Chapter 17
Madelyn
ducked into the plane, took the seat Patrick led her to, and wondered how it would be to travel in this kind of luxury on a regular basis.
It was nothing she should accustom herself to any time soon.
Her astronomical loan debt guaranteed her occupation of a coach seat—when she could afford to fly, that is—far into middle age.
So she sat in an exceedingly comfortable leather chair, accepted a preflight drink of orange juice from a beautiful flight attendant, then watched that flight attendant look at Patrick with the same awe and reverence she might have a Greek god come down from Mount Olympus to slum with the mortals for a few days.
The woman, Madelyn had to concede, had a point.
Patrick sat across the aisle from her, leaving her in the seat facing Conal Grant.
The downside of that was the scrutiny she suspected Conal would subject her to.
The upside was the view she had of Patrick’s exceptionally handsome face.
And as she took surreptitious glances at that face the same way a parched woman might have at some mysterious elixir of unknown origin, she wondered why she’d fought so hard against letting him take care of her for a few days.
What was she, nuts?
Change it
, he’d said about her ticket.
She would be crazy not to. After all, what did she have waiting for her at home besides reality? Her job search could probably wait a day or two as well.
At least she had something in mind. She’d had an epiphany the night before as she slept in a cozy B and B paid for by a handsome Highlander who had kissed her senseless on the roof of a castle earlier that evening.
Why she was having work-related epiphanies and not ones of another flavor was something she would have to think about later.
She had decided that when she got back to Seattle, she would immediately head over to Wentworth and Co.
and apply for a job. It would gall Bentley no end to watch her rise effortlessly to the top of that food chain, and it would give Barry “the Barracuda” Wentworth great pleasure to rub that in Bentley’s face as often as possible.
She was a good lawyer with an impressive track record.
Her canning from DD&P was personal, and there wasn’t an attorney at either firm who didn’t know that.
She would be okay. She would be better than okay.
She would be shopping at Ann Taylor again and happily trotting off to court to crush prosecuting attorneys under her very expensive heels. It sounded good.
At least she thought it sounded good.
Besides, what else was she going to do? Wait for a certain Scottish lord to fall in love with her and carry her off to his castle? She’d seen his castle and it was a disaster.
The man himself was another story entirely, but that was something she would also have to think about later.
The plane pulled away from a discreet, unmarked hangar and she took a deep breath.
Flying wasn’t her favorite activity. She looked at Conal Grant and wondered if this flight might be less than pleasant for other reasons than turbulence.
Conal was an older man, distinguished, gray-haired.
He looked nothing like a secret agent. She would have passed him on the street and thought him nothing more than a successful businessman.
She smiled weakly at him.
He smiled back, but only politely, and that was where the rub lay.
He was obviously very protective of Patrick, but that hardly should affect her, should it?
She was catching a ride on his plane and that was that.
She didn’t have to make a good impression, didn’t have to have him like her, didn’t have to score any brownie points.
She was tempted to pull out the documents Sunny had overnighted to her and study them so she wouldn’t have to look at the good Mr. Grant.
Then again, what did she care? And as she sat there, being scrutinized and not caring, she wondered if putting herself back in the position of being scrutinized by any man in a suit was something she ever wanted to do again.
She stared out the window, faintly shocked by the idea.
What would it be like, to never wear another pair of nylons again?
To never put her hair up in her power chignon again?
To never walk into a boardroom again where the minute she did, she had to throw up all kinds of defenses, or worse yet, offenses, just to get through a meeting with men who automatically held her to a different standard just because she was a woman?
It would be heaven, that’s what it would be.
No, she realized quite suddenly, it would be hell, because whatever else she did, she would still have the incredible burden of her six-figure loan debt on her shoulders.
Weaving baskets—or some other kind of low-stress job—might have been fun, but it wasn’t going to get her out of debt.
It looked as if it was back to the salt mines for her when she got home.
But she wondered, briefly, if she might ever enter a boardroom quite the same way again.
No sense in not practicing now. She smoothed her hands down her very comfortable jeans, then gave Conal Grant a different kind of smile, a smile that said she didn’t give a damn what he thought of her.
He raised one eyebrow in acceptance of the challenge.
And then the grilling began.
“So, Miss Phillips—”
“Madelyn,” she corrected.
“Madelyn,” he conceded. “I understand your vacation hasn’t been without its share of difficulties.”
She shrugged. “That’s life.”
“Convenient that Patrick was there to lend a hand.”
Madelyn had to appreciate the fact that Conal went straight for the jugular. “He has been very kind,” she agreed. “It hasn’t been easy for me to accept his help.”
“Hasn’t it?”
“I’m not accustomed to being in a position to need aid,” she said.
“Aren’t you?”
It surprised her somewhat to find herself on this kind of barbecue.
After all, it wasn’t as if she was the one breaking into a royal flush each time she passed Patrick’s chair—no, not like that blonde whose legs stretched all the way to her ears and whose cleavage had probably moved lesser men to tears.
The plane had apparently leveled out enough that the lone flight attendant could pass Patrick’s chair. Often.
Patrick remained seemingly unimpressed.
She found that she liked him for that.
Quite a bit.
“. . . work?”
There went that word again. Madelyn dragged her wandering eyes from Patrick’s boots—black of course—and focused on his employer.
“Work?” she echoed.
“I assume you do some,” Conal said. “What kind?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“A good one?”
“A very good one.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m in between jobs at the moment,” she said. “I won’t have a problem getting one when I get back to the States.”
“Were you sacked from your last place of employment?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” he said noncommittally, “how interesting. Poor job performance or another reason?”
“Another reason.”
He waited.
So did she.
He should have been a poker player. Or a castle torturer. The man had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of patience because he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move on to another question. She looked at Patrick.
“Is he going to offer me a job soon? Is that why he’s asking me all these questions?”
Patrick was sitting with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepled against his mouth. She could tell he was trying not to laugh. His eyes were twinkling. “I’ve never seen him like this,” he said. “I think he thinks you’re distracting me from my work.”
“That’s hardly my fault, is it?”
Patrick shook his head. “It isn’t.” He looked at Conal. “Stop tormenting her.”
“I’m satisfying my curiosity,” Conal said mildly. “Permit me, dear boy, my little indulgences.” He looked back at Madelyn. “Well?”
“My ex-fiancé, who happened to be a partner in my firm, had me canned,” she said.
“He followed me here to Scotland, stole all my possessions including my ID and my plane ticket, and had me thrown in jail. Patrick was kind enough to spring me, clothe me, and take me sightseeing—the latter in spite of my protests. Satisfied?”
The slightest of smiles crossed Conal’s face. “Within shooting distance of it.”
“All right, let’s keep going,” Madelyn said, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. “I’m not after his money. I can make enough of my own to survive quite nicely. I’m not after his house—it’s a wreck. I’m not after him personally—”
Memories of Culloden assailed her so suddenly and with such an overwhelming sense of déjà vu that tears sprang to her eyes.
“I mean . . . um . . .” she trailed off.
She didn’t want him personally? Good grief, what a liar she was!
Conal cleared his throat. “Could we have something to drink, Hailey?” he asked.
Patrick came over and unbuckled Madelyn’s seat belt and pulled her to her feet. “My turn to have her,” he said as he led her over to the seat facing him. He sat her down, then knelt and buckled her seat belt. He looked up at her. “This seat’s cooler.”
She realized, to her horror, that tears were running down her face. “Is there a bathroom?” she asked.
“Up front,” he said.
She excused herself, avoided broadsiding Hailey, and managed to get herself inside the head before she burst into tears.
Hormones?
Love?
She wasn’t sure and she honestly didn’t care.
She put her face in her hands and bawled until she was almost sick.
The feeling of the plane beginning to descend finally brought her back to her senses.
She got a paper towel wet and tried to repair most of the damage she’d done, but there was no way to fix a splotchy red face and puffy eyes.
She was a mess.
Falling for a handsome, Scottish lord probably did that to a girl.
There was a discreet tap on the door. “Miss Phillips? We’re starting our descent now.”
“Coming,” Madelyn said. She took a deep, shaky breath and opened the door.