McGillivray's Mistress - By Anne McAllister Page 0,27
on. “A set piece. Completely unique—exactly like a Grantham tour.” He grinned at them both. “Come,” he said to Fiona, “let’s have a drink and you can tell me all about your work.”
And she did.
At least Lachlan hoped that’s what she was doing over the clatter of glasses and the soft calypso beat of the island version of Muzak.
He knew damned well what Grantham was doing. He was coming on to Fiona!
Lachlan caught a part of the questions Grantham asked about her inspiration while they had drinks. Far from being reticent in the presence of titled aristocracy, Fiona chatted easily with him. When Lachlan would have steered him away to talk to Skip and Nadine Sellers, he’d got brushed off.
“Later,” Grantham promised. “I want to know more about what Fiona thinks of American Indian artists.”
“American Indian artists?” Lachlan muttered into his beer. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“They’re getting to know each other. And she’s charming him.” Suzette answered his rhetorical question with more honesty than he needed. “You didn’t need me here after all.”
He’d asked her to partner Grantham. He’d expected to put Fiona next to him at the table, to make her feel comfortable, less out of her depth.
Instead he got to watch as Grantham brushed a strand of hair from her cheek as they talked over the conch chowder. And he got to see her blush over the box fish stuffed with sea grapes and rice when Grantham waxed eloquent about the brilliance of her sculpture—not just the monstrosity on the sand, but all the other pieces in Carin’s shop.
“I don’t know why you’re staying here.” Grantham’s voice carried the length of their table even though he was speaking to Fiona. “Your work is wonderful. Universal. You could take it anywhere. The metal pieces have such movement. Such energy. And the pelicans and sand castles. They’re pure unadulterated folk art,” he claimed. “Innocent. Unspoiled.”
“Like Grandma Moses,” Lachlan said through his teeth.
Everyone’s gaze turned to him. Nathan opened his mouth…and closed it again. Carin blinked. The Sellerses exchanged glances. Suzette stared. With a hard look Lachlan defied them to disagree.
“What a lovely compliment,” Fiona said brightly after a moment of dead silence. “Thank you.”
And then she went back to flirting with the earl.
Lachlan stabbed his bread roll and crumbled it into little pieces. The courses came and went. The chatter went on. Nathan and Skip talked about Nathan shooting some film of the steel band. Nadine and Carin compared notes about toddlers. Suzette even offered an opinion as she had a niece that age. At the far end of the table Fiona and Grantham went on talking to each other.
You’d have thought they were at a table for two!
Lachlan glared at them.
“Isn’t it great?” Carin said cheerfully. She was sitting next to him, but she, too, was looking down the table at Fiona who was simpering at Lord Bloody Grantham.
Obviously he’d missed something. “Isn’t what great?” he growled.
“Fiona. Flirting.”
He turned his head and stared at Carin.
“We were worried she wouldn’t remember how.” Carin grinned. “It’s been a lot of years. It’s lovely to see that she is getting out, socializing, practicing her wiles…”
Now he turned back to look at Fiona. She tipped her head back and laughed delightedly at something Grantham was saying.
Was that what she was doing? Practicing her wiles on Grantham?
Like hell.
FLIRTING, FIONA DISCOVERED, was like riding a bicycle. She might be a little rusty, she might wobble at first, but she hadn’t forgotten how to do it.
And with a handsome, cooperative male like David Grantham encouraging her—doing a fair bit of flirting on his own—it wasn’t long before she was pedaling right along, laughing and talking, batting her lashes and doing a bit of gentle teasing.
And thank God for that.
It kept her from staring down the table at Lachlan McGillivray.
She needed a distraction. Every time she did glance his way, his clothes seemed to fall off and she would see him as she had seen him that morning—in all his powerful naked male splendor. It made her dry-mouthed and damp-palmed just to think about it.
So she didn’t. Or tried not to.
Instead she threw herself eagerly into conversation with David Grantham. She’d imagined that he would be a pompous, old, self-important stuffed shirt. To her surprise and pleasure he was affable, young, easygoing and capable of charming the socks off any female between the ages of nine and ninety—in this case, her.
Fortunately David had managed the seating arrangement so that she was