Chapter 8
Giselle seriously contemplated hiding from Rocco that evening. The bedroom area on the mezzanine floor would work. No matter how many windows he peered through, he’d never see her up there if she stayed low.
Or she could simply not be in. That was the easiest option.
She could go for a walk on the hillside above the bothy.
It was a nice evening, the earlier breeze having subsided, and she wasn’t unduly hungry despite having eaten little at lunchtime, as her appetite seemed to have deserted her somewhat since she’d found Mhairi in the parlour.
And discovering that Rocco intended to sell Coorie Castle hadn’t helped.
She didn’t want to see him or speak to him.
Even though she could kind of understand why he would want to sell it after talking to Izzy, but understanding didn’t make it any easier to bear.
She tried to take heart from her sister’s suggestion that he might sell it to someone who would keep it open. But she still didn’t want to see Rocco.
Avoiding him shouldn’t be too difficult. According to Avril, he’d be leaving in a day or so. She’d simply stay out of his way tomorrow and possibly the next day, then he’d be gone.
At six thirty, she had her hiking boots in her hand and was about to put them on when Jinny phoned.
‘How are you, hen?’
‘I’m fine.’ It was her stock answer.
‘Is everything all right with you and our new boss?’
‘Why do you ask?’ she replied cautiously, hoping Avril hadn’t told everyone about her history with the man.
‘Because he wanted to speak to you somewhere private yesterday, after the funeral. What was all that about?’
Giselle knew she couldn’t keep it secret, and anyway, she’d done nothing wrong and had nothing to be ashamed of – not when it came to her past association with Rocco. However, she continued to feel that it was her fault he was here. Ten minutes could have made all the difference…
She said, ‘He recognised me. We met years ago when I was on holiday in Venice.’
Before she could say anything further, Jinny cried, ‘Ooh! A holiday fling! I don’t blame you, he’s scrummy.’
Avril, bless her, had kept Giselle’s promise, despite her job being on the line as much as anyone’s.
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. It wasn’t like that.
’ The word ‘fling’ grated a little. It had been far more romantic than a fling.
Or so it had seemed at the time. ‘Fling’ just sounded sordid, but she supposed that was precisely what it had been, especially now, with what she knew of the man.
Not that she knew a lot, but it was more than she’d known back then.
Jinny continued, ‘You missed a trick there. If I wasn’t happily married…’ She heaved an overly dramatic sigh, then collected herself. ‘You still haven’t said why he wanted to talk to you in private.’
‘Bloody hell. You’re like a dog with a bone,’ Giselle grumbled.
‘Seriously, is everything OK?’
‘Not really. He happened to let slip that he’s planning on selling Coorie Castle.
’ Giselle didn’t want Rocco’s plans to come as a surprise to the others, and she doubted whether he’d have the courtesy to tell them himself.
He was probably regretting telling her, because until he actually sold the place, he would no doubt want it to carry on bringing money in.
A nice little earner, as Izzy had put it.
Jinny whistled through her teeth. ‘More change, then. Let’s hope someone nice buys it, although there’ll never be another Mhairi.’
‘He mentioned selling it to someone who’d want it as a private home.’
‘They’ll need to have deep pockets,’ Jinny said. ‘Mhairi found that out, which was why she turned the outbuildings into a craft centre and began hosting crafting breaks.’
‘He mentioned an American with Scottish heritage.’
‘He mentioned quite a bit, did your Rocco.’
‘He’s not my Rocco.’
‘Do you think he’s already got a buyer in mind?’ Jinny sounded worried now.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Try? Please? Cal is being close lipped, probably because he’s been ordered to be, but the new boss seems to talk to you.’
Giselle stared at her hiking boots and pulled a face.
Was there any point in finding out? It wasn’t as though they could do anything about it even if they did know.
But she owed it to Jinny and the others, so she swapped the boots for ballet flats and declared herself ready for a fish supper with a man she still fancied but wasn’t sure she particularly liked.
Rocco’s car might have been a rental (he’d flown to Inverness, she’d
been informed, and had driven to Skye from there) but it was a
top-of-the-range rental. Not that Giselle knew much about cars, as she
simply wasn’t interested. She’d passed her driving test at eighteen, but
she didn’t own a car (she couldn’t afford to keep it on the road, let
alone buy it) and used public transport if she couldn’t walk to where
she wanted to go.
Rocco arrived on time, bumping the silver saloon over the potholes in the dirt track leading to the bothy. When the vehicle was close enough for her to see his face, she smiled to herself as he winced each time a tyre sank into one of the mini mine shafts.
‘You could have warned me I’d need a tractor,’ he grumbled as she got in.
‘You didn’t give me a chance. Anyway, it’s not that bad.’
His brows rose in disbelief. ‘My spine will never be the same again. How do you stand it? Or do you actually have a tractor?’
‘I walk.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You know, using your legs and putting one foot in front of the other until you arrive at where you want to be.’
‘Is that sarcasm?’
Her smile was forced. ‘I’m never sarcastic,’ she replied sarcastically.
‘You walk? You don’t have a car or a motorbike?’
‘I have a bicycle, but the chain’s rusty and the tyres are flat.’
‘I can get someone to fix that, if you want.’
‘I don’t want.’ Her tone was sharp. She neither wanted nor appreciated his charity.
Besides, she hated that bloody bike. The damned thing might get her from A to B faster than her feet, but the cost to her behind on the knife-edge saddle was unacceptable.
The last time she’d used it to go to Portree, she hadn’t been able to sit down for a week.
If she could have afforded to buy and run a car, she would, but as she couldn’t, she walked. Or caught the bus.
As she buckled her seatbelt, she was aware of Rocco sneaking a look at her out of the corner of her eye.
‘I don’t care for bikes,’ she explained, in a less acerbic tone.
He was only trying to help, she reasoned.
Or he was flashing his cash around. Either way, he owned the estate, and she was renting a studio from said estate, so was there really any point in antagonising him, even if he wouldn’t be her landlord for long?
As he gingerly drove down the track (with more wincing and several muttered oaths) Giselle took the opportunity to examine him properly while his concentration was on his driving.
Same aquiline nose, same strong jaw, shorter hair but with a hint of the curl she remembered. Smoky grey eyes, long lashes, nicely shaped lips and a light tan that she knew was his natural skin tone. All over.
A blush whooshed into her cheeks, and she hastily looked away.
‘Well?’ he asked, his eyes straight ahead. ‘What’s the verdict?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Have I changed much?’
For a second, she feared he’d been asking whether she liked what she was seeing. For the record, she did. Jinny was right, he was scrummy. As scrummy as he’d been all those years ago. But whereas at twenty-one he’d still had an air of youth about him, a decade later he was all man. Fit, sexy man.
Giselle was disconcerted to find she was as attracted to him now as she’d been back then.
She’d have to keep a lid on that, for several reasons, all of them as valid as each other, but the main one was that he owned the castle and her future rested on that.
Besides, even if that hadn’t been the case and he was in Duncoorie for a holiday, he lived in London and she lived here.
He liked the finer things in life, and she didn’t care for them – he’d worn leather shoes to go rock pooling, for goodness’ sake!
In every aspect, they were total opposites, including looks.
If anyone saw them together, they’d think he was yin and she was yang.
Black and white, dark and light, Italian and Scandi blonde—
He cut into her thoughts. ‘I take it from your silence that I have changed and not for the better.’
‘You’re putting words in my mouth.’
‘Only because you don’t seem to have any of your own,’ he countered.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘The Codfather. We did say fish and chips from the chip shop, didn’t we?’
‘I didn’t – you did.’
‘If I recall, it was you who said you preferred it to dining at the castle.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smirk. She wanted to wipe it off his face, and she would have done if she’d been able to think of a suitable retort. She had said that, and it was true, she did prefer it.
‘Did you visit Paris?’ he asked.
The change of subject took her by surprise. ‘No, but maybe one day.’
‘You liked history, I seem to recall.’
‘You seem to recall a lot,’ she retorted.
‘That’s because I haven’t forgotten anything.’ His emphasis on the last word and what that might entail sucked the air from her lungs, especially when he followed it up with a sweeping glance that travelled down the length of her body and back up again until his gaze met hers.
‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ she snapped.
He smirked again, but did as she asked, and she was relieved beyond measure when the car glided to a halt outside the chip shop. She was out of her seat and on the pavement before he could unclick his seat belt.
‘Fish supper?’ she asked, feeling a little breathless. ‘Or do you prefer a pie or a portion of chicken?’
‘What’s a fish supper?’
‘It’s what we call fish and chips.’