Chapter 1

BRADY, NORTH CAROLINA

PRESENT DAY

“Aww, come on. You can tell us. Those hooters real or store-bought?”

Ignoring a chorus of sputtering hisses and coughing coming from the table behind her, Joanna Martin calmly lowered her glass and placed it beside her plate without taking a sip. She’d artfully negotiated a lot of interesting questions when she’d been a pharmaceutical rep, but no HR training in the world could’ve prepared her for this. Apparently, nothing but raw shameless audacity was key to surviving the tour guide business.

A weary, albeit nearly silent, sigh escaped her. They’d had such a pleasant stretch of normal chatter during dinner, but apparently that short span of mild behavior from this particular group was now over. Of course, no question would shock or surprise Joanna after the last twelve hours spent in the company of the esteemed ladies of the Alverest Knitting Chicks and Textiles Club, the latest group of senior citizens that her best friend, Lucia, had signed up for a five-day tour with Carolina Adventures.

Might as well grab the bull by the boobs. Joanna sat up straighter, arched her back, and proudly posed the subjects of the conversation to the most flattering cover-shoot angle. “These girls are all mine, Miss Annamae. Had them since the sixth grade.”

More coughing and table pounding came from somewhere behind them. Sorry, folks. Joanna sent up the silent apology without turning around to see who was choking to death because of her group’s conversation. She glanced around the table at the wily old ladies and shook her head. The peaceful little town of Brady, North Carolina, which skirted the boundaries of the Scottish theme park Highland Life and Legends, had no idea what they were in for with this bunch. These grannies are over the top. Thanks a lot, Lucia.

“Impressive,” replied Georgetta Millsap, Miss Annamae’s best friend and partner in all things daring. She nudged a fleshy elbow into Annamae’s plump side, then snapped her fingers within inches of Annamae’s nose. “You owe me a dollar. I told you they were real.”

Shifting to address the group in general, Georgetta raised both hands, slightly curled her pudgy fingers inward, and made twisting motions as though opening two jars of pickles. “You see, ladies…falsies are too round and perfect. Like plastic balls or balloons. Real tatas are always a little lopsided. Look around the table. Not an identical boob among us.”

Chairs scraped behind them. Glasses clinked, and somebody wheezed and coughed as though he needed oxygen.

I’ve gotta get the check and get these women out of here before they kill somebody. Joanna raised a hand and motioned for Mary, the waitress, but the wide-eyed young girl almost broke into a run heading in the opposite direction.

“Georgetta, would you please lower your voice. I’m sure everyone in this county and the next county over would rather not hear your observations regarding the female physique.” The impeccably neat club recorder for the ladies’ knitting group, Miss Irene French, leaned in close enough for Joanna to get a pleasant whiff of the delicate rosewater spray the older woman used. “I am so very sorry, Joanna. Please excuse those two. I’m doing my best to rein them in, but they’re just impossible.”

Joanna couldn’t help but grin. The group of old ladies had turned out to be bawdier and more likely to get into mischief than any demographic of tourists she’d researched when she’d left her job at the pharmaceutical company and offered to buy in—or debt in, as it were—and help Lucia get the tour business she’d always dreamed of successfully launched.

Joanna glanced over at the lively, laughing Georgetta and felt a twinge of envy. I so wanna be Georgetta when I grow up. The thought powered her grin into a full-blown smile and the tension melted out of her shoulders.

Joanna gave Irene’s thin, blue-veined hand a reassuring pat and winked. “No harm. No foul.” She took the paper napkin out of her lap and tucked it under the rim of her dessert plate, which was streaked with what was left of the dark chocolate lava cake that was going to add at least two miles to her daily run this evening. Time to get these feisty golden-agers delivered to Brady’s Bed and Breakfast and tucked in for the night. “You ladies good on the itinerary? Everyone have their copy?”

The rosy-cheeked vice president of the knitting club sitting directly across the large, round table from Joanna leaned to her right, with one costume-jewelry-encrusted hand shielding her brightly lipsticked mouth. Eyes dancing, she whispered something to the nothing-but-business, big-boned woman beside her. High-pitched hissing spiked with breathless chuckles that mimicked the bubbly enthusiasm of a newly uncorked bottle of champagne effectively camouflaged whatever she was telling the president of the group of rowdy women.

“Secrets at the dinner table are rude, Frances,” Irene said, rapping her butter knife sharply like a warning bell against the edge of her plate. “Miss Joanna asked us a question. I think we should all be good enough to grace her with an answer. Does everyone understand our schedule for the next few days?”

Hazel Abraham, the recipient of Frances’s covert conversation, leaned far to the right until her chair creaked in protest at the shifting of her generous weight. Long, square face locked down in an intense scowl, she peered at something just past Joanna’s left shoulder. Slowly, she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, then finally straightened in her seat and nodded. “I believe you’re onto something there, Frances.” She turned and fixed Irene with a look that had to be a pre-agreed-upon signal among those in the club, then barely flicked an arthritic finger in Joanna’s direction. “I need to visit the ladies’ room. Don’t you need a visit too, Irene?”

A chorus of “I do’s” echoed around the table, all seven of the elderly ladies sounding off as though answering roll call at the bingo hall.

Irene barely shook her head, thin lips moving in what had to be silent prayer as she rolled her eyes and slowly rose from her seat.

An ominous shiver tingled up Joanna’s back, starting at her tailbone and ending in the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. Now what were they up to, and how could she get this tour of Highland Life and Legends back on track?

“We won’t be long,” Georgetta announced, as chairs scraped backward and the liquid in the half-empty glasses littering the table shimmied back and forth with every bump as the ladies rose from their seats.

Georgetta’s smile was a little too bright for Joanna’s comfort. The older woman pointed at the table and winked. “Now, you just wait here, sweetie. When we get back we’ll make sure we’re all up to snuff on the itinerary—okay?”

“Okay,” Joanna agreed weakly. What choice did she have? She had the distinct feeling that the Alverest Knitting Chicks had just called an emergency meeting in the Brady Townhouse Café’s restroom and she was the topic.

The ladies, ranging in age from Annamae’s young sixty-five to Hazel’s mature eighty, toddled single file through the maze of mostly empty tables in the café. Heads bobbing, and speaking to each other in low tones, every damn one of them stole a glance back at Joanna, then smiled at something or someone behind her before disappearing through the restroom door.

What the hell are they looking at? Joanna swiveled around and hugged the back of her chair with one arm.

Seated at the table in the corner behind her, quite close behind her in fact, was some of the best scenery that the Scottish theme park had to offer, at least as far as Joanna was concerned. The MacDara brothers—three of them anyway.

When did they come in? Joanna quickly adopted a relaxed, not-a-care-in-the-world attitude and feigned looking at the tour bus through the café window on the other side of the men’s table.

Wedged around the small table was the youngest brother of the bunch, Ross, then the next brother in their birthing order, Ramsay, and then Grant, the one Joanna adored flirting with but had dubbed “Look but Don’t Touch” because of the fact that she didn’t want to risk losing the temporary contract with Highland Life and Legends that she and Lucia had managed to snag—especially not over a man.

Grant was also rumored to be a pain in the ass with a diva attitude, but she’d never seen that behavior firsthand. He’d been nothing but delectably charming every time they’d crossed paths, and that had turned out to be pretty damn often over the past year and a half—not that she was complaining. But the “not touching” part of the “look but don’t touch” pact that she’d made with her conscience was getting more difficult to hold all the time. The only reason she’d kept her pact unbroken this long was because the frustrating hunk of sexy had never made a move. She’d toyed with the idea of being the first one to strike a match and start the fire, but she’d managed to talk herself out of it for the sake of the business. He must have somebody somewhere else, she reminded herself for the zillionth time. Oh well…better off anyway. Contract is safe and my weak self-control is not the problem.

The only MacDara son missing from around the table was the oldest brother, Alec. Probably home with the new wife. Alec was CEO of Highland Life and Legends and had been married almost a year.

Joanna had first met all four brawny MacDara sons and their elderly father when she and Lucia had finally scored a much-coveted appointment at the theme park to discuss the business venture that could make or break their fledgling tour agency. The five MacDaras and their lawyer, an odd little man with a stare that could rival deadly lasers, had listened to Joanna and Lucia’s proposal, then agreed to the terms and signed a trial two-summer-season contract for Carolina Adventures to bring groups of tourists for five-day/four-night stays each week at the Scottish historical theme park and Miss Martha’s bed-and-breakfast for a special rate. If the seasonal tours went well and turned out lucrative for all concerned, a more permanent, year-round access to the park agreement would be renegotiated this fall. Carolina Adventures’ finances needed the permanent, year-round deal. Badly.

While still their usual mouthwatering and kilted eye-candy selves, the three powerfully built men seated behind her seemed oddly twitchy. All of them looked…guilty…sort of. Especially her favorite, Mr. Damn-I-Wish-I-Could-Touch-You. He’s so my type. Dark blond, supposedly hard to get along with, and likely nothing but trouble. Grant MacDara. Yep. Perfect name for some top-shelf male perfection. I’ve got a few wishes he can “grant.”

A delayed flicker of common sense smacked the back of her mind. Dammit. I know. Off limits. The dark blond and big-as-a-Viking blond man was finer than any she’d met in a while, but better safe than sorry. She’d play it smart and give this guy a wide berth—for the sake of the contract.

Besides. As attracted as she was to Grant, he had to be trouble. She always picked the wrong kind of guy and had endured enough malevolent male drama from her father and ex-fiancé to last a lifetime. It had cost her everything: family, finances, and career. She’d be damned if she ever put up with that shit again. I have learned my lesson.

Speaking of male drama, Grant’s face did seem unnaturally red—even under the dark gold dusting of the day-old beard that totally failed at concealing the sexiest little cleft in his chin and the dimple in his left cheek. Well…sexy or not, if Mr. MacHottie’s temperament matched the heat of his smoldering looks, she’d definitely screw their chances at a permanent contract if she got involved with him. Her mouth filters didn’t always stop her smart-ass remarks when she needed them filtered out and deleted the most.

Shit. I’m staring. They’re gonna think I’m an idiot. Joanna smiled and nodded at the men as though she’d just noticed them, hoping she didn’t look like a total ditz spinning around in her chair and staring at them like the nosy kid in church.

“Hi, guys,” she chirped with a friendly wave.

The two younger brothers sitting snug with massive shoulder against massive shoulder on one side of the tiny table smiled back at her and nodded their greetings. Opposite them, Grant fisted a large hand over his mouth, wheezed in a deep breath, then turned aside and coughed.

Coughing. The same coughing from earlier. Joanna grit her teeth and spun back around to face her own table. Well, shit! Grant must’ve been the one hacking and spewing his drink everywhere when he’d overheard the “hooter” discussion.

Just lovely. He’d surely go back and report to the MacDara bunch that a group from Carolina Adventures had been disruptive…again. They’d had a slight run-in just two weeks earlier, when one of the couples in a younger age group had slipped away and been found in the MacDaras’ private area at the strictly off-limits Castle Danu.

If the two trespassers had just been wandering around snapping pictures, Joanna could’ve easily explained away their actions as avid interest in the historically accurate structure. But the self-absorbed couple had decided that the secluded garden tended by CEO Alec MacDara’s wife, Sadie, was the perfect place to try and conceive their first child.

The memory of the resulting unpleasant meeting with the MacDaras’ lawyer and the enraged CEO still stung, spurring Joanna to snap her fingers at the waitress, who was still maintaining a safe distance on the other side of the dining room. “Mary! Could I please have the check? Now? I have to get my group settled in their rooms for the evening.”

Mary scurried over, a relieved smile plastered across her face. She quickly ripped four of the pages free from her dog-eared notebook and plopped them on the table in front of Joanna. “There you go. I’ll leave some mints up at the register for the ladies. I just opened a fresh box.”

“Thanks.” I’d rather have tranquilizers to knock these grannies out, she silently added as the herd of seniors made their way back to the table much faster than they’d left. Apparently, the trip to the restroom had filled them with renewed energy, and from what Joanna could see also super-charged the ever-present spark of devilry in their eyes. “All set, ladies? How about if we just go over tomorrow’s schedule at the B&B before you retire to your rooms. Okay?”

“Oh, we can’t go just yet,” Frances said, her fluttering hands and animated flitting back and forth around the table greatly resembling a hummingbird in search of the perfect flower.

Joanna dreaded asking, but she had no choice. She smelled a setup, and it reeked of rosewater and arthritis ointment. She took a deep breath and braced herself for whatever was coming next. “And why exactly can’t we leave now?”

“We have to find the case for Violet’s sunglasses,” Annamae said. “She thinks they must be under one of the tables. Thinks she dropped them.”

“What? I what?” Violet asked, one thin hand clutched to the lace neckline of her print dress with flowers so purple they perfectly represented her name. She peered around as though she’d just awakened from a trance. “Did you see me drop my glasses case?” she turned and asked Irene, confusion knotting her sparse gray brows.

“ ’Course I did,” Georgetta interrupted as she rounded the table. “Matter of fact, isn’t that it over there?” Georgetta bent and vaguely motioned toward the floor under the MacDara men’s table. “Joanna, you’re closest and have younger eyes than the rest of us. Crawl under there and see.”

All three hunky Scots at said table grinned.

Seated with his kilt draped across his muscular thighs and the hem hitting just above his broad knees, Grant scooted his chair back, slowly planted both feet shoulder-width apart, and held out a hand as if to usher Joanna under the table at his feet. What an invitation! That was one way to answer that age-old question about what a Scot wears under his kilt.

“By all means, lass. Have a go under there…if ye like.” Grant’s smile was bold and the glint in his eyes just dared her to take him up on the offer.

As much as she’d have liked to dive right in—or under, so to speak—Joanna controlled the urge to make the most of the opportunity. You are so off-limits.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” Joanna fixed Grant with one of her most professional I could handle you any day looks. He fired back with the same come-hither grin that had geared up the ache in her nether regions on more than one occasion. This situation called for serious damage control. “I’m sure Violet’s case isn’t under your table,” she added.

“No. It’s right there. See it?” Annamae said, bending slightly and motioning at the shadows.

I freakin’ give up. Joanna bent and made a quick sweeping glance under the table, struggling against the wicked urge to give Grant’s spread-eagled position a closer look. Big hands. Big feet. What could one little glance hurt to see if the rest of the package sized up? Oh my…

A hot ripple of appreciative dammit made Joanna swallow hard. She stood bolt upright and quickly shook her head. “Uhm…nope. All I saw was a napkin. I’ll tell the cashier and they can watch for it. If it’s here, I’m sure they’ll find it tonight while cleaning up and we can stop by tomorrow and pick it up.” We so need to get out of here.

“No.” Georgetta shook her head emphatically. “Violet won’t rest if she doesn’t have it. It’s right over there. Here—I’ll point it out to you.”

Too late, Joanna discovered she was no match for Georgetta Millsap’s well-aimed hip. A solid bump to the back of her legs and a firm shove to the small of her back sent her diving forward—not under the table but straight into Grant’s lap.

Her C-cup girls thumped hard against Grant’s muscular chest, then her forehead popped his with a stinging smack. Nose to nose, her elbows on either side of his head, Joanna struggled to catch her breath and blink away the stars muddling her vision. Straddling one of his legs, Joanna floundered to get away. Son of a bitch, this is so not going well! I’ll lose that damn contract for sure.

Grant clamped both hands around her waist and lifted her into the air with a jerk that immediately halted her struggling. “Have a care, lass. Yer about to unman me with yer knees.”

“S-sorry,” Joanna said just as her hands slipped off the slick vinyl back of his chair and she buried his face almost ear-deep into the V-neck of her shirt, which was currently stretched so low from its pinned state under Grant’s hands that the lace of her red bra framed his cheeks nicely.

“Sh-h-it!” Joanna panic-rolled to the right, tangled both feet around Grant’s booted foot, then hit the floor. Hard. Inside, she was screaming, I’m going to kill those old ladies! Out loud, amazing even herself with her calm, authoritative tone, she pointed toward the front of the café. “Hazel! Get everyone on the bus. Now.”

Strong hands gripped her shoulders, lifted her up from the floor, and steadied her to her feet. “Are ye all right then? Ye landed with quite the jar.”

Damn him. He would act like a gentleman. And that get-me-naked Scottish burr is gonna be the end of my self-control yet. She pulled in a deep, calming breath, praying that she was the only one who could hear her heart pounding. Double damn him. He smells so good—as usual. I’ve gotta get the hell out of here.

Joanna swallowed hard, forced a smile, and took a step back as she jerked her clothes back in place. “I’m fine. Thank you. Just fine.”

Grant gallantly dipped his chin with the hint of a smile that said he knew acknowledging her answer any other way might befuddle her even further. Glancing down, his brows suddenly drew together and he pointed to the floor. “Is this what yer seeking, lass?” Grant bent and retrieved a bright purple, rhinestone-studded glasses case from under his chair.

When in the ever-loving hell had those conniving old women planted that under the MacDaras’ table? Joanna knew damn good and well that Violet couldn’t have tossed her case that far from where she was sitting on the other side of their table. No way could she have managed a move like that without being noticed.

Joanna took the case from Grant and snapped open the lid. Sure enough, embroidered in the silk lining were the letters V. W. Violet Woodard. Joanna snapped the lid shut and glared through the wall of café windows at the sleek black tour bus waiting outside. The bus’s windows were tinted, so she couldn’t see its interior, but it was a safe bet that there were seven old noses pressed to the panes trying to see how their little plan was playing out. If Lucia ever takes on another group of geriatric gangsters, I’ll kill her.

Joanna gave Grant her politest smile and a most apologetic shrug. They didn’t need this crap getting reported to the MacDaras’ lawyer or Alec. Grant had always been the friendliest of flirts and had never acted like he’d get his kilt in a wad over the tour groups as quickly as his older brother did—but they couldn’t afford to take any chances. The MacDaras stuck together on all things business. The entire town of Brady knew that. She bobbed her head and seriously considered attempting an old-fashioned curtsy to complement the weird archaic way Grant always talked. “Thank you—for all your help,” she finally said, abandoning the curtsy idea. She’d probably end up on her ass again anyway.

She scooped her shoulder bag off the chair and shoved the case into it. “Again, sorry we interrupted your evening.” She blew out a weary sigh. “I swear I’ll do my best to make them behave during the rest of their stay here.” I think shock collars are the only thing that might work, and Georgetta will probably rewire those and trash them in minutes.

“Dinna fash yerself, lass. I’m sure ye didna—” Grant shifted a step forward as he spoke, effectively snagging her and setting the hook with those damn blue eyes of his.

“Ye didna ruin his evenin’,” interrupted Ramsay with a sly wink and a raised glass.

“Aye,” Ross chimed in, raising his half-full mug too and clinking it to his brother’s. “We all ken how the two a ye have been a-sparkin’ after one another for o’er a year now. ’Tis about time ye both quit fannin’ such wee troublesome flames and set to tendin’ a full-blown fire.”

Ramsay cleared his throat and lifted his glass higher. “Here’s to the sly battle-plannin’ of old hens! May our brother be thankful for the flock of cailleachs helpin’ him secure his match and settin’ him on the path to a proper wooin’.”

I’ve gotta get out of here. With her pride and her ass still stinging, Joanna ignored Ramsay and Ross’s toast and started backing toward the door. “Well…again…I’m sorry we disrupted your evening. I’ll be off now to get those hens tucked into the coop. Have a good night.”

Then she turned and ran.