A Highlander for Christmas (16 page)

Maggie thought she’d probably dropped ten years of her life, too. She straightened her shoulders. “Thanks. I was just going to—dress.”

Calm
, she told herself.

Mature
.

“You probably want to do the same.” She gave him a sidelong glance and nearly swallowed her tongue.

The jeans rode even lower now, wedged over muscle and a dusting of darker hair beneath that hard, lean waist. She could see the outline of his thighs clearly, and she could also see a firm, very suggestive ridge of male muscle beneath the taut zipper.

Her face flared red. So much for calm and mature. “I’d better go. I need to clean up—that is, to think.”

To breathe
, she thought wildly. When had all the air been sucked out of the room?

“Maybe we should talk first,” he said in that voice that made her think of aged whisky and rugged lochs.

“Talk about what?”

“About last night.”

Her gaze snapped to his face. “Last night?” Blast it, why was she blushing? Because his hair fell over his forehead, and faint stubble covered his cheeks. Because he looked focused, dangerous, and sexy as hell. “What
about
last night?” she squeaked.

“Don’t you remember?” His gray eyes locked in hard, and Maggie had the uncomfortable feeling that they were stripping off three layers of skin and reading every secret corner of her life.

“Of course I remember.” She swallowed. “We came inside. You showed me to my room, and then I went to sleep. End of story.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not quite.”

Maggie didn’t much care for the lurid possibilities that shot into her mind. After all, they were two reasonably sane adults involved in a cultural project of international importance. He couldn’t have—she wouldn’t have—

“What happened?” she demanded.

His dark brow slanted up. “You don’t remember.”

Forget about his chest and keep your eyes on his face,
she thought. On that hard mouth.
On those stubbled cheeks and smoky eyes that wouldn’t seem to let her go.
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t ask.”

Maggie knew she had to get a grip. And any minute now she would succeed. Just as soon as the room stopped spinning and she remembered how to breathe. “Why don’t you put on a shirt or something?” she said irritably.

“I think we should talk first.”

“I’ll talk a whole lot better when you’re dressed,” she snapped. “After all, we’re complete strangers. Well, almost complete strangers.”

He didn’t move. “Something happened last night, Maggie.” His jaw hardened. “It might be very important.”

“What do you mean, ‘happened’?”

“Just what I said. When you woke up—” He jammed his fingers through his hair. “Did you feel different in any way?”

“Other than the sensation that a truck had run over me, no.” She saw him glance at the rumpled covers on the bed. “Now wait just a minute.” She might be fuzzy-headed and exhausted but there were some things a woman didn’t forget, and spending a night wrapped in Jared MacNeill’s arms would have to top the list. “I slept here. You slept
there
.” She hesitated. “Didn’t you?”

“Close enough.” He turned to pace.

“What do you mean, ‘close enough’?” She told her heart to stop jackknifing toward her stomach. “Did we or didn’t we?”

His eyes narrowed. “We didn’t sleep together, if that’s what you mean.”

Thank heavens.

Maggie hid her relief with a shrug. “So what seems to be the problem?”

“The rest of what happened last night,” he muttered.

Maggie had a sudden suspicion she wasn’t going to like what came next. All the more reason to take time to clear her head first. “Look, I’m sure it’s very interesting, but I really want to clean up first.” She frowned. “I feel dusty for some reason, and I have a headache that won’t quit.” She had a sudden, blurred impression of darkness and the whisper of the moat. Then pounding feet—followed by sharp pain.

None of it made any sense.

“Why don’t we talk about this in half an hour? I’ll finish dressing, then come find you downstairs.” She put her hand on his arm in a gesture of reassurance. “There’s no reason to worry about a little—”

Blood.

Maggie froze.

There were dark streaks on her right hand and a thick layer of grime beneath her fingers. Blood covered the ragged edge of her sleeve.

“What … happened?”

“I think,” Jared said slowly, “that you had better sit down.”

Maggie didn’t want to sit down. Calm seemed entirely out of the question. Confusion was tying knots in her stomach. “I think you’d better start explaining.
”

“I was trying to—as much as I could.”

“Start with the blood,” she said hoarsely. Confusion was racing into panic, and she didn’t like the feeling. She had never lost consciousness before, and she couldn’t bear the thought of gaping holes in her memory. How did a person simply lose whole minutes of memory?

“You fell when we were coming inside.” He started to say more and then stopped.

“But I didn’t go outside. Not last night, not with you or anyone else. I’ve told you that already
“

“Then why are your feet dusty?”

“No way.” She balanced and raised one foot.

Dirt. Just like he’d said.

Calm down, she thought. There had to be some reasonable explanation. “So the floor is dusty in here.”

“Marston has his staff clean with the fury of zealots. He can spot a dust mote at sixty paces.”

Maggie shook her head, fighting a wave of dizziness. “No.”

“Every word is true.”

“You’re lying. You have to be.” She looked down, suddenly aware that her fingers were trembling. “Why are you making these things up?”

“Sit down.” Jared pulled a blanket from the bed and draped it around her shoulders. “You’re shivering.”

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “For your information, I have never experienced memory losses, hallucinations, or temporary bouts of insanity.”

“Maggie, I wasn’t implying that—”

“Weren’t you?” She charged on angrily. “Just because I’m an artist, that doesn’t make me irrational.”

“I know that.” Jared took a step forward, and Maggie shoved one hand against his chest, stopping him. The air shimmered, tight with tension, and she could have sworn that he flinched before he stepped away from her.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said tightly.

“Do you honestly believe that I would harm you?” A muscle clenched and unclenched at his jaw.

“I’m not sure what I believe. All I know is that there’s blood on my hands and welts on my feet and I have no idea how they got there.”

“You walked in your sleep last night.”

Maggie simply stared at him. “That’s impossible.”

“Unusual, not impossible. And I know it happened because I followed you.”

Maggie’s throat was dry and achy, and pressure was building behind her eyelids. I don’t believe you.”

She turned away from the window, unable to face the golden beauty of the abbey in the streaming sunlight. Something nagged at her consciousness, disturbing but too faint to pinpoint. Could he possibly be telling the truth?

Impossible.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“This has nothing to do with you.” A lie. It had everything to do with this hard-faced man with the deep, fluid voice “I have to go. I can’t stay here.”

He started to grip her arm, then jammed his fists into his pockets instead. Maggie tried to ignore how the movement strained the worn denim even tighter.

“I’m afraid there’s something more that you need to know. When this project began, I told Nicholas not to get involved with you. If I’d had my way, you would never have come here.”

Maggie spun around, white-faced. “I won’t listen to this.”

“You have to listen. That was then, Maggie. Nicholas chose to ignore my reservations, and he was right to.”

“Don’t overwhelm me with praise,” she said coldly.

“I can’t afford to be emotional. I’m being paid very well to ensure the security of the Draycott exhibition. You—and concerns about your father—present a major problem in that area.”

“
My father? Aren’t you tired of old accusations.”

“Not old accusations. I’m talking about new developments as of one week ago.” Something flickered in his eyes. Maggie thought for a moment it might have been compassion.

She didn’t want his compassion or his pity. “More thefts laid at my father’s door? My father was a genius, but even he couldn’t steal gems from beyond the grave.”

“Your father isn’t dead. He was sighted last week boarding a flight in Singapore. An airport security camera caught him on film.”

Maggie could only stare at him in shock. “I refuse to listen to this. My father is dead, Mr. MacNeill. Dead. He died seven months ago in Northern Sumatra.”

“That’s what the reports say.”

“His plane went down over heavy jungle. The trackers found widespread wreckage that contained two burned skeletons, a handful of blackened gems, and my father’s passport.” Maggie felt a cold weight at her chest, where each detail was carved into her still grieving heart.

“The reports say that too. Did it ever strike you as odd that his passport would survive intact?”

“No.”

“The crash could have been staged, with your father nowhere near the plane when it went down. Then he—or someone else—could have planted the passport where it would be found afterward, along with an inferior set of gems to give the whole thing a ring of authenticity.”

“That’s entirely ridiculous.”

“Is it? Who identified the wreckage? Not regular consular staff. “

“I don’t remember.”

“I do. I checked to confirm it. The man was with the DEA.”

“DEA. That’s—”

Jared answered for her. “American Drug Enforcement Administration. You will agree that body verification of crash victims hardly falls under their usual job description.”

Fury shot through her. “Are you saying my father was running drugs?”

“Not at all. But someone might have believed he was.”

Maggie had thought she was too scarred to feel any more pain from accusations about her father. Now she realized she’d been wrong. “You’re either crazy or very sick.” She started to brush past him, but his fingers locked around her wrist.

“I’m neither. And it’s time you stopped running from the truth.”

She stared at his fingers on her hand. “Let me go,” she whispered.

“In a moment. After I explain something else. This exhibition is intensely important to Nicholas and Kacey. It will involve priceless objects of personal and historical importance, since Draycott Abbey’s history is also the history of England. The opening ceremonies will be attended by a half-a-dozen members of the royal family. Nicholas hasn’t the right to take chances with security, not under those circumstances.”

“My father is dead, Mr. MacNeill.” Maggie looked away, blinking. “No matter what rumors you may have heard.”

“More than rumors.”

Maggie laughed raggedly. “Do you think you’re the first one to tell me that he was sighted sipping a dry martini in Java or Macao? You’re not. There have been a dozen reports like that. I even sent my own investigator to Asia, but every lead came back empty. And they all—” Her voice broke. Hurt, she finished silently. They hurt as if he had died all over again. She couldn’t bear the pain, not again.

His fingers tightened on her arm. “Maggie—”

She jerked away. “I don’t need your help or your compassion, Mr. MacNeill. My father is dead, and I’m finally beginning to accept that. To me he was nothing but perfect. Nothing but wonderful and brilliant and demanding. He loved his work with a passion. A man like you wouldn’t understand that.”

Something moved in his eyes. “Stones don’t make for comfortable friends. It sounds like a damned poor way for a lonely girl to grow up.”

How had he known? Maggie hid her shock, struck as before by the sense that he was probing her deepest secrets. “Who said I was lonely?”

“A lucky guess,” he murmured. “What shall I tell Nicholas?” His eyes narrowed. “Is the exhibition off?”

The thought stabbed deep. Maggie wanted this exhibition, yearned for it with every atom of her being, but too many questions had been raised for her to charge ahead blindly. She couldn’t accept the shattering possibility that her father was alive and that he had lied to her, betraying her completely. The thought left her bleeding inside, caught by a devastating sense of loss. “Tell Lord Draycott that I need some time to think.”

“Do your thinking here.”

“I can’t.” Maggie frowned. “There’s something overpowering about this place.” She drew a jerky breath, studying her grimy fingers. “Even now I have wisps of dreams. Faint images that come and go. It’s not a pleasant feeling, I assure you.”

“We’ll go out to the moat and retrace your steps. Maybe it will help you to remember.”