school. And the sooner they were paid off the better. It was one of the rea
sons she’d agreed to take the modeling job in the first place. The money was great, and she’d get a chance to see some of Scotland—at the very least Skye, where the photo shoot was taking place. She just wouldn’t think about why she had the time to take the job. If she did, she’d cry, and she’d done enough of that already.
“Aye.” He lifted her luggage from the trunk and settled the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder. “I wish I could help with yer bags, lass, but I have a bum knee and wouldn’t be much good to you.”
“No problem.” Ali managed a tight smile as she dragged the heavy suitcase around the back of the car, its wheels get
ting stuck in the mud. She thanked the man and shoved the receipt he handed her into her bag before heading out on what she hoped would be a short walk to Dunvegan Castle. The trek was slow going, with the wheels of her suitcase getting stuck in every rut on the narrow, unpaved road. Her mud-splattered black shoes were waterlogged from the puddles she couldn’t seem to avoid. In an attempt to save her jeans from ruin, she bent down and rol ed them several inches above her ankles. She buttoned the navy blazer she wore over her white blouse—a blouse that had been crisp and clean when she left New York twelve hours earlier, but now was as limp and dirty as she was, or would be, after her little adventure.
Five minutes later she had to admit it wasn’t so bad. The air was fragrant with the heady aroma of flowers, the misty rain warm and gentle on her face, and the scenery amaz
ing. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, and then she heard an ominous rumble, and a bolt of light ning crackled across the gloomy afternoon sky. Within sec
onds the clouds opened up and the rain came down in
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3
buckets. Ali shook her head and laughed. What else could she do—cry?
Rounding a bend in the road, a massive gray stone edi
fice came into view, and she felt an unexpected spurt of excitement. It looked like something out of a fairy tale with its majestic towers reaching toward the sky. Maybe Meg was right—the change of scenery would do her good. Gripping the suitcase with two hands, she hauled it onto the pavers of the long driveway. The mud from the wheels on her suitcase splattered her legs, but at least it no longer felt like she was dragging a hundred-pound weight behind her. Hiking up the strap of her carry-on, she dashed toward the massive oak doors. When she received no response to her first tentative knock she rapped harder, relieved when the door creaked open. She’d begun to think the place was deserted. A tal , elderly man stood framed in the doorway, staring at her, his bright blue eyes wide in his grizzled face, his mouth hanging open. Ali didn’t blame him. She could only imagine what she looked like with her long hair plastered to her head, and mascara no doubt running down her cheeks. “Hi, I’m Ali Graham.” She offered her hand, but he didn’t take it. Ali didn’t think he even noticed—his gaze was riveted on her face.
She glared up at the offending carved overhang from which the water had cascaded to land on her head, then back to the man blocking the entrance. “Uhmm, do you mind if I come in?” She didn’t want to be rude, but she was drenched. With a brief shake of his head the befuddled look left his eyes. “Sorry, lass, please . . . please come in.”
He ush
ered her into the warmth of the cavernous entrance. Ali set down her bags on the slate floor and swiped her dripping hair from her face. She pul ed her wet clothing from 4
where it stuck to her body and shook it out. “It’s real y coming down out there,” she said in an attempt to make conversation.
“Aye,” he murmured, giving her an odd look before closing the door.
The intensity of his stare was beginning to give her the creeps. She wondered if she’d made a mistake coming inside—she was alone and didn’t know this man from Adam. Not one to let things slide, Ali asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Sorry, lass, it’s just that . . . och, you’l have to excuse an old man for his rudeness.” He gave her an embarrassed smile. “I’m Duncan Macintosh, Dunvegan’s caretaker. Who did you say you were?”
“Ali . . . Ali Graham. I have a reservation,” she said, searching her bag for the elusive piece of paper. “Some where.” Ali grimaced and pul ed the sodden reservation from her jacket pocket. With a wry grin she handed it to him. A frown creased his brow, and he looked from her to the paper. “Lass, you’ve come to the wrong place. It’s Dunve gan Hotel you’d be looking for. You passed it a ways back.”
She looked at the paper he handed back to her, the writ
ing barely legible, but there it was, plain as day, Dunvegan Hotel. “I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. Sorry for bothering you.” Ali bent down to retrieve her bags from the puddle they’d left on the floor.
“It’s no bother, Miss Graham. I was just about to have a spot of tea. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”
“Please . . . cal me Ali, and a cup of tea sounds wonder
ful. Would you have something I could dry off with? I don’t want to . . . oh, no.” She groaned. “Look what I’ve done.”
The beautiful wool area rug beneath her feet was now marked with her muddy footprints. “I’m so sorry.”
He chuckled. “It’s seen worse. Don’t fret. I’l get you some towels and then you can come by the fire and warm up. My wife is off on a wee shop, but when she returns with the car I’l take you over to the hotel. How does that sound?”
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