This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
OPERATION: BABY
First edition. March 15, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Barbara Bretton.
ISBN: 978-1386000396
Written by Barbara Bretton.
Operation: BabyThe Wilde Sisters
Barbara Bretton
Free Spirit Press
For Deby, with love and gratitude
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Social Media Links
The Complete List
Chapter 1
“It’s ill wark, takin’ the breeks aff a Hielandman.”
—Unknown
Scotland
He was tall.
He was dark.
And he was naked.
Right there, in the passenger cabin of the plane.
“Speak up, lassie,” the naked man said. “I don’t understand a word you’re sayin’.”
No surprise there. Samantha Wilde, thirty-two years old and Harvard-educated, was struck dumb with shock. The last thing she’d expected when she boarded the small plane was to find the pilot naked as the day he was born. She tried to say something but no sound came out. What on earth did you say to a naked Scotsman, anyway?
“You’re wasting my time, lassie,” the man said. “If it’s looking you’re after, then look your fill and say goodbye.”
Sam tried to say something. She really did. But there was something about being faced with so much male splendor in a confined space that rendered her speechless. It wasn’t that she’d never seen a naked man before, even if it had been a long time between sightings. She was as sophisticated as any other American woman at the end of the twentieth century.
The male form in all its infinite variety didn’t usually make her feel like swooning, but this time she found herself grabbing on to the sides of the cabin door for support.
She thanked God her view was partially blocked by one of the two seats in the tiny passenger cabin. If he stepped into the aisle, she’d probably have a heart attack. Back in Houston, the hometown papers would have a field day with the headline. Jewelry Executive Dies at Feet of Naked Man.
Things like this simply didn’t happen in her orderly, well-organized life.
“I—I, um—” she stammered, reduced to the communications skill level of a three-year-old. “Th-they told me I could find a pilot here who would b-be willing to take me north.”
His dark brows shot together in a fierce scowl. “They told you that, did they now?”
“Well, yes,” she said, wondering when he was going to remember he was naked. “I asked at the office and they told me I’d find you out here.”
“Aye,” he said, nodding slowly. “A logical assumption.”
“I’ll pay you twice your normal rate,” she volunteered, making sure she maintained eye contact. It would be too easy to stare at him as if he was her private centerfold come to life. “I have to reach Loch Glenraven by nightfall.”
“Loch Glenraven?” He looked at her with obvious curiosity. “And what would be taking you to such a place?”
“Business.” Not that it was any of his. He should be more concerned with catching a cold, what with all that exposed skin.
“One hundred twenty people live in Glenraven, and most of them raise sheep.” His dark blue eyes studied her from sole to crown. “You haven’t the look of a shepherd about you.”
“Do you want the job or don’t you?” she asked, trying to pretend she negotiated with naked Adonises every day of the week. “I’m sure one of the other pilots would be glad to fly me up to Glenraven.”
“There are no other pilots, lass. I’m the only one here today.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then name your price.”
His laugh was an alarmingly erotic rumble. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so aware of a man, clothed or otherwise. “My price is more than you could handle.”
“Try me,” she said, then instantly regretted the challenge when she saw the look in his eyes veer from amusement to speculation. Try me. What kind of insane thing was that to say? She must have lost her mind. “What I mean is—”
“Ten thousand American dollars.”
“You’re joking.”
“Those who know me know I never joke about money. Ten thousand American dollars.”
“That’s highway robbery.”
“Call it what you will, lass, but that is the price.”
Naked and crazy. There was a winning combination for you. “I’d rather walk to Glenraven.”
“Then you’d best get started,” he advised, “for it still grows dark early this time of year.”
“Your advice would carry a lot more weight if you had your pants on,” she snapped, turning toward the door. “Thanks for your time, but I’ll find Glenraven by myself.”
FROM THE MOMENT Duncan Fraser Stewart opened his eyes that morning, he’d had the sense all was not right in his world. First there was the row with Old Mag, his housekeeper, about the amount of haddock one man could eat at a sitting. She served up meals by the pound, not the plate. He had no doubt they could feed all of Glenraven on a week’s leftovers.
“I cook for families,” Old Mag had said fiercely. “Not for one lone man.” Her unsubtle way of reminding him that he was thirty-seven years old and without wife or offspring.
“Do what you want, old woman,” he’d roared. “I’ll take my meals at the pub until you come to your senses.”
Lucy at the Heather and the Thistle knew better than to question him before he’d had his mug of strong tea. After breakfast, he’d flown his plane to Glasgow to speak with his European agent and had been on his way back to Loch Glenraven when a nasty oil leak forced him to land at this little highland outpost.
They were woefully ill-equipped, so he’d done his best with what he had on board, a messy and unpleasant job to say the least. Still, he’d managed to cobble together a temporary solution, one that would at least get him home in one piece. A storm was brewing to the west and his window of opportunity would not last long.
He kept a change of clothes stashed in a duffel behind the pilot’s seat and had been changing into
