In McGillivray's Bed (8 page)

“I see,” Syd said, but she didn't.

She still didn't know what Carin had to do with Hugh McGillivray. Obviously there were issues, but were they bigger issues than between him and Lisa?

“So what happened?” she asked finally when Molly didn't say anything else.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? I don't understand.”

Molly shrugged. “Carin got married a couple of years ago. She and Nathan Wolfe.”

“The photographer Nathan Wolfe?”

“You know him?”

“Of him,” Syd said. “I own some of his books. He's terrifically talented.”

“He's also terrifically handsome. And in love with Carin. And the father of her daughter.” Molly sighed. “Hugh never had a chance.”

“Ah.” Now Syd did see. “He loved her.”

“He never said so,” Molly replied her quickly. “He never would. Not Hugh. It was always no pressure with Hugh. He was ‘just friends' with Carin for years. Always keeping it cool. Letting her set the pace. And she did. She walked right into Nathan's arms.” Molly shook her head sadly. “I mean, she made Nathan sweat. But not because of Hugh. Poor sod.”

“But if he never said, are you sure…?”

“He's my brother. Of course I'm sure.” Molly was adamant. “It's just who he is. Hugh's always easy. It's always all fun and games with him. He's Mr. Devil-May-Care personified. At least, that's what he'd like you to think. But then, I'm sure you know that even better than I do,” Molly said.

“Um…oh. Yes. Of course,” Syd managed weakly.

“So yes, he cared about Carin. But not as much as he cares about you.”

“What?” Syd's eyes widened. “What do you mean by that?”

“I told you. He warned me off. Told me to let you be.”
Molly gave her a conspiratorial smile. “He protected you. That's the very first time he's
ever
done that. I mean
obviously
done it. So—” she beamed “—things are looking up. I'm really glad you're here.”

Syd was beginning to wonder just how glad she was. Hugh McGillivray seemed to have far too many women in his life. She changed the subject before she said something she would regret.

“Hugh mentioned a place to get clothes here on the island?” she said. “Erica's?”

“Yeah. It's a boutique. Or as close to a boutique as we're likely to get. Lots of trendy stuff. Tourists love it. Some of the locals do, too. I don't have much use for that sort of stuff.” She wrinkled her nose. “I did when I was teaching, though God knows why. I used to come home with lots worse things than grease and motor oil on me.”

“You get a lot of grease and motor oil on you now?” Today's appearance wasn't a one-off, then?

“Every day, now that I work here,” Molly said happily. She jerked her head back at the shop. “I'm Hugh's mechanic—and his copilot. That's the fun stuff. I also get all the lousy jobs, though, like answering the phone and dealing with the bookwork and the scheduling and the accounting and billing. Yuck stuff like that.”

Syd raised her brows at the description. “Accounting's not yuck. I like it.”

Molly looked horrified. “You
like
putting little numbers in little boxes?”

Syd grinned. “Love it. You put all those little numbers in all those little boxes and add them all up and they come out just right. It's beautiful.”

Molly looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. “Dear God.”

Syd hesitated, then thought, why not? “If you don't like it, maybe I could do it for you.”

Molly seemed dumbstruck at the offer. She gave her head a little shake. “What did you say?”

“I said if you don't like—”

“No, I heard you. I just don't believe it. You are volunteering to do the accounting?”

“And the billing if you want.”

“
If I want?
Oh, yes. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes! I could kiss your feet!” Molly would have grabbed her, greasy hands and all, and swung her enthusiastically if Syd hadn't sidestepped fast.

“Not necessary,” Syd said. “But I need to do a little shopping first. I have to get some clothes.”

“Girly stuff?” Molly said doubtfully. She cast an approving glance at McGillivray's shorts and T-shirt that Syd was wearing.

“Tasteful stuff. That fits,” Syd added with a grimace downward at the baggy shorts and shirt she wore.

Molly shrugged. “To each her own. Go to Erica's then. Or The Cotton Shoppe. Carin buys some stuff there. Just head downhill. You'll come to Erica's first. The Cotton Shoppe is beside the bakery. You'll be able to smell it.”

“Sounds good.” She started to head that way.

“And then you'll come back and do the billing?” Molly called after her urgently, as if to remind her.

“And then I'll come back and do the billing,” Syd promised. “Maybe I can work it into a real job.”

Molly looked interested. “You want a real job?”

“Yes. I do. I—”

“Then it
is
serious with you and Hugh. I thought so!”

Syd knew she should object and say that McGillivray had nothing to do with it, but she didn't think Molly would believe her. And maybe that was just as well.

After all, wasn't that what he wanted people to think? If Lisa was supposed to believe that Syd was his girlfriend, it would help if everyone else thought there was something there, too. She felt a little guilty misleading his sister, but McGillivray himself would probably be pleased.

“I'll be back in an hour or so,” she promised Molly. “I
need to pick up some plaster, too. Hardware store in town?”

Molly nodded and gave directions for that, too. “How about picking up some sandwiches at the bakery on your way back?” Molly dug deep into one of her pockets and pulled out a wad of dollar bills and thrust them at Syd. “My treat.”

As she had no money of her own, Syd was obliged to accept. She stuffed the bills in her pocket, determinedly ignoring the grease. After all, she consoled herself, they were McGillivray's shorts she was wearing.

 

W
ITH
luck she was gone.

It was nearly dusk when Hugh set the seaplane down on the smooth water just beyond the island's small harbor and savored, as he always did, the sight of Pelican Town silhouetted in the coppery light. But there was a wariness in his gut tonight as he brought the plane into its mooring.

All day long he'd done his best to put Sydney St. John out of him mind—and she wouldn't go.

He'd even left Doc Rasmussen to get his own supplies while he went to the beach and then to one of the local hangouts where he knew there were plenty of lovely ladies, determined to think about all the women he had yet to meet.

And he still couldn't shake the memory of spending the night with Syd.

And when was the last time he'd spent the night with a woman and hadn't made love to her? He might have been seven and sleeping in a tent in his backyard with his brother and the kids next door, one of whom had been a girl.

But he'd slept with Sydney St. John last night and he hadn't touched her. Not like that. He'd only held her, doing his best to protect her from the demons plaguing her dreams.

And he thought he'd succeeded. At least she hadn't twisted and grimaced and moaned in his arms. Instead she'd closed her eyes almost at once. Then slowly he'd felt
her body relax, the tautness in her muscles ease, her breathing slow. And then she'd sighed and snuggled up to him and smiled.

Snuggled!

And heaven help him, he'd snuggled back. Something else he couldn't ever remember doing before.

But that was then. She'd better be gone when he got home tonight.

Of course, in the first place he'd figured she'd stay two or three days—long enough to shake up Carruthers and long enough to make sure Lisa knew he wasn't interested in her. But after last night he'd changed his mind. He wanted her gone.

He'd picked up a couple of business weeklies while he was in Kingston today and they both had articles about the St. Johns and they both quoted the “savvy and sensible, supremely articulate Ms. St. John.”

They'd called her Margaret St. John, but one of them had her picture. Hugh knew that face. He'd seen that body—the one beneath the slim professional power suit.

He didn't want to spend another night with it nearby tempting him, he thought as he and Doc Rasmussen unloaded all the medical supplies into the dinghy. There was just so much of that sort of thing a healthy red-blooded man could endure.

Maurice Sawyer was waiting to transport the supplies to the clinic, his taxi parked at the foot of the dock. He sauntered up the dock to meet them, glancing at his watch as he came.

“Sorry we're late,” Hugh said.

“I just bet you is,” Maurice said, a grin wreathing his face. “You go on,” he said to Hugh cheerfully. “I reckon you be in a big hurry.” He clapped Hugh on the shoulder, then gave him a broad wink and a grin.

Hugh felt a sense of foreboding. “Why am I in a hurry?”

The whites of Maurice's eyes shone in the darkness. “You forget your pretty lady then?”

Doc ambled up carrying a load of supplies. “Pretty lady? What pretty lady?” he asked.

“Hugh's lady. She's somethin',” he told Doc appreciatively. “Long long legs. An' curves. Real nice curves. Sweet as they come, too.”

Obviously, they weren't talking about Syd, then. Hugh narrowed his gaze. “You talked to her?”

Maurice nodded. “Met her at the bakery.”

“I thought you were distracted today,” Doc reflected. “Hell, we didn't have to stay gone this long. Why didn't you say you had a lady waiting for you?”

Hugh shrugged. “You hired me. Your time is my time. It didn't matter. She knew I was going to be gone.” The truth and nothing but.

“But you could have brought her along,” Doc said earnestly. “We had room.”

“I didn't want to bring her along!”

Both men blinked at his sharp tone.

Hugh raked a hand through his hair and ran his tongue over his lips. “It's just—She had a hard day yesterday. Didn't get a lot of sleep.”

Both men nodded gravely and suppressed grins.

Hugh gritted his teeth. “And I thought she ought to get some,” he said, ignoring the fact that his face was burning like some teenager's.

Damn it! He
never
got embarrassed talking about women. What was it about this one that was so completely complicating his life?

“It's not a big deal,” he muttered.

Doc eyed him for a long moment doubtfully, then shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He shifted the box in his arms, then carried it down to Maurice's taxi and put it in the back. “Go on now, though. You've done enough. You don't have to hang around now and help unload.”

“It's my job.”

“It's not,” Doc said. “And your lady is waiting.”

“Yeah. Reckon she be back by now,” Maurice said.

“Back?” Hugh looked up. “She left?”

Maurice nodded. “Went with Amby. He took her in his boat this afternoon.”

“Did he?” Hugh felt suddenly heartened.

Amby Higgs ran one of the water taxis that took tourists sightseeing and over to Spanish Wells and mostly to the main island to catch scheduled airlines to the States.

So she had come to her senses and gone back to Daddy after all.

Hugh shoved his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. “Maybe I will mosey on along,” he said. “Grab some takeout at The Grouper, then head home.”

Doc grinned. “You do that.” Both he and Maurice waved Hugh off encouragingly.

Feeling immeasurably lighter, Hugh set off down the quay, Belle at his heels.

“Don't do nothin' I wouldn't do!” Maurice called after him.

“No fear.”

Belle jumped in the jeep. Hugh followed and flicked on the ignition. He looked around. Something was odd. Different.

It took him a moment to realize what it was.

No Lisa.

For the first time in weeks Lisa Milligan hadn't been waiting at the dock to smile and simper at him. She hadn't followed him up the quay hanging on his arm, telling him what she'd cooked and how much he'd enjoy it and how happy she was to have him back.

He was free.

The ruse had worked.

And while he might have hurt her feelings, he was sure he hadn't hurt them as badly as he would have if he'd had to brush her off another, blunter way.

And all he'd had to suffer for it was the sharp edge of Sydney St. John's tongue—and a night of sharing a bed with her.

“Not a bad deal,” he told Belle as he stomped on the gas.

At least, that's what he thought.

Until he got home.

S
OMETHING
else was different, too.

Hugh could sense it the minute he got out of the Jeep behind the house. But in the dusk everything looked the same.

And yet…

He shrugged and gave his head a quick shake. Sometimes he felt a brief disorientation on solid ground after a flight. Maybe that was it. That and having had less than three hours' sleep last night, thanks to Ms. Sydney St. John.

Well, tonight he'd make up for it. Tonight, thanks to Ms. St. John's cooperation, he would spend the evening eating his grouper and peas and rice in peace—with no Lisa hovering. And then he would watch a film or read a book, maybe go for a swim, take Belle for a long walk, then fall into bed—after he'd changed the sheets so no lingering scents distracted him—and have a dreamless peaceful sleep.

He snatched his dinner off the car's front seat, then snapping his fingers for Belle, he headed around the side of the house.

His bicycle wasn't there.

Of course, it wasn't as if it had a definite parking space against the porch railing. But that was where he thought he'd left it. He supposed somebody could have borrowed it. His sister, Molly, or Marcus or Tommy or one of the other kids might have been at the beach and needed to get somewhere in a hurry. It had happened before. Hugh didn't care. They always brought it back.

But there weren't any tracks in the sand.

There wasn't even any sand.

Someone had swept the walk.

No one
ever
swept the walk. No one but Hugh knew the house even had a stone walkway around the side to the front steps. But as he stared down between his feet, Hugh saw flagstone, not sand, between them.

He rubbed the edge of his flip-flop against it as if it might be a mirage. It was hard, unyielding. He frowned, trying to remember the last time he'd seen the walk.

When he'd bought it, he thought.

Constance, the real estate agent at Island Breeze Property, had taken him to every available house on Pelican Cay, pointing out all the built-ins and the mod cons, the central air and the screened-in porches. He could have had any of them.

He'd wanted a view of the water, a breeze, a place to hang a hammock and no nearby neighbors.

“No indoor plumbing?” Constance had queried.

“That'd be nice.” But the truth was, he probably would have bought this place without it. It was exactly what he wanted—old and friendly and undemanding.

But Constance had been unable to stop her rhapsodizing. “It's got ceiling fans in every room, electrical outlets on the porch and a flagstone walk all the way round. So you don' go trackin' in the sand,” she'd added in her lovely Bahamian lilt.

Not tracking in sand hadn't been high on Hugh's list of priorities. And he'd never swept it once. Why bother? In five steps he'd be on the beach.

But tonight he was standing on flagstone.

No wonder things felt different. He raised his gaze again to the spot where his bike should have been.

It could have been Molly or Tommy or Marcus. But he somehow doubted it. It wouldn't have occurred to them to sweep the walk before they took it. It wouldn't even have
occurred to Lisa Milligan, who probably didn't even realize the walk existed.

It would only have occurred to one person: Sydney St. John.

Hugh laughed aloud, shaking his head. Trust Sydney St. John. Crazy woman.

It wasn't enough to wash every blinkin' dish in the house, she had to sweep his walk before she borrowed his bike to leave. Probably she'd even repaired the hole in the plaster.

Whatever. If she'd taken the bike, she was definitely gone.

He bounded up the steps, whistling—and stopped dead. Not only his bike had gone missing. Everything else had, too.

Well, not everything. The hammock was stirring faintly in the soft breeze. The porch swing was still here. But everything else was—not.

There were no books, no tools, no dirty cups and plates and glasses. No magazines.

Well, actually, yes, there were magazines. In a very neat, perfectly aligned stack, a dozen or so magazines sat on an end table next to the swing.

End table? Hugh raised his brows. He didn't actually remember having an end table. But now that he saw it sitting there uncluttered, it did look vaguely familiar.

Alongside the hammock there was another one. And behind it, a neat row of car parts, plane parts, boat parts and bike parts were all lined up, according to height apparently—with no regard to which vehicle they belonged to—standing at attention.

It was like being back in the Navy again.

A very weird Navy.

Hugh stared. And stared. And then he shifted his gaze slowly and deliberately to some new brick-and-board shelves beneath the window. They held precisely shelved scuba gear. He looked around for his wet suit which usually
flapped in the breeze from a plant hook. He wasn't surprised to discover it was no longer there.

He could feel a bellow beginning somewhere in the pit of his stomach. And just as he was about to let it loose, the screen door opened, and there she was—the perpetrator of all this blinking
order!
—Ms. Sydney St. John wearing a sarong and a smile.

Hugh felt as if all the air had been sucked right out of him.

He caught a glimpse or two of the “long, long legs” Maurice had mentioned. And when she moved so did the “real nice curves,” which the sarong very thoroughly outlined.

“Ah,” she said, beaming. “You're back. Excellent. I thought we might have to eat without you, but—”

He dragged in all the air he could manage.
“Where the hell's my stuff?”

She waved an arm in an all-encompassing move. “It's straightened up.”

“Straightened up? Damn it to hell! What do you think you were doing? How dare you throw my stuff out? Where's my bike? My surfboard? My wet suit? My
life?
”

“In order. For once,” she said tartly.

“Order? You call this
order?
” It was like calling Mount Everest a molehill. He expected his spark plugs to stand up and salute!

“Relax. I didn't throw anything away,” she said soothingly moving to stand between him and the front door.

It made him instantly suspicious. He stalked across the porch and pushed past her into the house. “God almighty!
What the hell have you done?
”

His life in boot camp hadn't been this organized.

“What you apparently have
never
done. I cleaned house.” She followed him in through the living room to the kitchen.

“Who told you—who asked you?” he sputtered, jerking
open cupboards, glowering at the neat stacks of clean dishes. “I told you to do the dishes!”

“I
did
the dishes.”

“Yeah. And a whole hell of a lot else,” he muttered. The boxes of cereal were organized. So were the canned goods. He thought only obsessive-compulsives alphabetized their spices!

“You can find things now,” she told him. “It will be much simpler.”

“It was perfectly simple before!” He was furious, well beyond the provocation, and he couldn't even have said why. He wheeled around. “Who told you to do anything?”

“No one had to tell me,” she said in an echo of words he'd read in one of those business weeklies he'd read about her today. “I saw what needed to be done and I did it. It's the mark of a good managing director.”

His teeth came together with a snap. “I don't
need
a managing director, sweetheart.”

Her brows arched. A tiny smile played on the corners of her mouth. “You could have fooled me.”

Hugh jammed his fists into the pockets of his shorts and glared. If looks could kill, she'd have been better off eaten by a shark.

She didn't even seem to notice. She simply stood there, smiling, looking cool and competent and mind-shatteringly gorgeous. The sarong was dazzling, in all sorts of rippling blues and greens that brought out the color of her eyes. Tied over one shoulder, it showed far too much of the warm tones of Sydney St. John's skin.

He already had enough memories of her skin. Yesterday at least she'd looked like a boiled lobster. Today, unfairly, the sunburn had turned a dusky gold. She looked delectable. Stunning. Desirable.

And Hugh did not want to desire her. He wanted to throttle her.

“Where's the laundry?” he demanded. “Where are my clothes?”

“Guess,” she suggested mildly.

He bared his teeth.

She turned and beckoned him toward the bedroom. He followed warily.

“Amazingly enough,” she said, opening drawers and the closet door, “they're put away. The clean ones are all in here. The dirty ones are in the hamper.” She nodded toward the wicker basket in the corner. He'd never seen it before. Unlike the end tables, he was sure it was new.

“Where'd that come from?”

“I bought it at the Straw Shoppe.”

“Nobody told you to do that, either.”

“Consider it a gift.”

“You don't have any money.”

“I will. I've got a job.”

“What?”

She grinned. “I told you I was employable.”

“Where? Who hired you?” He'd kill them with his bare hands.

But she just smiled and turned to go back to the kitchen. “I've got to finish getting things ready for dinner.”

Dinner?

For the first time he remembered the kitchen table was set for a meal. He turned and strode after her. Damn it to hell, there was even a tablecloth on the table! And place settings for five.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded. “Now what have you done?”

“I invited Molly and Lachlan and Fiona to have dinner with us.”

“Molly?”
He stared at her. “My
sister
Molly?
And Lachlan and Fiona?
You don't even know Molly and Lachlan and Fiona! Do you?” he demanded, instantly suspicious.

It suddenly occurred to him that his brother knew almost every beautiful woman in the world. And while Lachlan's taste before marriage had run to bimbos, princesses and
soccer groupies rather than elegant “managing directors,” Hugh doubted he'd have said no to a woman like Sydney St. John.

His teeth came together with a snap.

“Just met them today,” Syd replied, unaware that she had just saved his brother's life. “We met this afternoon.”

“I told Molly to stay away.”

“That's what she said.” Syd grinned. “And she minded very well, though I can't understand why.”

“She knows what's good for her,” Hugh muttered. Molly was a tough cookie, but he and Lachlan had trained her well.

“I ran into her on my way to town. I stopped to admire the
King of the Beach.
” Sydney's eyes lit up when she mentioned Fiona's sculpture. “And Molly came out when she saw me there. She told me about it and she introduced herself.”

Hugh grunted. That didn't sound too terrible. “So why'd you invite her to dinner?”

“Well, actually she invited me to lunch. Asked me to bring sandwiches back from the bakery when I got finished shopping. So I did. And we talked. About the island. About the sculpture. About Fiona and Lachlan. She told me how it brought them together after them being at odds for years.” Syd grinned. “She told me Fiona tipped them into the water and Lachlan followed her to Italy and—”

“God almighty, is there anything she didn't tell you?” Since when had his tough tomboy sister become a giggling gossip?

“She didn't tell me your middle name.”

It took him a moment to realize that she was kidding. “I don't pay her to have three-hour lunches,” he muttered.

“You don't pay her at all from what I can see. And she was working. So was I. Doing your billing.”

He stared at her. “Doing my what? My
billing?
Fly Guy's billing? Who let you—”

“Molly did. She was thrilled. She said she didn't have
time and it needed to be done. She says she hates it—and so do you.”

“I do not!”

“You just defer the pleasure. Whatever. I enjoy it. I think it's fun,” she went on blithely. “I love putting numbers in columns. Making things balance. It's orderly.”

He just stared at her, unable to think of anything to say. His life wasn't orderly, that was damned sure. She'd knocked it right out of orbit.

“Billing's not difficult,” she explained. “Neither's accounting.”

“I know that.”

“But it helps to have a system.” She went on as if he hadn't spoken. “So I started setting up a simple one. I only had a couple of hours today. I had to go clear to Spanish Wells to get plastering compound.”

“What?” He stared at her, then turned on his heel and went back into the bedroom. The hole in the wall had been repaired. There was a small patch of still-wet plaster where it had been. He looked at it, shook his head and went back to the kitchen.

“I've never plastered before,” Syd said. “I hope it's okay. If it isn't, Lachlan said he knew someone who could do it.”

A breath hissed out through Hugh's teeth. “Lachlan? How'd he get involved?”

“He came in while I was setting up the accounting system.”

“I don't need you to get a system in place! It's fine the way it is!”

“It's not,” she said as if it were simply a matter of fact.
Margaret St. John tells it like it is,
one of the weeklies had proclaimed. Now she said, “It's total chaos. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Some man named Tom Wilson from someplace called The Lodge called today asking about a bill he didn't get. And a very posh English chap—” her accent became English as she spoke “—Lord
Somebody or Other—Grant Wood? No, that's the painter. He thought so, too.”

“David Grantham,” Hugh said heavily.