The Sweetest Hours (Harlequin Superromance) (4 page)

She felt warm inside, from her face to her toes. Now, that was strange. She definitely didn’t want that. A fantasy was one thing, but this...this physical attraction was reality. And it was still too dangerous—she didn’t know this man. Yes, everything had gone well so far, but...

Even if their work arrangement didn’t end tonight, she just wasn’t interested in a relationship with him. She seldom dated, and never with anyone she’d met at Aura. It just wasn’t who she was.

Frankly, these days, she’d pretty much resigned herself to the fact that she was meant to be single. The loyal employee, the quirky aunt, the want-to-be-adventurous sister. Maybe—on a good day—even the dutiful daughter. That was all that she was.

Thankfully, George Smith was leaving town. She turned away from him and marched from the packing area. She kept her hands balled in her pockets. She was far enough away that she couldn’t hear him, which was good, because the sound of his deep, low voice speaking into the phone was doing a number on her, making her body feel things she didn’t want to feel.

She busied herself by walking through the plant, checking that lights were off and doors were locked. Inside her office, she grabbed her flashlight from the shelf, along with a spare pair of mittens and a beret that she kept in one of her desk drawers. It would be a long walk home in the dark and the cold. She shut down her computer and closed up the room.

When she turned down the corridor, she saw George walking toward her. Her legs seemed to freeze. She stopped where she was, twisting the mittens in her hand.

“The taxi service isn’t willing to drive me to my hotel. The snowfall is supposed to intensify, and they don’t want to get stuck.”

“Oh,” she replied.

“Is there a diner where I can get something to eat and do some work until my ride arrives?”

“I... No.” She laughed ruefully, not able to avoid gazing into his eyes. Sky-blue. So beautiful...

She shook her head, looking away. “We’re a backwater town. All that’s open on Saturday night is a convenience mart, a seedy bar I don’t recommend, two gas stations and a twenty-four hour pharmacy.”

His countenance fell. Kristin rubbed her arms and risked glancing at him again. He really was worried. Suddenly, this was not just his problem, but
their
problem. They were a team, and he needed her to help him solve this.

It made her feel sick and a little anxious.

“How about if I find someone to drive you to your hotel?” she suggested shakily. Maybe her brother was home. He had a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

But her brother was like her; he tended to talk too much and inappropriate things often popped out without him intending it. “On second thought, never mind,” she said hurriedly, “I’ll take you instead.”

“No.” George shook his head. “Absolutely not. I will not have you jeopardize your safety. It’s out of the question.”

“Then...what do you propose we do?”

He set his mouth in a line. “I’ll wait in your office.”

“No, we can’t do that. Because of the alarm, you can’t stay in the factory without me being here with you.” She rubbed her trembling palms against her sides—she had no choice, really. “How about if you wait with me at my sister-in-law’s house?” Nothing could go wrong with that scenario. “My niece invited me for an early dinner tonight. We’ll sit with their family while you wait for your ride.”

“No, I don’t want to impose,” he said.

But she could tell he was being polite and cautious, refusing the invitation the same as she would have, in his place.

“Stephanie is a professional chef. To her, adding another seat at the table is a good thing. The more people who enjoy her meals, the better, as far as she’s concerned.”

He still looked dubious.

“I’ll call her now and tell her.” She had to—she couldn’t leave George out in the cold.

Holding her mitten with her teeth, Kristin took out her phone from her pocket and dialed her sister-in-law’s number. George gave her a pained expression, but he didn’t argue.

Stephanie picked up on the first ring. “Where are you? You said you’d be here at five o’clock.”

“I’m bringing a work colleague to dinner. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

George was now outright frowning at her and looking tremendously unhappy.

Kristin glanced away. “His name is George Smith, and he’s snowed in for a couple of hours until his ride shows up. I told him that he could grab a bite with us, and that it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re bringing home a
man?
” Stephanie asked over the phone. “Our Kristin is actually bringing someone
home?
Are pigs flying?”

“Stop it,” Kristin murmured. George winced. She smiled gamely at him, trying not to tremble.

“You used to be fun,” Stephanie complained.

“I still am,” she whispered into the phone.

“No, I mean, you used to date. You used to like guys, and want to have a family of your own someday. You were gonna have a set of twins, remember—so they would be best friends with my kids—and we were all going to vacation together, happily ever after. I even married your dumb brother for it.”

Oh, no. Knowing Kristin’s brother, some elaborately planned prank had backfired. She glanced nervously at George. “Um, what’s he done now?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem—he’s refusing to eat my cooking. And me, a professional! You would think that after eight years of marriage, the dummy would learn.”

“What’s...going on, Steph?”

There was a pause, and when she spoke again, Stephanie’s mouth sounded full. “Actually, it’s a surprise. Ask George Smith if he likes haggis.”

Haggis?
For a moment, Kristin couldn’t process the incongruity.

She glanced at George, confused. What was Stephanie talking about the Scottish dish for? Her family had never eaten or served it before, not once. From what Kristin had read, haggis was a pudding/meat kind of thing, made with sheep’s heart, liver and lungs all ground up and stuffed, along with oatmeal and onion and spices, inside a big sausage casing and served on a platter.

At least, that was what she had discovered on the internet when she’d been explaining Scottish customs to her niece Lily for the girl’s “What is Your Family Ancestry?” Girl Scout project.

And then it dawned on her. “Oh, my gosh!” Kristin squealed. “Today is January twenty-fifth! You made haggis for Lily, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” Stephanie said. “Though technically, I prepared it for you. Maybe it will spark some sense of adventure in you and bring you back to life. The whole family is invited and we’re going to do it up—bagpipe music, toasts, songs—the works. Pretty good surprise, isn’t it?”

With a smile so big it felt as if her cheeks were splitting, Kristin suddenly remembered George standing beside her.

She stopped giggling and turned to him, her hand over her mouth.

His face had turned paper-white.

Kristin covered the phone so Stephanie wouldn’t hear her. “You know exactly what holiday tonight is, don’t you, George?”

* * *

W
ORSE
AND
WORSE
. That’s how his day was going. He was in a section of Hades reserved for liars. Or at least, for imposters who were required to take security names as part of their jobs.

Malcolm bit his tongue, hard, not for the first time today, and probably not for the last time, either.

Kristin was right about one thing: he knew damn well what “Rabbie Burns” night was.

January twenty-fifth. Every year, a countrywide supper held in honor of the birthday of Scotland’s national poet: Robert Burns. Malcolm had been out of the country and away from home for so long, he hadn’t been to a Burns event since he was...

Ten years old. Exactly.

Damn it. He should’ve anticipated this. Kristin was obviously obsessed with his home country, romanticizing it like many women did.

The reality was, his home country just wasn’t that damn romantic to him. Not in his experience.

“Have you ever eaten haggis?” he made sure to say in his best American accent. “Because I haven’t. It sounds horrible. No offense to your sister-in-law.”

“Seriously? You’ve never tried it?”

“Seriously. I’ve never tried it.”

She smiled at him. “Then I guess you’ll have to come along and try something new tonight,” she teased.

Obviously, Kristin trusted him more than she had earlier. Her reticence had left her, and this was not good, for either of them.

What was she doing, believing in him?

Don’t,
he wanted to tell her. But if he confessed to her what he was really doing visiting her company, then he would violate the terms of his agreement.

You have to make the hard choices, Malcolm.

Really, he had
no
choice.

CHAPTER THREE

M
ALCOLM
STRODE
BESIDE
Kristin in the early darkness, his mood matching the light. Snowbanks lined the sidewalk. It was so frigid cold outside that the hard-packed snow crunched underfoot, and his breath made puffs of air as he walked.

They’d left the mill building and were cutting through the middle of what passed for a downtown—a New England-style town green surrounded by shops, shuttered tight, and old homes, typical of the region. It reminded him of the remote village in New Hampshire where he’d first been sent to prep school as a boy, which only depressed him further. He hunched his shoulders in his coat as they passed through a section of street without lamplights. Malcolm pulled his torch from his pocket and turned it on.

“You carry a flashlight with you, too?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Everyone should.” If trouble warranted it, the heavy barrel could double as a weapon. He never went anywhere without considering the security implications.

She showed him her flashlight. Smiling sheepishly, she said, “Not everyone understands it, but a person has to protect themselves.”

Something they agreed on. Still, he thought of his sister who was about Kristin’s height, though slighter. He couldn’t see her bashing anyone over the head with a piece of metal.
Too bad.

“Did somebody teach you to carry that?” he asked her.

“Yep, my brothers.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah...will they be present this evening?”

Passing beneath a streetlight, he noticed the dimple form in her cheek. “We may be blessed with their presence, yes.”

Lovely.
At least his luck was predictable.

Within another block, they were at her family’s house, a multistory, clapboard Victorian. They climbed a set of stairs to a big wraparound porch. Stamping her feet to warm them, Kristin pulled a key from her coat pocket.

“You have a key to your sister-in-law’s home?” he asked.

“I live in the apartment upstairs. My brother and sister-in-law own the house, and I rent space from them.”

Interesting. Living here was safe, he supposed. “You have a short walk to work.”

“I do.” She smiled at him. Her hair was tucked inside her beret, and she looked...pretty. The fur from her collar framed her face, and her soft, green eyes gazed up at him. It made him ache.

He had too many secrets to keep from her. He only hoped he endured the night without incident. If he kept himself aloof from her and did not let himself care about her or her predicament once he left, then he would do fine.

“I have one thing to ask of you, George—please don’t hold me responsible for what my family might say or do tonight,” she pleaded, her hand on the doorknob.

He blinked. “Why? Are they likely to string me up because I’m with you?”

“Not
you.
They like strong, silent types.”

Is that what he was? In any event, nobody would think well of him once his handiwork was made known. Kristin certainly wouldn’t.

A gust of cold wind blew by, and he hunched his shoulders against the frigid temperature. “What are the risks tonight, then?” he asked.

“Me. I’m the risk. I’m bringing someone to a family event.” She choked out a laugh, and then glanced at him helplessly. “Trust me, they would love to pair us up. And it turns out the whole clan is going to be here, not just Stephanie and Lily. So, could you please back me up—make it clear that we’re work colleagues only?”

He stared at her. There were so many things ahead that could go wrong—so many potential traps she didn’t even know about. But he could only fixate on one thing.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” She shivered. “I am happily single.”

For some reason he liked that response. He smiled at her. “Then we’ll be happily single together.”

She seemed relieved. Nodding, a look of grim determination on her face, she opened the door. “One more thing,” she said, turning to him. “If you don’t like the haggis, then you don’t have to eat it.”

“I’ll be certain not to. You can count on that.”

She smiled at him, and something in his chest pinged. This wasn’t good. He was getting drawn to her despite himself.

There was a reason he’d done his best to keep his distance from her during the afternoon. But now here he was entering her private home, and it was too late to back out. “May I ask why your family is having a Burns Night? All these years I’ve lived in this country, and I don’t think anyone has ever invited me to one. It’s not well-known outside of Scotland.”

“Meet my family, and I’m sure they’ll tell you why it’s important—well, important to me, at least.”

The door was creaky, so she threw her hip into it. With a rattle of glass and a squeak of hinges, they stood inside a warm kitchen. That distinctive odor of tatties and neeps—potatoes and turnips—hit him, and he wrinkled his nose. He also noted sheep—haggis—mixed in, and he grimaced.

He’d been following behind Kristin, but she was immediately whisked away by a female rug rat. She was a shrimp of a girl, a ginger, with the wildest red hair and a smattering of freckles that he’d not seen in ages. Such a combination usually only existed on his home island.

The ginger rug rat was wearing a kilt that clashed with her features. A bright red Royal Stuart tartan, displayed outside almost every tourist shop on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. He was having difficulty not chuckling aloud, so he squeezed his lips between thumb and forefinger.

“George Smith?” a woman asked him. He didn’t answer right away; it wasn’t registering that she was speaking to
him.
When it did occur to him, he turned abruptly.

And looked down. She was a shrimp of a woman, too, to match the shrimp of a daughter. Black hair, flashing eyes, and wearing a chef’s white top, checkered loose pants and kitchen restaurant clogs.

That was a relief—she
was
a professional. Thus, it was unlikely he would be poisoned.

The lady chef grabbed his hand and pulled him into a small butler’s pantry off to the side. And then she shut the door behind them.

Inside, with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and rows of spices and jarred dry goods arranged on shelves, she grabbed a bottle of whisky—single malt—from a top ledge and unscrewed the cap. “A word with you, Mr. Smith,” she said, pouring them each a wee dram.

Solemnly she handed him a glass. “I know you’re an out-of-town guest, a work colleague to Kristin, but I am telling you, they are going to crucify her in there. And if you don’t support her—or worse, if you join in on the laughter and the insults—then I will personally see you pushed into a snowbank. Do you understand?”

“I...”

“Of course you do.” She smiled sweetly and raised her glass to him before slinging back the shot.

“Whoa!” she said. “That waters the eyes.”

“Er,” he said, still holding the glass of whisky, “I thought this was Kristin’s family celebrating a Burns Dinner?”

“Sure, but they’re not always an easy crowd, and definitely won’t be tonight once they figure out what kind of food I’m feeding them.” She shivered. “Trust me, I’ve known this bunch forever. Kristin was my nap partner in kindergarten. She kept me laughing so much, I never got my sleep. We were always in trouble.”

“Kristin has how many brothers?” Were they big? How many stone did they weigh?

“It has taken me weeks to find a decent haggis recipe,” she said, ignoring him, “and then, importing the ingredients and testing it in my kitchen.” She poked him in the chest. “It’s taken me a while to crack the code and make it palatable. The rest of them likely won’t touch it, but you will. You will at least try to like it for Kristin’s sake. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” He slugged back the whisky shot. It burned his throat like comfortable fire. “That’s good stuff,” he muttered, smacking his lips.

“Damn straight it is. I’m bringing up a little girl who’s fifty percent Scottish-American. My husband has three Scottish-American grandparents, and one Scottish grandmother, actually born in the old country. I figure that makes me Scottish by injection, and I plan to act accordingly.”

He nearly choked.

“So, you’ll play along with Kristin and me?”

Mutely, he nodded.

Thankfully, she pivoted on her clogs and stalked back to her instrument of his doom—a silver range with six gas burners, four of them currently going full throttle, shooting up vicious blue flames. He wiped his mouth and ventured out of her kitchen and into the lion’s den.

With foreboding, he glanced into the dining room, where a crowd of men stood, drinking lager from brown longneck bottles. Unless they all ganged up on him, he figured he could handle each of them, alone, judging by height and weight. One of the men looked as though he might be bigger than Malcolm, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure because the man, unfortunately, sat in a wheelchair and had a glum expression on his face.

Kristin was nowhere to be seen.

Malcolm raked a hand through his hair. She would be back soon, with the little girl in tow, he assumed, and introductions would commence. He could behave seriously and in a low-key manner, the same as he’d been doing all day.

Or...there was still time to confess to her. Pull Kristin aside and tell her his real name. His true purpose. Let her in on his thoughts about what her CEO had asked him to do. Maybe some steps she could take for herself to mitigate the fallout before anyone else knew...

It was insanity to consider it.

He’d planned to never see this woman again after tonight. She was not part of upper management at Aura Botanicals, nor was there any reason for her to learn of his past. If he came clean now...

Then that would break his agreement with Jay Astley to remain anonymous. Malcolm would be jeopardizing the new product branding plans. He would also be jeopardizing his own company and the people in it.

It was too risky.

He had to continue the charade. One last night of being George Smith before the security name was retired for good. Kristin would never find out who he really was.

The only difficult part would be the guilt.

No. Guilt he could handle. The worst part would be resigning himself to remaining aloof for the next few hours. Like it or not, he saw all the ways that she was like him, with her heavy flashlight and her love and loyalty to her family and her employer. She had an innate capability for taking care of herself and others. And, she
was
fun. The lady was quietly compatible to him in a way that he hadn’t known in years, in a way that pulled him in and attracted him.

It was downright dangerous, and he could be in trouble here unless he was careful.

Plus, he would eat no more than one bite of haggis—he didn’t care what her dynamo of a sister-in-law threatened him with.

And, he would never let on to any of them that he knew what Burns Night was. He was simply an observer, killing time. His mouth shut. A ghost who would fade from memory once his driver arrived and he left this small Vermont town forever.

The brother in the wheelchair rolled over to him at the same time that Kristin came hurrying back into the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushed and her smile trembling in an “I apologize!” grimace. “My niece wanted help with her part in the festivities. I didn’t mean to desert you.”

She turned to the largest of the men, the one in the wheelchair. “George, this is my brother Stevie. Stevie, this is George. He’s a work colleague, and he’s stranded in town until his ride gets here.”

“My sympathies,” Stevie said, holding out his hand.

“Good to meet you,” Malcolm answered, and shook the man’s hand, nearly getting his fingers crushed in the process.

“This—” Kristin continued, with unmistakable worry in her voice “—is my mom. Mom, this is George.”

“Er...hello,” Malcolm said.

Mom speared him up and down with her sharp eyes that didn’t appear to miss much. Clearly, an appraisal was in process.

Frowning, Mom asked him, “George? George what?”

“Smith,” Kristin replied.

“And what does he do at Aura Botanicals?” Mom demanded.

“Marketing,” Malcolm said without hesitation. The crowd was moving toward the dining table, so he followed along, praying the line of questioning would soon stop.

“And where did he go to school to prepare for the job?” Mom demanded of Kristin.

“Er, Dartmouth.” Malcolm decided to answer her directly. “And later, Harvard Business School.”

Mom whirled to stare at him. Her eyebrows shot up. In a heartbeat, her expression changed. “That’s the Ivy League!”

He knew that. Kristin sighed and leaned over to murmur into his ear: “I went to a local college and my grades weren’t stellar. No one around here lets me forget that.”

“Engineering is difficult,” Malcolm remarked. “I imagine that business studies are much easier.”

“You’re being nice to me. I appreciate it.” She pulled out a chair and indicated that he sit.

He did so, and she joined him to his left. Her face seemed frozen in a mask of what appeared to be both trepidation and hopeful excitement. The dining table was large, and there were a variety of chairs jammed around it, due to the crowd the sister-in-law chef had invited. He wasn’t sure who everyone was, and he was glad Kristin hadn’t made the big deal of introducing him to everyone. He was just waiting for his ride. That was all.

He leaned back in his seat, cushioned and lined with fabric, while hers was an aluminum folding chair. Despite them each sitting on different kinds of chairs, he and Kristin were at the same height, so his thigh brushed against her thigh. His elbow rubbed her elbow.

She drew back, smiling sheepishly at him. “This is worse than airplane seating.”

He stared, then realized she was talking about coach class in commercial airliners. He didn’t know much about that.

The little rug rat climbed into the chair on the other side of him, his right side—his eating side—which was a relief because she was miniature size, and it was unlikely they would bash elbows during the course of the meal.