turned away.

After church, Pippa went to speak with Kirsty, who was not only spearheading the set construction but was also the pageant director. Max wanted to slip outside for some breathing room, but person after person kept stopping him. Father Andrew first, shaking Max's hand and thanking him for volunteering his time to work on the manger scene. Then Bethia to see how he was feeling. Even Amy made a point to ask how the warm clothes were holding up. When Moira nodded in passing, Glenna pulled away and ran over to him. She yanked on his hand as if to pull him down to her level.

“I want to give Mr. Christmas a hug.” Glenna's lilting voice tugged at his heart.

He knelt down and hugged her back.

“Talk to Santa Claus for me,” she whispered in his ear. “I want Cousin Moira to be happy again.”

Max had no words for her, but nodded his head as she looked into his eyes.
Now, how am I going to do that?

As she ran off, Taog and Murdoch cornered him, wanting to recount the drinks they'd had last night. Max broke away to stop Deydie and thank her for the chicken stew, which he declared was as much responsible for his quick recovery as Bethia's tinctures. Deydie beamed at him with an alarming grin.

The experience of a tight community was almost surreal. He hadn't shared this much conversation since college. Back home, he mostly talked about work, either technical issues or corporate gossip. He'd certainly never
had the occasion to thank someone for chicken stew! The villagers reminded him a lot of his own family—a bit nosy, but endearing. How had he developed a strong connection with Gandiegow in such a short period of time?

Pippa returned and grabbed her coat from the rack. “We better hurry to noonday meal with my da. I promised Freda and Kirsty we would be back in an hour to work on the new nativity scene.”

Max took her coat from her and held it up so she could slip her arms in. He stopped himself from doing more. He could tell her hackles were already up that he'd played gentleman to her lady.

Lunch was a quick affair of potato soup and fresh bread—provided by Freda. As promised, they were out the door within the hour, leaving the McDonnell to visit with Abraham Clacher, one of the old fishermen.

Back at the church, the manger crew consisted of Father Andrew, a couple of teenagers named Samuel and Robert, Freda, Kirsty, and Ross—Pippa's supposed beau.

As they walked to the rear of the building, Max considered introducing himself to Ross. Not because Pippa was promised to the fisherman; Max needed to befriend
all
the people of Gandiegow if he was to close the deal with the North Sea Valve Company.

But at the doorway of the makeshift workroom, he stopped short. The smell of sawdust and the sight of workhorses and carpentry tools strewn out across the floor knocked the breath from him.

Old memories flooded his senses.

Helping his dad in his workshop, aka the garage, was one of his earliest recollections. It was their special
father/son time. So many of his memories of his dad were when they had tools in their hands. Max always felt comfortable telling Dad things when they were alone like that. There were never any lectures in the workshop, only the sharing of wisdom among the claw hammer, the palm sander, and the scraps of wood.

But Max's last memory of the workshop was filled with regret. He'd bailed on his dad, wanting to hang out with friends instead of the old man.
Go on,
his dad had said
. Have a good time. We can work on this bench later.
If Max had known then it would be his last chance to build something with his father, he would've ditched his friends in a heartbeat. But he hadn't known. All opportunities to make it up to his dad for being selfish had been obliterated when the oil rig exploded.

A warm hand touched his arm. Max shifted his gaze to find Pippa looking at him with concern.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” His voice sounded scratchy. “I'm fine.” He walked farther into the room to prove to himself that he had overcome those feelings long ago.

Ross picked up two hammers, handing one to Max. “We haven't met yet. I'm Ross Armstrong.”

“Max. Max McKinley.”

Ross sized him up. “Are ye any good with a hammer?”

“I used to be.” Max hefted the tool from one hand to the other.

Kirsty clapped to get their attention as though they were her students. “Here are the plans for the collapsible stable and manger. I printed them off the Internet. If we do it right, the pieces should convert to a food stand for
the children to use during the summer months.” She handed out their assignments.

Max headed off to a corner to work alone. Between the smell of fresh-cut wood and the buzz of the circular saw, he couldn't think clearly. Why was Pippa torturing him by dredging up old memories? But she couldn't know how painful it was to use tools again, or how much he missed his dad.

He glanced up. Pippa stood there as if he'd conjured her.

She grabbed a handful of nails. “Can I help?”

No.
He wanted to work alone. “Sure. Can you get me three slats?”

She retrieved them and held them in place while he hammered. “Ye're skilled,” she remarked. “Like you've built a manger before?”

Max sat back on his heels. “Yes. My dad taught me. We made the manger for our church when I was twelve.” He chuckled, remembering more.

“What?” Pippa said. “Why the smile?”

“That wasn't the only manger we built together. We decided to make another crib, similar to this, one for my little sister to play with.” He shook his head.

“And?” Pippa prompted.

“Bitsy, my kid sister, decided, instead of using it for her dolls, she wanted it for herself. Christmas night, my dad called me in to see her sleeping in it. Her legs were hanging over the edge. It's a wonder the thing didn't collapse under her weight.”

The warmth of the memory filled him—his dad's hand on his shoulder while the two of them watched
Bitsy sleep. He glanced at Pippa now, grateful she'd helped him to remember something good.

They continued to work together, and within the span of three hours, the crèche was done. Max wiped sawdust from his hands. He helped the crew put the room back in order and move the hybrid manger scene/food stand to the far wall. Before they left, Father Andrew thanked each one for donating their time and talent.

Pippa brushed sawdust from Max's arm. “Ye did a fine job.”

It was nice having her beside him, but things were getting a little too cozy again. He stepped away from her and retrieved his coat. “I better head back to the pub now.”

Pippa put her hands on her hips. “Not so fast, Mr. McKinley. Aye, ye better head back to the pub to clean up, but then we're expected at Quilting Central.”

“Why? Am I required to make a quilt next?”

She laughed. “Nay. To Christmas carol. 'Tis a lovely way to send off the quilters at the end of the retreat.”

Good God. Was she going to make him take part in
every single Christmas tradition
while he was here in Gandiegow?

He screwed a smile on his face. “Shouldn't I rest? Wasn't I recently in grave danger with the Highland flu?”

“Singing is good for you.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone. Besides, caroling at Quilting Central will help people forget that ye've come here to steal our subsea shutoff valve.” She'd said it without missing a beat, as if that sentiment was always first and foremost on her mind.

“Let's get one thing straight, Pippa—”

She cut him off. “We'll have to argue later. Deydie said we better be on time
or else.
The quilters' bus is headed back to Glasgow at six p.m. After that, ye can rail on me all you want.”

She was so full of life and determination. Her competency, her drive, was incredibly sexy.

Without warning, all blood in his head rushed southward. He had the urge to grab her and kiss her senseless. He stared at her for a few steamy moments, then finally answered, “Fine.” The word was sharp, begrudging—which had little to do with caroling and more to do with how little control he had over himself when he was near her.

She blushed as if she could read his dirty mind. “No dawdling either. I don't have time to come and get you; I need a shower, too.”

Not the image I need right now
. He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe he should suggest they shower together . . . to save water and time.

She put her hands on her hips. “What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing,” he said, imagining all sorts of angles at which to soap her up.

“Well, stop it.” She looked at her watch. “And get going.”

“I am.” But not before he gave her the once-over again. For good measure.

Thirty minutes later, when Max walked into Quilting Central, he was hit with estrogen overload. Four men from the church choir and two fishermen—Ross and his
brother, Ramsay—stood at the back wall, a small battalion against an army of women, especially gray-headed women. Max ignored the appreciative female glances as he stalked by them to join the men.

Pippa noticed the women, too, and gave an eye roll, but then she moved on to the business of arranging the carolers. “Stand there, Max. Everyone else gather around.”

The makeshift choir did as they were told. Pippa started singing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and they joined in. Max was surprised he remembered the words. The last time he'd sung carols was at a school Christmas concert. Next they sang “Good King Wenceslas
.
” As he looked out at the quilters and their genuine smiles registered, his annoyance at Pippa began to fade. The quilters clapped along with “Jingle Bells,” and then the choir finished with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

As they disbanded, Pippa touched his arm. “Still angry with me?”

“Not so much.”

“Does that smile on your face mean you're not the Grinch you thought you were?” she asked.

“No,” he lied. “I can keep my inner Grinch under wraps when I have to.”

“Nay. You enjoyed yereself, I think. I told you singing was good for you.”

He didn't get to respond as the Glasgow women converged. Pippa had mercy and steered the crowd toward the cookies and hot cocoa.

Max watched her from across the room as she entertained a large group with an animated story. He couldn't
hear what she was saying over the noise in the room, but he could tell it was one whopper of a tale. Suddenly, she pointed at him and they all laughed, but instead of getting up in arms over it, he waved back good-naturedly.

Bethia sidled up beside him. “Our Pippa is something special.” She examined him closely, chewing her lip in thought.

Max didn't know what Bethia was getting at, so he answered cautiously. “Pippa does have spunk.”

Bethia nodded. “Aye. One in a million.”

Aye, indeed. There was something magnetic about Pippa McDonnell. But he wouldn't let on that he agreed.

Pippa left her audience and joined him and Bethia, her face flushed from laughing. “And Mr. McKinley, what are you doing for dinner? Are you coming to my house and feasting with the McDonnell and myself?”

He would like nothing more than to remain near her. But the Highland flu wasn't the only thing he was susceptible to here in Scotland. Wanting to spend more time with Pippa was running rampant through him. And that was not good.

“Thanks for the offer, but I'm bushed,” he said. “I'll grab a bite before I go to bed.”

The light in her eyes dimmed for a moment but she recovered quick enough. “Aye. You must keep up yere strength.”

“Yes, we have a lot of work to do,” he reminded her.

“Then I'll wish you good night.” She stuck out her hand as if they were only acquaintances. Maybe it was for Bethia's sake.

He took it and had quite the shock. A sizzle pulsed between them.

Hell.

Bethia was too observant. She raised her eyebrows and canted her head in the direction of Ross.
A little reminder?

As if on cue, Max's cell phone dinged. A text.

Pippa heard it, too, and she let go.

He glanced at the message.
Miranda.
He should've waited to check it, or at least hidden the screen. When Pippa saw who was texting him, her face tensed and she stepped away. But physical space wasn't the only distance she put between them.

“I'll see you in the morning, Mr. McKinley.” Her smile was gone, her tone professional. The warmth between them had turned to frigid air.

“Fine.”

Pippa had the right of it. Between now and then, he better regain some perspective. The electric attraction between them was only a distraction. And though she claimed there was nothing there, in Gandiegow's eyes Pippa was promised to Ross.

I
n the morning, Max dressed for business in his suit and tie, but wearing the warm boots Pippa had given him at the factory.

No more Christmas Roundups, no more Christmas carols. No more bullshit. The e-mail from Miranda this morning had been a veiled threat. He should've been more reassuring in his text back to her last night. If Max didn't make headway on this deal soon, she'd send someone who would. In other words, he'd be out of a job. He went downstairs and waited for NSV's chief engineer. She would not derail him today.

Pippa showed up wearing jeans and a blue cable sweater, not the business attire he expected.

She gave him the once-over. “You're certainly not dressed appropriately for today's task.”

He glanced down at his dark suit, hoping she meant they were going to get their hands dirty. “I don't mind if we're working on the production lines, but afterward we'll discuss the MTech/NSV partnership, right?”

She screwed up her face. “Not exactly.” She held out the last word.

He didn't budge. “How
not exactly
? We're going to work on the production lines, but we're
not
going to discuss the partnership?”

She shook her head, not making anything clear. Surely she didn't expect him to do any more Christmas crap today.

She gestured toward the steps behind the bar. “Hurry and change. Make sure to wear Amy's dreadful sweater.”

Max stayed rooted to the floor as a terrible feeling crept over him. “What's this about?” He prided himself on his good manners, but felt close to losing his temper.

She flipped her long curls over her shoulder. “We're running errands today.”

“What kind of errands?” Maybe they were heading into Inverness to pick up something for the factory. That would give them plenty of time to discuss the deal. “Did you order some new equipment?”

“Ye're wasting time.” She thrust her hands on her hips impatiently. “If ye must know, we're running Christmas errands. We've packages to deliver.”

Good grief.
Not again.

He was drawing the line here and now. It was one thing for her to have the kids call him Mr. Christmas, but it was a whole other nightmare to impersonate Santa Claus himself.

Max glared at her. “No. No way.” He was done playing her game. “No more Christmas activities. I'm here to discuss the MTech deal and nothing else.” Or nothing more. He'd already crossed the line and kissed her, but it couldn't happen again.

Her eyebrows lifted. “And that's your final answer?”

“Yes.” It felt good to set her straight. No more jacking around. “Your obsession with Christmas could get me fired!”

She sauntered past him and picked up his gloves from the bar. “It's a shame. I thought we were coming to an
understanding
.”

The word coursed through him as she stopped and held his gaze.

Then she shifted and faced the wreath hanging over the bar as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Fine. If ye don't care to know the people of Gandiegow, then my father and I will have to bring in another company that will.”

Bring in another company?
There. The lightbulb went off in his brain. The number one rule when dealing with customers was to figure out what they wanted. Max was no dummy, but since the moment he'd met Pippa, he had been thinking with his
member
instead of his brain. He should've figured this out sooner.

“So that's what this is all about? You've made me take part in all of your Gandiegow Christmas nonsense so I'll take the townsfolk into consideration while we're hammering out this deal?”

“Aye. The reason for the season.”

Time to backpedal from his earlier assertion. “I'll need a minute to change my clothes.”

She tapped his arm with an index finger. “Ye're a quick learner, Mr. McKinley.”

“Not as quick as I should've been. But top of my class at Texas A&M.”

Pippa was holding the damned deal hostage and he resented it, and at the same time, he understood. She was just watching out for her town. And for that, he admired her.

He stepped behind the bar, but stopped. “Why the sweater?”

“Ye'll see.”

“Tell me now.”

“The people we're going to visit today don't have a lot to laugh about. I thought the fact that you bought Amy's sweater, and that a gorgeous man such as yereself would actually wear it, would bring a smile to their faces.”

Had she just barbed him and called him gorgeous in the same breath?

When he returned, Pippa had two coffees and a thermos. She gestured to Amy's sweater, softness in her eyes. “Ye're a trouper.”

“I can suffer through a few hours of humiliation as long as the deal is made in the end.” He gave her a capisce-look, grabbed his coat, and held the door open for them to leave.

Before starting their deliveries, they retrieved the wagon from Quilting Central. He'd assumed most of the packages would be presents, but their load consisted primarily of food and essentials. Their first stop was the small house belonging to the Bruce family. Poor Mrs. Bruce was worn-out, deep lines between her eyebrows. With five sick children at home and her husband the janitor at NSV, she looked to be scarcely hanging on to her sanity. Max stoked the fire while Pippa put the groceries away. He tried not to notice how bare the cupboards were. His mother raised three kids as a widow, but they'd never gone without food like these folks.

The oldest of the Bruce children, a coughing seven-year-old, cornered him. “Play with us.”

With a big grin, Max joined three of the kids in front
of the fire. The homemade blocks made a racket as he poured them from a basket onto the floor. The kids
shh
ed him because their baby brother was asleep in the crib in the corner.

“Pippa, can I fix you a cup of tea?” Mrs. Bruce looked hopeful for some company.

“Aye.”

The women sat at the table and talked quietly.

“Are your shutters in good working order? A big storm is brewing,” Pippa finally said.

Max stacked two more blocks on the tower he was building.

“The screws have gone loose on two of them.” Mrs. Bruce looked down, embarrassed. “I need to get out there and tighten them. With Calder so tired at the end of the day, I haven't had the heart to ask him to do it.”

With a quick apology Max handed off his blocks to the children and got to his feet. “Put me to work, Mrs. Bruce. Do you have tools?”

She pointed to the bed in the corner. “Under there.”

Pippa beamed at Max with approval, but he avoided her warm gaze. It was just a couple of screws. He retrieved the tools and his coat. After he secured the storm shutters, he fixed the loose leg on the dining table. When one of the Bruce girls brought Max her doll, he fixed it, too. Pippa's gaze seemed to follow him wherever he went, and he couldn't help liking it, even though he knew he shouldn't.

The little girl's face lit up when he handed the toy back, its arm reattached. “Danks,” she chirped, then took the doll and climbed into her mother's lap, sticking a thumb in her mouth.

Mrs. Bruce squeezed her daughter and gave Max a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. McKinley.”

“My pleasure,” he said sincerely.

Pippa bombarded him with another of her tender looks as she handed him his scarf and coat. “We need to be off. We have several more stops to make today.”

Mrs. Bruce stood. “Where to next?”

“Mr. Menzies,” Pippa said.

“Wait just a minute.” Mrs. Bruce wrapped a fresh loaf of bread. “Can ye give this to him from us?”

Max was astounded at her generosity. The Bruces had so little.

Mrs. Bruce and three of her children waved good-bye from the door as he and Pippa made their way down the walk.

Mr. Menzies lived in nothing more than a shack. He had to be in his eighties and was nearly deaf. But he had the gleam in his eyes of a much younger man who loved making merry. He was full of funny stories about Pippa's father, especially the trouble Lachlan had gotten into as a boy, before he'd become the McDonnell. Mr. Menzies seemed to grow livelier the longer they were there, and Pippa sat listening without the slightest show of impatience, even though she'd probably heard the same stories a dozen times.

Then Mr. Menzies mentioned the land NSV sat on, a piece of property that had gone to him after all his family members had passed.

“I never expected to see a dime of rent for the place.” Mr. Menzies cleared his throat. Max was afraid the old man might be overcome with emotion. “I'm right grateful to the McDonnell for starting up the factory.” He
pointed to the new woodstove in the corner. “I'm making some needed improvements around here with the extra cash.”

Pippa hugged Mr. Menzies and then wrapped a green-and-gold quilt around his shoulders.

He reached for Pippa's hand. “Thank you, lassie. Ye're a good one.”

Max tried to not be affected by the old man's fondness for Pippa, but she seemed to bring it out in people. She brought it out in him!

The more places they stopped, the closer he felt to NSV's chief engineer and Gandiegow's benevolent elf. He found excuses to keep touching her—straightening her scarf, dusting snow from her sleeve, adjusting her hair when she pulled her cap off. He couldn't help himself. His attraction toward her had shifted into something tender, something that made him slightly uncomfortable in his own skin. She seemed to have softened toward him, too. The pull to be together was strong. He used every ounce of his willpower not to kiss her between houses. He focused on the task at hand and began warming up to being an elf right along with her.
But only an elf.
He could have compassion for these people and still hold on to his grudge toward Christmas.

When at last their wagon was empty, he should've been smart and hightailed it to the pub alone. But when it came to Pippa, he was anything but rational.

“Will you come back with me?” He wanted her to himself. “For cocoa?” Something sweet, hot, and satisfying.

“Aye. I'll come with ye.”

They'd have an hour, maybe a little longer, before the
pub began filling up for the evening, and he wanted to spend every minute of it with her. To hell with keeping his distance.

They didn't talk as they walked through town. They left the wagon outside of Quilting Central, then continued straight on to the pub. Max was on a mission, and it seemed Pippa was, too.

At the pub, they slipped inside and climbed the stairs, the cocoa forgotten. He held the door open as she walked into his room. Before he had time to shut the door fully, Pippa was in his arms, kissing him.

*   *   *

She kissed him because she couldn't be around him another second without having his lips on hers. Why had MTech sent this one? It was bad enough that he was good-looking. But for Max to have a generous heart added insult to injury! Even worse, he didn't
know
he was a good guy.

She'd made him come along to deliver presents to teach him a lesson—that the people of Gandiegow mattered—but what had happened had only drawn them closer together, made her want to know him more thoroughly, made her ache to be in his arms.

Damn him. She could not fall for the Yank.

But she could . . . do other things.

As they kissed, her desire for him increased, need pulsing from the very center of her. As she ran her fingers through his hair, he retaliated by pulling her bum to him intimately. She could
feel
exactly where this was headed.

And she couldn't stop it. She didn't want to.

She pulled at his coat and pushed it to the floor, never
breaking their kiss. He did the same to hers. She was a woman who knew how to get things done and her goal was to get to his skin. She pulled Amy's ugly sweater over his head, but didn't quit there. She yanked his red T-shirt off, too, and tossed it.

“My turn.” He took the bottom of her sweater, eased it off, and threw it on his bed. He gazed at her appreciatively before pulling her back into his arms. Apparently, his goal was to get to her skin, too. And to kiss her senseless. The heat surrounding them was scorching.

As his hands cupped her breasts through her bra, the door downstairs slammed. They stilled.

A woman hollered. “Max? Max McKinley? Are you up there?”

He froze. Pippa gazed into his hard glare.

“Max?” There was a clicking noise, heels coming up the steps.

“Shit,” he growled.

“Who is it? Oh, God! You better not be married!” Pippa jerked away, reaching for the nearest piece of clothing—Max's red T-shirt on the chair. Just as she got it over her head, the door flew open.

A woman sauntered in. Pippa followed her stern gaze to Max, who had grabbed Amy's sweater and was pulling it over his head, the awful thing tinkling away. This woman's skin was more white and flawless than a vampire's. She wore a severe pantsuit under her black cashmere trench coat, and her bobbed black hair was razor-straight. With sharp, intelligent eyes, she scanned the room and digested the situation in an instant.

“Getting cozy with the natives, I see.” Her eyes flitted to Pippa's sweater on the bed. Clearly in retaliation, the
woman retrieved Max's coat, slung it over her arm, and stroked it as if it were a lion cub.

“What are you doing here, Miranda?” Max's voice held an edge.

Pippa should've known. This could only be the woman she'd spoken with on the phone. Miranda was everything that her voice had suggested—powerful, perfectly coiffed, forty but hiding it. And her actions solidified Pippa's initial thought—she was more to Max than just his boss.

Miranda pointed a bloodred nail at her. “Scullery maid?” She was so cool and put together that on some weird level, Pippa admired her.

Max's mouth flopped open like a damned halibut. “Scullery maid?”