CHAPTER TWO

A MONTH LATER SERENA STOOD on the shore of the Sound of Sleat beneath a steel-gray sky, the wind pulling tendrils from her plait and working its way beneath the hem of her field jacket. Somehow when she’d made the dramatic pronouncement on the steps of Highlands Academy, she’d thought their departure would happen more quickly. But the massive sheaf of paperwork involved in liquidating her investments and repurchasing her share of the hotel paled in comparison to the effort of extracting Em from school and enrolling her on Skye for the summer term, not to mention pausing activities and gym memberships and all the trappings of a life that she’d taken for granted in Nairn.

Now she watched the gentle lap of waves on the shore and breathed in the cold salt air, feeling the first measure of peace in weeks settle over her. The children were still up the road at Aunt Muriel’s, sleeping off their late arrival and giving Serena a few unaccustomed moments alone. She’d been back to Skye frequently in the past few years, but this felt different—like a homecoming. Even with the changes to the hotel, the landscape was as familiar as her own features: the swaying grasses and scrubby brush from which the whitewashed buildings of Isleornsay’s village sprang; the slim white lighthouse in the sound; the mysterious cover of fog that hovered over the water and reflected abstract patterns onto its dark, glassy surface. She inhaled the smell of the sea and damp foliage for a moment longer, then turned away from the water.

She cut through a field that was just beginning to show the first bits of green, its usual wildflowers delayed by the unseasonably cold weather; then she circled around the front entrance of the MacDonald Guest House. Even with the addition that had expanded and modernized the function of the hotel, it retained the old-fashioned charm inherent in the original whitewashed stone and mullioned windows. Andrea and Jamie had done a wonderful job transforming it from a modest regional guesthouse into an international holiday destination.

Serena stepped inside the hotel, where already the smell of food and the clatter from the kitchen spoke of breakfast being prepared, and the low hum of voices from the dining room to her left told her at least a few guests had found their way downstairs this early. The reception desk sat empty. From the looks of the car park, the hotel was full, and guests often checked out early in order to make afternoon flights from Inverness. Didn’t they have a receptionist? Where was the hotel manager Jamie had hired?

While she was standing baffled in the foyer, a young couple appeared, dressed too warmly for a day of sightseeing, even considering the chilly temperatures outside. They brightened when they saw Serena.

“Do you work here?” the woman asked. “We’ve just arrived, and we don’t want to miss anything.”

Her pronounced Spanish accent explained the puffy down coats. Guests from southern Europe always regarded Scotland as one step below the Arctic Circle.

“I’d be happy to make some suggestions.” Serena rounded the desk and found a paper tourist map of the island in one of the drawers. She highlighted a driving route in bright-yellow marker. “Since you’re already equipped for the cold, you must do a little stargazing. We have more Dark Sky sites than anywhere else in Europe.”

The couple exchanged looks, clearly intrigued by the idea.

“Why don’t I print out another map and some star charts for you and leave them here at the desk? You can pick them up when you get back.”

“Gracias,” the man said. “Thank you for your help.”

“Of course. I hope you enjoy your holiday on Skye.” As soon as the couple left, Serena did as she’d promised, looking up several star charts and printing them out. Then she took out a fresh copy of the map and highlighted the locations of the nearest Dark Sky Discovery Sites. This hadn’t exactly been her intention in coming to the hotel, but at least she could do something useful while she was here.

The dull thump of feet on the stairs made her turn to the wooden staircase, where a couple, dressed for a day of hiking, carried down their trolley cases.

“Checking out?” Serena asked politely.

The young woman flipped her ginger ponytail. “We are. We’re hiking the Quiraing today before we head back to Manchester.”

“Ah, you picked a good day for it. We’ve a lot of fog today, but there’s rain forecast the rest of the week.”

The man fished his room key from his pocket and handed it to Serena. She hesitated, momentarily at a loss. Clearly she couldn’t just take the key and send them on their way, but she had no idea whether or not they’d been given a bill when they checked in or if it had been slipped under the door. She sat down at the padded chair in front of the computer and quickly keyed in Muriel’s password, blessing her aunt for suggesting she take it with her. The number on the door key helped her pull up the reservation, and she quickly printed the receipt for the account, which appeared to be paid in full. She handed the paper across the desk to them with a smile. “Thank you for staying with us. We hope to see you again.”

“Cheers,” the girl said brightly, and then they were out the front door into the gravel lot.

Serena turned back to the booking system and frowned. She could have sworn she had just checked them out of the room, but it still showed it occupied. Had she missed a step? She pressed a key, and the computer beeped obnoxiously at her. She tried again and earned another beep for her efforts.

“What are you doing?”

Serena swiveled in the chair, awash in guilt before she could remind herself that she had nothing to feel guilty about. “I was just . . .”

The rest of her sentence faded as she took in the man standing behind her, his arms crossed over his chest. He was taller than she—though who wasn’t?—with the broad, muscular build of a rugby player and the scowl to match. Sandy-blond hair, dark eyes, a couple of days’ growth on his face that suggested he couldn’t be bothered to shave, rather than a legitimate attempt at a beard. A tickle of memory at the back of her suddenly sluggish mind told her this must be the new manager, even if his jeans and battered leather jacket read more nightclub bouncer than sophisticated hotel supervisor.

Serena swallowed hard and dragged her eyes from the way his T-shirt stretched over his chest, cursing the flutter of attraction that started low in her stomach. Instead, she rose and stuck out her hand. “Malcolm Blake, I presume. I’m Serena Stewart.”

He made no move to shake her hand. “I know who you are. We met last summer. What are you doing here?”

“At the moment, manning the front desk, which was conspicuously empty when our guests wanted to check out.”

“Our guests?”

“Yes, our guests.”

He stared at her, unblinking, and a little chill ran down her spine, not altogether unpleasant. “And why is that?”

“As of this week, I am once more part owner of the MacDonald Guest House.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Jamie sold me back my share.”

“Why?”

His hard tone finally loosened the logjam in her brain, and she drew herself up straighter. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

He wiped a hand over his face. “What I mean is, James and Ian have been perfectly content to check in with me via phone and e-mail, and up until this point, they seemed satisfied with the way I run the hotel. Why, now, are you here, Mrs. Stewart?”

Somehow, on his lips, the title seemed dismissive, as if the fact she was a married—or formerly married—woman with children meant she had no business overseeing the health of her investment. “I imagine you know, Mr. Blake. I would appreciate if you could find some time in your busy schedule to take me through the inner workings of the hotel.” She held up a hand. “Just so I understand everything that’s being done here.”

He gave her a bare, closemouthed smile. “Of course. I’d be delighted. Perhaps the first lesson should be on the proper way of using the booking system?” He nodded toward the computer. “Since you seem to be about to change one of my custom scripts?”

She turned her head back to the error message, behind which was a window filled with unreadable code. A slow flush heated her cheeks. She could hardly be angry with his tone when she had indeed been about to do that. Somehow. “Yes. I think perhaps that would be a good idea.”

He gave her a suspicious look, obviously not buying her cooperative attitude, then leaned past her to the computer. The scent of a clean, outdoorsy cologne wafted around her, mixing with the scent of leather. Another unaccustomed pulse of heat slugged her in the stomach, choking the breath in her lungs. She leaned away from him while he closed the windows with a few keystrokes.

“May I?” he asked.

She practically leaped out of the chair. “Of course.”

He barely looked at her as he plopped into the seat, his fingers flying over the keyboard with surprising accuracy. “Let’s start with your own user account. Is ‘sstewart’ okay with you?”

“Fine,” she murmured.

A few more clicks and keystrokes, and he stood again, gesturing back to the chair. “There you go. You’re logged in.”

“My password?”

“Safezone, lowercase, all one word.”

“Oh?”

A slight smile tipped up the corner of his mouth. No, not a smile. A smirk. “I gave you the safest level of user privileges. There’s no way you can delete anything important. As the new owner, I’m sure you realize how disruptive it would be if I had to take time out from my other duties to fix the booking module again.”

He was laughing at her, and it made her want to smack that look off his handsome face. No matter what she might think of his manners, he was good-looking. “Yes, quite disruptive. And since you’re so busy, I’m sure you won’t mind an extra pair of hands around the hotel. You can show me every last detail of what it is you do here all day.”

His smile faded. “Whatever you want, Mrs. Stewart, I’m happy to comply.”

“Yes,” she said, enjoying for a single moment the shift of power in her favor. “I’m sure you are.”

Malcolm Blake knew when he was stuck, and by the satisfied little smile on Serena Stewart’s face, he figured he’d have a better chance of prying a bear trap from his leg than shaking his new boss off his tail. Rotten timing too. The guesthouse was packed, and he hadn’t even begun to address the two dozen issues that had met him the minute he walked in the door. No, the quickest way to get rid of her was to indulge her sudden urge to play innkeeper until she got bored and moved on to something else. With any luck, he could impress her with his work ethic and send her on her way by lunch. No matter what she might think of him, he took pride in his work. He wasn’t going to let some snap judgment from the new owner negate everything he’d accomplished since he’d been hired.

“You might want to change first,” he said finally.

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

Absolutely nothing, he wanted to say, but he wouldn’t be able to keep the note of appreciation from his voice. Not to mention the fact it summoned his attention back to the very things he’d been trying to ignore. A man would have to be blind—or dead—not to notice how the fuzzy lavender sweater accentuated her lush curves or how the tight dark jeans hugged slim legs down to where they disappeared into the tops of her brown riding boots. He jerked his eyes back to her face, but that didn’t help much, considering his enduring weakness for the contrast of pale skin and dark hair. Especially when it was paired with blue eyes the exact color of the sound outside.

He blew out his breath and hoped it could be passed off as irritation. Serena Stewart didn’t seem the type to endure being ogled by the help, even if he could have sworn she’d been staring at his pecs. “Suit yourself. I’ve got to bring in a few cases of liquor to the bar later, and I’d hate for your nice clothes to get damaged.” Especially considering those riding boots probably cost more than his car.

She frowned at him. “I’m fine. I’m not wearing an evening gown. But why exactly aren’t the deliverymen doing this for you?”

“This is Skye, love. I am the deliveryman. I swung by the distillery this morning to pick up our order.”

“Then I’m glad to help.” She put on a sweet smile, beneath which he figured she was cursing his parentage and his very existence on the planet.

“I need to do a couple of things first. Think you can keep yourself occupied in the meantime?”

“I’ll just shadow you. You can show me the ropes.”

Make sure he met her standards, more like. But he only nodded and kept his sharp comments to himself. Irritating or not, this woman held his livelihood in her hands. And as much as he hated to admit it, this was the only decent-paying job he’d found since moving back to Skye. He couldn’t afford to lose it. Pride, as important as it was to him, wasn’t enough to pay the bills.

In the next hour he checked out four guests—without managing to erase anything vitally important—then started the task of cleaning the two rooms that would be occupied later that night. They did have housekeepers, one who worked weekdays and the other who worked weekends, but the weekday maid had called in sick just before he came to reception that morning. He grinned as he thrust a pile of dirty linens into Serena’s arms, expecting her to suddenly remember an urgent appointment elsewhere. Instead, she helped gamely, not a single complaint escaping her lips, even when he directed her to scrub the sink and toilet. She might be a princess, but she was a stubborn princess.

Once the rooms were turned over, he led her out to the car park, where his black Ford hatchback waited, the paint splashed with mud from the recent rains. He usually only stocked the bar on Sundays when it was closed, but last night’s unexpected turnout to their live-music event had left them low on local spirits. No point in waiting on the deliverymen he’d pretended they didn’t have when the distillery was just a few minutes’ drive up the island.

“Grab a box,” he said, “if it’s not too heavy for you.”

Serena shot him a challenging look and hefted a case of a dozen bottles from the boot, if not easily, then with far less effort than he would have expected from her. He picked up one as well and preceded her inside, nodding toward the polished bar. She was so short that she couldn’t lift the box high enough to get it over the edge. She set it on one of the barstools. He fought a smile.

“Why are you laughing? You’re not the only one who works out.”

His grin broke free. She’d been checking him out all right. His snobbish princess of a new boss had been noticing him as much as he’d noticed her. Even if she didn’t remember him.

That’s the real issue, isn’t it? She made an impression on you when you last met, but you’re too far beneath her for her to remember your face. If he were smart, he’d abandon all the ridiculous thoughts that had plagued him since she walked through the door. But he wasn’t that smart or that disciplined, which meant his best bet was to stick to the original plan and send her on her way as quickly as possible, out of the realm of temptation.

As soon as they had carried all the boxes in from his car, she leaned against the mahogany bar top. “Would you show me the storeroom and your inventory methods now?”

He nodded, even though he had to clamp his teeth down on a smart response before he did. By the time he was finished, he’d also shown Serena the point-of-sale system and cash drawer, the menu, and pretty much every minute detail she could think to ask about.

With each new question, his ability to keep his cool faltered. She might be fit, but she was most definitely a micromanager.

“You know, James and Ian seemed perfectly content to let me run the place,” he said finally. “Why don’t you just come out and say what concerns you?”

“Nothing concerns me. But if you’ve not noticed, James and Ian are rarely here, which is exactly why I bought back my share. It’s a pretty poor business strategy to back away and let someone else make all the decisions.”

“The help, you mean.”

“Someone without a vested interest in the success of the venture.” She drew herself up as if she could add inches to her tiny frame out of sheer will.

“You don’t think I have a vested interest? If I don’t do well, I don’t get paid. I imagine that makes me more invested than you.”

“Considering this property has been in my family for generations, I very much doubt that.”

He flinched. Of course she was going to pull rank. She was an owner; he was just the hired help. And if he were smart, he would surgically remove his foot from his mouth and apologize. But the I’m sorry froze on his lips. He wasn’t sorry at all. Instead, he cleared his throat. “What’s the verdict then?”

She lifted her chin, and for the first time she looked uncomfortable. “I think you’re doing a fine job.”

“What?”

“You have everything under control. Your inventory methods are probably more stringent than necessary considering the size of the bar, but I appreciate the precautions you’ve made in locking down the stock. You clearly have a better grasp of the computer system than I do—” a faint self-deprecating smile surfaced on her lips—“and judging from the reviews of the hotel online, guests are perfectly satisfied with the service.”

“Then why all the questions, if not because you thought I wasn’t doing my job?”

“Because you’re only one man, and from what I can tell, the hotel is understaffed. If I’m to properly assess personnel needs, I need to know every detail of the hotel operations. Unless, of course, you enjoy changing bed linens and scrubbing bathrooms?”

The hint of humor in her tone and the subtle lift of her eyebrows began to thaw his attitude toward her until he realized she’d played on his fear of being sacked to put him through the wringer today. He kept his own expression impassive. “I will defer to your judgment on that matter.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ll get out of your way and let you finish your work then. I wouldn’t want to be the one interfering with your ability to do your job.”

“It was a pleasure, Mrs. Stewart.”

“I highly doubt that, Mr. Blake.”

Malcolm bit back his automatic response and gave her the most courteous nod he could summon. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and strode from the bar without a backward glance. He rubbed both hands through his hair with a groan.

He’d made a complete mess of that. He might be good with guests, but he was rubbish with authority. And like it or not, the new owner, Serena Stewart, had made it abundantly clear that she was in charge.