Scottish Billionaire's Unwanted Baby Page 7

  On the other hand, I hated to deceive his mother. But I reminded myself that his father’s will had put Angus into an unreasonably difficult situation and that my purpose was to help him hold onto his beloved family home. I didn’t like lying to his mother, but the thought of not doing anything to help as his family residence slipped from his fingers seemed worse.

  Angus had given me an allowance—so much that I’d thought he was joking at first, certain that no one could possibly spend that much on clothes. But upscale New York boutiques don’t bear much resemblance to the single department store in Kilmarnock, Virginia, and by the time I’d done shopping at the store he recommended, I had burned my way through most of the money he’d provided.

  As I stepped back out onto the sidewalk, bags clutched in my hand, the cold wind hit me in the face, and I shivered. The leaves had fallen, littering the sidewalks, and the tree branches stretched stark and bare above. It was clear that winter was on its way. But the sun shone brightly from a blue sky, and it was a beautiful day despite the chill in the air.

  I turned toward home. My apartment was quite a long ways from here, but it was far too lovely a day to hail a cab. As I walked along, lost in thoughts about Scotland, a guy in a navy suit and red tie stepped right into my path and rudely shoved something into my face.

  “Miss Blizzard,” he said. “How do you feel about the recent revelations regarding Angus Scott?”

  I blinked at him. There are plenty of people in New York who will stop you—to try to sell you something, to try to convert you, to ask for cash or food—but this guy didn’t seem to fit any of those categories. I glanced down at the something and realized it was a voice recorder.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said as coolly as I could manage. I tried to walk past him, but he got in my way again.

  “Your relationship with Angus Scott,” he said, words coming terse and rapid, like machine gun fire. “Are you still planning to marry him?”

  “Of course I am. Excuse me.” I started to go around him again, with every intention of kicking him in the shins if I blocked me again, but his next words stopped me in my tracks.

  “Even now that the investigation of his former girlfriend’s death has been reopened back in Scotland? Aren’t you concerned that you’re engaged to a murderer, Miss Blizzard?”

  The words sent a cold shiver down my spine. “What?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t share this information with you, but his girlfriend was thrown from a cliff, fifteen years ago. It’s long been suspected that Mr. Scott was the culprit, and now the investigation has been reopened. So tell me, Miss Blizzard, are you planning on breaking off the engagement?”

  I stood there, feeling the cold wind sinking into my bones. It was utterly absurd to think that Angus Scott could be a murderer. I thought of the vulnerability and sorrow in his eyes when he talked about his father. I thought about the way he touched me, the tender way his lips explored every inch of my body, the quiet conversations we shared after sex. I was certain, absolutely certain, that Angus couldn’t possibly have killed anyone.

  But then I remembered Marnie’s voice: I’ve read that he has anger issues.

  Angus did have anger issues. I couldn’t deny that. I’d seen him explode in rage at too many hapless architects in his firm to even try to deny it. Anyone who’d worked with him for even a day knew that he had a short fuse and a hot temper.

  And since that was the case, wasn’t it just barely possible that in a fit of rage, he might have…?

  The awful thought made my gut contract with nerves. I realized I couldn’t go home, not now. I needed to go to Angus’ penthouse and talk to him. To get his side of the story, and find out what this was all about.

  I lifted my chin and stared straight at the reporter, with as much icy disdain as I could muster.

  “No comment.”

  I brushed past him, my head held high, and this time he didn’t try to stop me.

  ***

  Angus

  BILLIONAIRE ANGUS SCOTT STILL SUBJECT IN MURDER INVESTIGATION.

  As I walked past a newsstand, the enormous headline on a tabloid struck me with an almost physical force, driving the breath from me. I came to a halt and stared, hardly believing what I saw.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. That chapter of my life had closed a long, long time ago. And yet—

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. Still reeling, I pulled it out and stared at it. It was my family’s solicitor, back in Scotland. I hit the phone button and lifted it to my ear.

  “What is it?” I barked out.

  “Hello, Angus.” Our solicitor, Clive Norris, was English, and he spoke in a carefully cultivated upper-class Estuary accent. “I’m guessing you’ve heard the news. Bloody unfortunate business, isn’t it?”

  “How the fuck did this happen, Clive?”

  “At this point, Mr. Scott, I regret to say that I imagine you know as much as I do. All I can tell you is that the police have reopened the investigation, and they wish to question you once again. Extensively, I believe. You will need to return to Scotland as soon as you can.”

  Shit. “As it happens, my fiancée and I are coming for a visit in a little less than a week. Will that be soon enough?”

  “I imagine I can hold them off that long, yes. But I need you to understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. Scott. The police seem to have found something—some new bit of evidence, or a new witness, perhaps. I am trying to find out more. I’ll keep you updated.”

  “Do that,” I spat out at him and hung up. Which wasn’t at all reasonable of me, as it was hardly the poor fellow’s fault. But I was not in a reasonable mood.

  I headed back to the penthouse with rapid strides. In the lobby, I saw Isla surrounded by paparazzi as well as more reputable newscasters. They’d cornered the poor lass against the wall, and they were all waving voice recorders and cameras at her. She’d obviously just returned from shopping because she had a few bags clutched in her hands, and she looked shell-shocked.

  It was, I reflected, one thing to deal with a few wayward photographers snapping photos of you from a polite distance while you ate lobster benedict, and quite another thing to deal with a crowd of people shouting in your face that your fiancé was a murderer. Small wonder she looked distraught.

  I made my way to her side, shouldering reporters aside. Isla looked up at me with grateful green eyes, clutching my arm, and together we made our way toward my private lift. The crowd of reporters tried to follow, but the sight of my two large security men awaiting me at the lift doors dissuaded them.

  Isla and I ducked into the lift. The doors closed on the shouting crowd, and suddenly we were alone, and in blessed silence.

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” I said, putting an arm around her.

  She froze for an instant, then shrugged off my arm and stepped back from me. The expression in her eyes was wary, cautious. The way she’d backed away felt like a slap in the face, like she’d already tried and convicted me in her heart.

  “What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

  The fact that she’d even consider that I might be a murderer, let alone step away from my touch, stung, but I tried not to let the hurt reflect in my eyes. After all, our relationship was a sham, and she wasn’t really in love with me. We had a business arrangement, and as my business partner, she had every right to know about my past, and how it might impact our present.

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” I told her, willing her to believe me. “When I was young, and still living in Scotland, I had a sweetheart. Una MacKinnon. She…” The thought of it still made my chest ache. Una and I had been friends for most of our childhood, long before I was involved with her romantically. “She fell from the cliffs behind Braehaven one night, fell to her death. The two of us had just broken up, which is why I was a suspect, I suppose. But it wasn’t my doing. I was with my da at the time, engaged in a very loud argument about going to America. This all happened almost
fifteen years ago, and I don’t know why the case has been reopened at this late date. But whatever new evidence the police might think they have, they’re wrong. It was a suicide, Isla.”

  She stared at me for a long moment, and I saw doubt in her eyes. It made my heart ache, as if she’d pulled it out of my chest, dropped it on the marble floor of the lift, and stomped on it.

  “We just need to carry on,” I said. “We were already going to Scotland, so we’ll go there as planned, and the police can question me. I’ve naught to hide, I swear. Just… just stand with me, Isla. Stand by my side. I’m begging you.”

  She continued to stare at me, as if trying to gauge my sincerity. At last, she nodded.

  “All right, Angus,” she said softly. “I’ll go with you to Scotland.”

  Chapter Ten

  Isla

  Scotland was as beautiful as I had imagined.

  We flew across the Atlantic on Angus’ private jet, an enormous Boeing that was absolutely nothing like flying coach. In coach your legs are smooshed up against the seat in front of you, your elbow rubs against your neighbor’s, and you count yourself lucky if the harried flight attendant manages to pour you a single Coke.

  But the Boeing—well, it had luxurious white leather couches, a huge widescreen television, and a bar stocked with extravagant alcohol and delicious snacks. It also boasted a queen-sized bed. The flight was smooth, but my stomach was nevertheless unsettled, and I curled up on the soft mattress and slept most of the way. Part of me was tempted to join the Mile-High club, but I wasn’t feeling totally comfortable with Angus right now. He seemed to sense that and was carefully keeping his distance.

  In fact, we hadn’t made love since the day I’d seen that awful headline. Part of me was relieved, thinking that it was safest to keep away from him until I knew for sure what had happened. But part of me still longed for his touch.

  We flew into Glasgow Airport, where a stately black Bentley driven by an even statelier chauffeur picked us up. For most of an hour, we drove through hilly country cut through by rivers, small towns with cobbled streets lined with ancient stone houses, and newer towns lined with row houses. As we got further away from Glasgow, some of the roads were impossibly narrow, sometimes only wide enough to accommodate one car, and when we approached another car, the driver had to turn out at a designated “passing place” so they could get past one another.

  However, Kilmarnock was a decent-sized town (far larger than my own Kilmarnock, which only had about fifteen hundred residents), and Angus pointed out to me the Johnnie Walker plant (“closed five years ago after almost two hundred and ninety years”) and the Dick Institute (“it’s a museum, lassie, get yer mind out of the gutter”). Despite the loss of the Johnnie Walker plant, there were still a good many businesses in the town, and I saw plenty of people on the streets, going about their daily life. It didn’t look that different from daily life in the United States, if you ignored the fact that everyone drove on the wrong side of the road.

  Not too far past Kilmarnock, we rolled through a crumbling old stone gate, and up a long, winding drive, lined with ancient, bare-branched oaks and evergreen pines. At last, the trees fell away, giving way to a wide, rolling lawn, and an enormous stone edifice appeared before us. As Angus had said, it was a peculiar mixture of styles—there was a medieval keep, with crenelated towers so tall that Rapunzel’s hair would’ve had a difficult time reaching the ground, but much of the rest of the house looked to be Regency era. It was grand but odd, and I understood Angus’ desire to put his stamp on it, to make it all fit together better.

  We got out of the car, both of us stretching to relieve our stiffness. The air was cold and crisp, and I drew in a breath, smelling salt.

  “The Firth of Clyde,” Angus said, noticing my curious expression. “The house sits right on the cliff, overlooking the Firth.”

  It sounded like something from a gothic novel, and for a moment that made me smile. But then I remembered Una, Angus’ girlfriend who had committed suicide. Had she thrown herself off the cliff here?

  Or had she been pushed?

  Angus’ mother was waiting just inside for us, in the entrance hall. It was paneled with dark wood, and swords and other weaponry were displayed on the walls. Angus greeted her with a cool nod of the head.

  “My mother, Mrs. Scott,” he said. “Mother, this is my fiancée, Isla Blizzard.”

  I had expected a proud, standoffish woman, but instead, she seemed delighted to meet me. She stepped forward, smiling, and embraced me. She had a worn, wrinkled face, and slightly stooped shoulders. Her hair had once been redder than Angus’, but now it was graying and tucked into a modest bun. Her blue eyes were just like Angus’ in shape and color, but where his were illuminated with a fierce drive and glittering impatience, hers shone with kindness and tranquility.

  “Call me Fiona, dear. I’m so happy you’re here.”

  I couldn’t help noticing that she’d hugged me, but not her son. Then again, Angus wasn’t exactly showing signs of wanting to be hugged. He kept a careful distance from her, and excused himself quickly, so that he might speak with the constable as soon as possible. His manner was courteous but chilly.

  Fiona didn’t appear taken aback or hurt, so perhaps chilliness was what she’d expected from her son. She seemed delighted to give me a tour of the castle while Angus met with the police. Maybe she just welcomed the distraction from worrying about her son’s fate, or perhaps she was simply lonely now that her husband was gone.

  She led me through the ground floor, showing me the dark, small-windowed keep, and then the newer parts of the dwelling. At last, we paused in a beautiful circular drawing room, which had expansive windows facing the east and, for the first time, I looked out over the gray waters of the Firth of Clyde. It might not be Loch Ness, but it wasn’t hard to imagine a sea monster out there, swimming about in the cold, dark water. There were rocks visible in the water a little ways from shore, and I imagined there must be rocks at the base of the cliff as well.

  I thought of poor Una, falling to her death against those rocks, and shuddered.

  “I thought ye might care to see this.” Fiona’s voice was gentle and musically accented. She showed me a leather-bound album. “Pictures of my son.”

  I imagined Angus as a redheaded, freckled boy, and immediately knew that yes, I did want to see those pictures. We settled onto a carved sofa with silk upholstery (Louis XV, I thought, remembering back to one of my classes), and she opened the album.

  Angus had indeed been an adorable child. His hair had been a little redder back then, and he’d had freckles scattered thickly all over his cheeks and nose. I envisioned him running wild on this estate, a bundle of unrestrained energy, and couldn’t help smiling.

  “He spent much of his days with Thomas and Una back then.” Fiona tapped a finger on a photo of three teenagers. “They were a little wild, especially him and Thomas. Oh, nothing bad, my dear. He could never kill anyone, I am certain of that. Just pranks, and a few fights at school. But the three of them were inseparable. After Una’s death, Angus and Thomas drifted apart. I’m not quite sure why, but I suppose she was the glue that held them together.”

  I looked down at the pictures of the three of them. It wasn’t difficult to see they’d been close—there seemed to be almost endless photos of them together. Angus had been a handsome boy, and so had the dark-haired Thomas, but of the three of them, Una had been the most striking, with flaxen hair, pale blue eyes, and a slim build. She had been a stunningly beautiful girl.

  I thought of her empty body on the rocks, broken and bleeding, and my stomach roiled.

  Could Angus have pushed her? The two of them had been friends since childhood. Even if their romance had ended… he must have still had affection for her. Or had she broken up with him, and angered him to the point where he’d shoved her in a fit of rage, causing her to stumble and fall?

  Even worse, could Angus have killed her on purpose? Could he do something like th
at?

  Of course not, I assured myself, but the terrible truth was that I wasn’t altogether certain.

  The thoughts spinning in my brain made me feel breathless and sick, or maybe it was just leftover motion sickness from the long plane ride. My stomach jolted unpleasantly, and I had the awful feeling I was seconds from losing the small breakfast I’d eaten all over the priceless Aubusson carpet.

  “’Scuse me,” I said thickly, scrambling to my feet. Fortunately, Fiona had shown me the location of one of the many bathrooms as we walked toward the drawing room.

  I fled for it, collapsed to my knees in front of the toilet, and threw up.

  ***

  Angus

  “I told you this years ago. I wasn’t there.”

  “Aye, ye said that.” The constable frowned down at me. He’d seated me in a chair and was using his height to loom over me in an obvious effort to intimidate me. Alastair Buchanan and I had been schoolmates and rivals, and we’d been in more than one fight together. He’d been a petty bully back then, and becoming an officer of the law evidently hadn’t improved him any. “But a new witness has come forth, and they claim to have seen ye heading toward the cliff that night.”

  “Una died at night,” I pointed out. “’Twould’ve been dark.”

  “Aye, but there was a bright moon, and the witness swears it was you.”

  “I told you,” I said, trying to hold onto my temper. “I was with my father.”

  “Pity the old man’s dead.” Buchanan failed to sound sorry. “Wee bit difficult for us to recheck yer alibi, isn’t it?”