McGillivray's Mistress - By Anne McAllister Page 0,21
mouth, and closed it again. His mind reeled. He tried to think. And then to speak. “I thought they wanted quiet elegance, the unspoiled out-island, the pristine pink sand, the sea and the silence.”
“Of course. That goes without saying. But it helps to offer something more,” Grantham nodded eagerly, blond hair flopping over his forehead. “Something challenging and new. There are any number of unspoilt, quiet, out of the way islands, you know.”
Actually Lachlan didn’t know anything of the sort. In his view unspoiled out-of-the-way islands like Pelican Cay were few and far between these days.
But you didn’t argue with a man like David Grantham. So Lachlan held his peace and counted to a hundred while David went on waxing poetic about Fiona’s damned king of the beach.
“You see, it’s not just that they want to get away from it all,” he wound down at last. “It’s that they want to come to something. They aren’t used to total silence. They want a full cultural experience.” He waved an all-encompassing arm. “The sun and the sea and the silence, yes. But Culture—with a capital C, too. This—” he gestured toward the king “—and that steel band down at that little local bar. What’s it called? The Scooper?”
“The Grouper.”
“Yes, yes. The Grouper. Amelie—she’s the scout who found Pelican Cay—says the band is wonderful, that there’s a talented composer there as well.”
Lachlan nodded. “Skip Sellers.”
“Exactly. Just what we want. I’ll have to hear the band, of course, to be sure. But Amelie says it’s brilliant. And the ambience of the island and the inn… I hear there are a couple of excellent restaurants, too.”
“Beaches. And the Sand Dollar.”
“Excellent. And she mentioned a shop that hangs local art that she liked very much, but she said she wasn’t able to talk to the owner.”
“Carin Campbell Wolfe.”
Grantham’s eyes widened. “The Carin Campbell who does those wonderful island watercolors?”
“That’s her.”
Grantham was looking almost orgasmic with delight. “But she’s wonderful! I caught a show of hers in New York last year. I thought Amelie said she was on a shooting expedition?”
“Shooting pictures,” Lachlan explained. “Her husband is a photographer. Nathan Wolfe.”
“Yes, that’s right. He had some photos in the show. Nathan Wolfe! Brilliant!” He rubbed his hands together. “Oh, this is wonderful. I wonder if they’d be interested in doing lectures for our guests.”
“You could ask.”
“Of course. We’ll have dinner. Tonight, all right? You and me, the Wolfes and the steel band leader. Oh, and the sculptor.”
“The…sculptor?” Lachlan swallowed.
Grantham nodded eagerly. “I want to talk to him. Want to learn more about his vision.”
“It’s a her.”
“A woman?”
“Why not a woman?” Lachlan scowled in annoyance.
“Well, I—” David shrugged, but he was looking at the sculpture with new eyes. He exhaled sharply. “It’s rather…large…and, um, strong…for a woman.”
“Fiona’s not exactly a shrinking violet.”
David laughed. “Obviously.” He rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful.” He was beaming now. “I do love a strong woman.”
Lachlan didn’t like the sound of that. “She’s a busy woman, too,” he said sharply.
“But not too busy to have dinner with us, I hope.”
Lachlan hesitated, then shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”
FIONA HAD A TRAY OF BOWLS full of conch chowder in one hand and a basket of homemade rolls in the other, a full section of tables that were her responsibility behind her, and Nikki, the other waitress, muttering in her ear about what Kevin, her boyfriend, had said to her last night.
It was all a wonderful dizzy buzz which Fiona let roll right over her because she was too busy thinking about how fabulous it had been this morning working on her sculpture. And all of a sudden she turned around, and Lachlan was standing in front of her.
“I need to talk to you.”
“No!” She tried to spin away, aware that Nikki was looking at her, wide-eyed. Men like Lachlan McGillivray did not accost Fiona as a matter of course. Two tables of luncheon guests looked equally intrigued. “I’m working.”
“Just for a minute,” he persisted.
Fiona shook her head. She didn’t want to talk to him. Didn’t want to have him tell her he’d changed his mind, that he wasn’t coming back tomorrow. This morning had been incredible. It had been perfect. She’d been terrified of making a fool of herself—of falling on her face, of gawking at him.
And, well, maybe she had gawked just a little.
But somehow—just how she didn’t even know—it had quickly become more than that. She could sculpt! She could bring an image to life with her hands. It was so