In McGillivray's Bed (9 page)

“Yes, that's him,” Syd said happily. “He wanted to know about you flying him to Miami in a few days, and he had some questions about putting together a seaplane excursion for a tour he's doing. But he said he hadn't got a bill from the last one.”

“He'll get one,” Hugh said through his teeth. “I've been busy.”

“That's what I told them. I said you had more than enough to do with all the actual flying and such and that you had discovered that you couldn't possibly deal with the paperwork, as well. But that things had just changed.”

Hugh gave her a hard narrow look. “Changed? How?”

“You hired an accountant.”

“Like hell!”

“Come on, McGillivray. You need an accountant. Molly needs an accountant. She can't do it all herself.”

“No! No way. I didn't hire you!”

“You didn't have to. I did it anyway. Professional courtesy.”

“For what? You want me to fly you to Miami? Let's go.”

“No. For rescuing me. I owe you. I don't expect you to pay me,” she said, her voice intense, her expression serious. “I'm doing it for nothing. It's my way of paying you back.”

“I don't need—or want—to be paid back!”

She shrugged. “Well, tough. I need—and want—to do it. You saved my life!”

“My mistake,” Hugh muttered, pacing around the kitchen, raking a hand through his hair. But before he could argue further, he heard the sound of footsteps on the porch and Lachlan, Fiona and Molly all trooped in.

“Whoa, look at this!” Lachlan stood, staring around in amazement as if he'd never been in Hugh's house before
instead of having spent three months there the spring he moved back to Pelican Cay. His jaw sagged. “I didn't know you had a kitchen.”

“Very funny.”

“Pretty nifty, huh?” Molly said cheerfully. “Cleans up good, doesn't it? Who'd a thunk it?” She grinned at her brothers.

Fiona stood on the porch, staring at the engine parts. “Look at this. It's almost like one of my sculptures. Really neat rows of junk.”

“It's not junk,” Hugh said ominously.

Fiona grinned at him “All in the eyes of the beholder. Right, Lach?” She turned her gaze on her husband.

Lachlan nodded. “You must have worked flat out,” he said approvingly to Sydney. “All this
and
the stuff at the shop?”

“What about the shop?” Hugh demanded. “What stuff at the shop?”

“All but the old bits and pieces in the back room,” Sydney answered Lachlan.

“What old bits and pieces? What back room?” Hugh persisted. “The back room at the shop?”

Molly nodded. “We're organizing. There's way too much stuff. I can never find the parts I need.”

“But at least they're there,” Hugh argued. “If you clean it out, they'll be gone.”

“No, they won't. Not when Fiona's done.”

“Fiona? What the hell are you talking about?” How had Fiona got into this?

“Syd had this great idea. Fiona's going to use them in her sculptures,” Molly explained. “Like the
King.
Cool, huh? And then if I need a part, Fiona can get it down for me.”

“You want to put engine parts on a sculpture?” Had they all lost their minds? “Now just a minute.”

But Molly had turned to Fiona. “You
can
get them down if I need them, can't you?”

“Of course.”

Hugh tried again to protest, but they talked right over him. The only comment directed his way at all was Lachlan's, “Nice shiner.”

Hugh had forgotten about that. He gritted his teeth. “I ran into a door.”

“Oh? Syd said it was a wall.” Lachlan grinned. “I'm starving. I brought lobsters. Are we going to eat tonight?”

They all turned at once. Fiona set the dozen ears of corn she'd brought onto the counter and began shucking them while Molly put a bowl of peas and rice along with one of potato salad on the table.

Lachlan dumped the passel of spiny lobsters into the kettle of water that Syd had boiling on the back of the stove while Syd, acting as if it were
her
kitchen, quartered and scored pieces of fresh pineapple and set them at each place.

Hugh stood around feeling useless in his own kitchen.

“What's that?” Molly asked, indicating the bag he still held in his hand.

He stared down at it, then remembered. “It's my dinner,” he said gruffly. “I didn't realize we were having a party.”

“Didn't figure we had to ask,” Fiona told him. “I told Syd you were always up for a party.”

“We'll go home early,” Molly promised him.

Hugh frowned at her. “What? Why?”

His brother looked at him. “Could it be that you're stupider than I thought?”

Fiona kicked Lachlan. “Let him go at his own pace. At least he's going,” she hissed.

Hugh looked at them, baffled. “Going?”

“He is,” Lachlan mourned. “Completely clueless.”

“Hush,” Fiona said.

“Time to eat?” Molly suggested hopefully.

They had lobster and salads and all the trimmings. They had key lime pie that Fiona had bought at the bakery for dessert. They drank beer and laughed and talked and in
cluded Sydney St. John with a casual acceptance that made Hugh feel as if she had always been there.

One day and she had charmed them all. Had them eating out of her hand.

“Ms. St. John can work with people. She gets the job done,” one of the weeklies had proclaimed.

Hugh could see that was true. In one day she knew all about Lachlan's inns and Fiona's sculpture. She had talked to Maurice and Amby, to Sarah at the Straw Shoppe and Erica at the boutique. She knew about the library fund drive and the history museum and the church quilting group. She'd talked to Dave Grantham about his cultural tours and both he and Lachlan had told her about efforts to put together a tourism package.

She even knew about the new clinic that Doc Rasmussen was trying to build and about the fund to buy soccer uniforms for the Pelicans.

Plus she had ideas and suggestions for all of the above. Some of them were a little too big-city, but some of them, Hugh was forced to admit, were surprisingly good.

If she weren't such a pest—arranging and ordering and sorting his house and his shop and his life!—he might have been impressed.

As it was he did his determined best to be indifferent.

It didn't matter how smart and clever and bright and organized—he grimaced—and
gorgeous
Sydney St. John was, he wasn't interested.

She wasn't his kind of woman. She was a Lisa in spades. A forever sort of woman. And one who, no matter what she thought today, wasn't going to stay on Pelican Cay.

“Ms. St. John is going places,” one of those weeklies had prophesied.

Hugh absolutely believed it. He just wished she'd hurry up.

She obviously wasn't leaving tonight. So he was stuck
with her that long. But tomorrow, he was flying her to Miami or Nassau or wherever she wanted to go.

“—don't you think, Hugh?”

He jerked back to the present to see Fiona looking at him. They were all sitting in the semidarkness now, with only the glow of his hula girls and flamingos lighting the porch. The soft lazy melody of the new CD of the local steel band played in the background, and obviously Fiona had asked him a question.

“Sorry. I was…distracted.”

“I'm sure you are,” his sister-in-law grinned. “And probably wishing we'd go home.” She stood up, and he could see the outline of her pregnancy in the soft light. “I said I think everything looks wonderful. Put together. Homey. The way I knew this place could be. I think Syd did a great job, don't you?”

“Um…”

“He still misses his old dead batteries and Belle's chewed tennis balls,” Lachlan said.

“He'll get over it.” Fiona smiled and gave Hugh a look of obvious approval. “I'm so glad. I was worried. I thought you were going to live in never-never land forever.”

Never-never land? Hugh sat up straight on the director's chair he'd been lounging back in. Did she think he was bloody Peter Pan just because he didn't fold his laundry and didn't shave every day?

“It's a big improvement, all right,” Molly agreed cheerfully before he could ask. She stood up, too, and turned to Hugh. “And you never even said a word!” She punched him lightly on the arm. “I never thought you'd do it. Not after Car—I mean—” She stopped abruptly and took a quick swallow of her beer. “Time I was leaving.”

Hugh caught her by the hand. “Pardon me?” he said icily.

Molly tugged free and gave a quick shake of her head. “Nothing. Really. Sorry. I just… I didn't really care what you did, Hugh. If you'd never mar—I mean…” Her voice
died once more as she realized that with every word she was getting both feet further and further into her mouth.

In the silence Hugh asked softly, “What is it that doesn't matter if I never do, Mol?”

“Nothing,” she said abruptly. “Nothing at all.” And she picked up her empty bottle to carry into the kitchen. “Can't leave it here,” she said lightly. “There's no clutter.”

She disappeared and Fiona and Sydney went after her, carrying more plates and bottles. Lachlan stood and stretched, then slanted Hugh a grin.

“She's dynamite,” he said with obvious approval. “Good job.”

“She's not—”

“Like all the others,” Lachlan said. “Thank God.”

Molly and Fiona reappeared. “Thanks for a wonderful evening,” Fiona told Hugh, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “And thank you for everything,” she said to Sydney.

“I'm so glad you came,” Syd said with a smile.

“So are we,” Lachlan told her and he gave Syd a kiss. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Hugh scowled.

“Not early,” Lachlan promised with a grin. “And it's just business. I'm picking her brain.”

“Oh.”

Molly laughed. “I love it when you get all territorial.” She gave a little laugh, then astonished him by wrapping him in a hug. “I am glad, Hugh,” she said fiercely. “You deserve someone wonderful. Enjoy.”

And as they all disappeared into the night, Hugh stared after them with the grim realization of what she meant—and that Lachlan and Fiona clearly meant it, too.

Hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

Having Sydney in his house was supposed to convince Lisa Milligan that he was interested in someone else. It wasn't supposed to convince his nearest and dearest that he had a new serious love interest in his life.

Worse, they didn't have to sound so all-fired pleased
about it, as if he were saved at last from the depths of despair and loneliness.

Was that what they had thought ever since Carin had married Nathan Wolfe? Did they imagine that he'd spent the last two years pining away, miserable and forsaken? That he hadn't always shaved or done the dishes because the only woman he'd ever loved had married someone else?

Good God.

And what was he going to do about it?

 

T
HE
evening had gone surprisingly well.

Much better than Syd imagined it would.

She'd had no doubts, of course, about her ability as a hostess even in unfamiliar circumstances. With a lifetime of practice on behalf of her father and St. John Electronics, she knew how to throw a party for five hundred or an intimate dinner for only a few.

She knew how to be avid, eager and interested. She was a whiz at small talk, capable of making virtually everyone feel at home.

Except the man whose home it actually was.

At least McGillivray had behaved himself. She'd thought he might not.

After the way he had ranted and raved and found fault with everything she had done around the house, she'd expected him to continue in that vein even after his family showed up.

But he hadn't. He'd been quieter than she'd imagined he would be. But after his initial shock, he'd taken part in the conversation. He'd teased his sister and sister-in-law. He'd argued with his brother. And they'd all returned the favor.

Syd had watched and listened, fascinated. And envious. Because, beneath all the jibes, the stories and the teasing, there was such an obvious closeness and affection among them.

She had always wanted siblings. Had wished—had even
suggested—that her father remarry after her mother's death so she could have some.

But that had always been out of the question. Her father had had no interest in remarrying. He'd never even bothered to date anyone seriously after her mother's death. He'd been appalled at her suggestion and had made it quite clear that he had neither the time nor the inclination to invest in another relationship.

And then he'd always put an arm around her and said, “I don't need anyone else. I have you, Margaret.”

And she had him.

For her father that had been enough. And Syd had tried to make it—and St. John's—enough for her. But it wasn't. And seeing the McGillivrays together tonight brought that home to her once more.

She wanted what they had. Still, she was a little surprised to be so quickly welcomed and included.

“Your family is so nice,” she said to Hugh when they left. She was doing up the last of the dishes, and he was standing with his back to her, staring out the window into the darkness.

When he didn't reply, she went on. “I really enjoyed it.”

Still not a word. His shoulders were hunched, his fists shoved into the pockets of his shorts.

“Is the silence your way of saying you didn't enjoy it?” she asked, trying to keep an even, pleasant tone.

The shoulders lifted, but he didn't turn around. “It was fine,” he said tonelessly.

There was none of the McGillivray bravado, no quick wit, no sharp reply. She set down the dish towel and moved so she could see his reflection in the window glass. He looked awful.