Chapter 3
Madelyn
dreamed she was being attacked by giant mosquitoes.
They buzzed fiercely around her head, settling with disturbing finality near her left ear.
She pulled a diaphanous white mosquito net over her head, hoping to ward off any substantial bites, and wondered why in the hell she was in the Tropics.
Big bugs, big spiders, big bright sun endlessly shining down.
Not her kind of place at all.
She woke with a start, realizing she was suffocating herself with her pillow. The alarm clock on her nightstand was buzzing incessantly. She groped for it, turned it off, and sat up before she was tempted to succumb to more blissful sleep.
Then again, maybe sleep wouldn’t be so blissful. Heaven only knew what kind of insect she’d find herself bitten by in her dreams this time. She should probably cut her losses and limit the conjurings of her subconscious to something she could easily swat.
Besides, the day was a-wastin’ and she had a very long list of sights to enjoy. The sooner she was out of bed, the sooner she would be out living her dream. And the sooner she could ditch Bentley to do it.
She could hardly believe the events of the day before.
Had Bentley actually come to Scotland to ruin her vacation, or had she merely hallucinated the entire episode?
Did hallucinations have smells? She could still smell his cologne, but perhaps that was due to residue left behind in her sinus passages from six months in his company.
Fresh air was obviously the thing for her.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then leaned over to find her slippers. It was then that she realized two things.
One, she’d fallen asleep in her clothes.
Two, there wasn’t room to lean over while sitting on the bed.
She gingerly put her hand to her head—fully expecting to find blood gushing from a wound the size of the Grand Canyon. She fumbled for the lamp switch, hoping the blood hadn’t ruined her suit.
She looked at her hand. No blood. She felt her head. Not much of a lump. She looked around her. Not much room for her suitcase either unless she let it share the bed with her.
She cursed Bentley Douglas Taylor III as she rose and carefully stretched so she wouldn’t crack her elbows against the wall.
Well, the upside was she wouldn’t be tempted to hang out in her room instead of getting out and seeing the sights.
But since that had never been anything she’d anticipated having to fight, she went back to cursing Bentley for sticking her with a room that barely contained a bed, no matter that the bed was actually comfortable.
She sighed, then turned—carefully—and eased her way between bed and wall to the door.
She put her ear to the wood and listened for the huffings and puffings of an egotistical trial lawyer who might or might not be lingering outside her door.
She heard nothing. That, at least, was something to be grateful for.
She made tracks for the bathroom, made use of the facilities, then splashed cold water on her face.
She peered blearily at herself in the mirror.
Her hair hung down past her shoulders in big, fat Shirley Temple curls she usually spared no effort to straighten.
She knew people paid huge amounts of money to have hair like hers, but all she wanted was to have hair that looked as straight as if she’d ironed it.
Obviously the lovely Scottish clime was going to do nothing to help her in her cause.
The humidity had sent her hair into never-before-reached spasms of curliness.
With a sigh, she put her hair up in a ponytail, then turned to face her day—or at least her trip to the car to get her suitcase.
She poked her head out of the bathroom, saw no one in the hallway, and dashed to her room.
She grabbed the keys sitting on the bed, carefully exited the room without bumping anything, and headed quickly for the front door.
“Breakfast?” asked Roddy as she sped by.
“Sure,” she threw over her shoulder on the way out the front door. If she could just get her stuff, grab a bite, and get going before Bentley woke up, she’d be in business.
She saw his car still parked outside. He was no doubt sleeping the sleep of the dead, without remorse, in the room that was to have been hers.
He had paid for it initially, true and under unsettlingly loud protests, but when they’d been negotiating the dumping conditions, she’d traded him out their accommodations in Scotland for the horrendously expensive bridesmaid’s dresses—violent pink bridesmaid’s dresses insisted upon by his three vile sisters—and the deposits for caterers and sundry she’d been out.
At least she didn’t have to worry about paying for her hotels.
What she did have to worry about, she supposed, was fighting Bentley for each and every room.
She could just see him racing her to each B and B just so he could get there and make her life hell.
And considering he had the Jag and she had a little touristmobile, he would probably win every time.
Well, she would deal with that when she had to.
Maybe she would take off a day early and get a jump on their next destination.
She put her key into the lock to grab her suit jacket from the front seat only to pause and realize that her car was open.
Had she forgotten to lock it? She honestly couldn’t remember.
The past several days were nothing but a blur.
She peered inside. The radio was still there.
Her suit jacket was still there as well, so she picked it up. She went to open the trunk.
She found that she didn’t need the key there either.
She lifted the lid gingerly, hoping she wouldn’t find a dead body placed inside.
No, no dead body.
No luggage either.
It was tempting to panic, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to relax.
Roddy had probably gotten her suitcase and overnight bag for her.
After all, her keys had been sitting right there on the bed.
But hadn’t she put them in her purse the night before?
She shrugged to herself. Impossible to remember.
She walked back to the inn. Roddy was waiting for her inside with a welcoming smile.
“Ready for breakfast?” he asked.
“I’ve got a problem to fix first,” she said. “Have you seen my luggage?”
He blinked. “Your luggage? Didn’t you bring your things in yesterday?”
She shook her head. “Not my suitcase.”
Silence descended as they both considered the ramifications of that.
Roddy spoke first. “Stolen?” he ventured.
She grimaced. “I hope not, but I don’t know what else to think.”
At that moment who should have come oozing out into the foyer but Bentley Douglas Taylor III himself, in tweed.
Apparently he was dressing for success. At least he had foregone the kilt.
She was certain the local population wasn’t ready for his knees, knees she had fortunately only seen once at a company luau. One time too many, actually.
As she stared at his immaculate self, a nasty thought occurred to her. Had Bentley stolen her suitcase to hold it hostage?
She went on the attack. It was Bentley’s favorite ploy and it tended to confuse him when females used it against him. “Why did you steal my suitcase?” she demanded.
“What?” he asked innocently. Far too innocently.
She looked at him narrowly. “You stole my reservation. Why would you stop there?”
“I don’t steal,” he said, puffing like a steam engine. “I am the epitome of honor, forthrightness, and virtue. I would never inconvenience you—”
She snorted in disbelief.
“—by stealing your suitcase,” he finished.
Madelyn scowled. He was probably telling the truth—in his own twisted way. Bentley was completely committed to his version of the facts. That his version of the facts might be altogether incompatible with reality didn’t trouble him. She often wondered how he managed to sleep at night.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I want to search your room.”
“As much as you’d like to see the inside of the local jail?” he asked with one raised eyebrow.
“At least I’d get a few free meals there,” she shot back. “And considering the state of financial ruin you’ve left me in, that sounds pretty good at the moment.”
He shrugged. “Go look. You won’t find anything.”
“Only because you’ve hidden it so well,” she muttered as she stomped back down the hallway.
She searched thoroughly, rumpling his shirts and mismatching all his socks as she went.
It left her vaguely unsatisfied. What the man needed was a few days on the rack, stretched until his pinkie ring wouldn’t stay on any longer.
Unfortunately, she didn’t know anyone with any kind of torture devices, and it was beneath her to mess with his very expensive mousse, so she trudged back to the foyer.
“Find anything?” Bentley asked politely.
She didn’t think that deserved an answer. She set her luggageless sights on the dining room. Maybe breakfast would cheer her up and provide her with energy for the necessary sleuthing activities.
Before she could avoid it, she found herself with Bentley’s arm around her. “Come on, Madelyn. Not that you really need breakfast with all that excess weight you’ve gained recently, but you can have something small. Then I’ll take you shopping before we head out for our day of sightseeing.”
She dug in her heels. “I am not going sightseeing with you. I have no plans to spend my vacation with you. You dumped me six weeks before our wedding, you jerk. Why would I want to spend any time with you?”
“Because you have a forgiving heart.”
“I don’t. I’m very vindictive. Besides, in case it has slipped your mind, you are engaged to someone else. Go home and sightsee with her.”
“That’s complicated,” Bentley said dismissively.
She snorted. “I’ll just bet it is.”