The rain had turned to a fine, light mist by the time Abby pulled into the car park at Dun Ard. Her stomach knotted into a tight little ball as her foot hit the crushed gravel and she fought the urge to turn around and run as she made her way down the walk and up the massive stone stairs.
This was it. In a matter of moments, she’d be face-to-face with the man she couldn’t seem to escape. Though she’d played that meeting over and over in her mind as the miles had slipped past, now that she had arrived, she still had no idea what she’d say to him.
Hi, remember me? We slept together that one time. You kissed me good-bye and my lips tingled for a week. I’ve dreamed about you making love to me every single night since then.
Yeah. Probably not. If he didn’t already think her a stalker, that little speech would push him over the edge.
At the top stair, her stomach flip-flopped again. What if he didn’t remember her? What if he wasn’t here? What if they’d never even heard of him?
A fine, prickly layer of perspiration broke out on her skin, and she dragged a hand over her forehead before opening the door and stepping inside.
“Good day, Miss. Welcome to Dun Ard.” A smiling, ruddy-faced woman stood up from her seat behind a large antique desk, extending her hand in greeting. “I’m Margaret MacAlister. Are you looking for lodging?”
“No. I’m . . . uh . . .” Abby gulped in a breath, hoping to steady her shaking voice. “I’m actually looking for someone. Colin MacAlister. Is he here?”
The woman’s smile disappeared, a suspicious frown wrinkling her brow as she clasped her hands at her waist, looking for all the world like the disapproving headmistress in an old English movie.
Oh, lord. That didn’t look at all like the “I’ve-never-heard-of-the-man” face.
“And just what might you be wanting with my Colin?”
HerColin?
A new suspicion hit Abby like a tidal wave, a suspicion that made her feel as if she might be sick all over the carpet in this lovely, ancient-looking lobby.
What if he was married? This woman did say her name was MacAlister.
“I. . . uh. . . he, that is, Colin . . .” Abby’s tongue felt remarkably as it had the time she’d visited the dentist and he’d had to give her Novocain twice to deaden hergums. “I met Colin a few months ago when he visited Denver. I only wanted to stop by and say hello.”
Not true. She’d wanted much more than hello, though even to herself she couldn’t say what, exactly.
Almost immediately Margaret’s face brightened. “Well then, Miss, it’s no my Colin yer wanting. He’s no ever stepped foot in the States.”
“I beg your pardon?” Oh, his feet had been in the States, all right. Not only had they been in the States, they’d been in her bed. This woman might not want to believe her husband had been there—hell,shedidn’t want to believe Colin had a wife!—but it was fact.
Clearly, she trod a fine line here. It might be best for everyone if she said nothing more. Just turned around and walked away. There was still a chance for her to save face before it was too late.
But, as if controlled by a force outside herself, the words slipped from her mouth. “He told me his home was Dun Ard.”
“Did he now?” Margaret’s smile broadened before she turned her head to call loudly over her shoulder, “Bella! Fetch Colin out here to the desk for me, please.”
He was here! Somewhere back beyond that doorway where even now she could hear running footsteps.
The hard, tight little ball that had once been her stomach suddenly sprouted butterflies. Big, hairy-assed acrobatic butterflies, from the feel of it. All wearing steel-toed boots and marching in lockstep formation across her intestines.
The seconds dragged by in a fashion Abby would have denied was possible before now. Just as she’d decided she could stand it no longer, that she’d make some wildexcuse and beat a hasty retreat, a small boy no more than eight or nine burst into the room. He ran straight to Margaret’s side, stopping to frown up at the woman.
“What do you want of me, Mum? My show’s on telly. I’m missing it,” he complained.
“Mind yer manners, lad.” With her hands on his shoulders, Margaret turned the boy around. “I’d like you to meet this nice lady who’s come for a visit. This is my son, Colin, and this is . . . begging yer pardon, miss. Did you give me yer name?”
“Abby,” she offered, almost forgetting herself in her surprise as the boy politely shook her hand. “Abigail Porter.”
Thiswas Colin MacAlister?
“Run along back to yer telly, Colin. Sorry to have taken you from yer show.”
With a shy smile, the child took off running and disappeared through the doorway.