Riona’s mind slipped back once more to last summer. It had mainly been a good summer, warm and dry and sunny, but not on the June day they’d met. Then it had been raining. She’d been returning from her weekly trip to Inverness and had caught the bus that went as far as Achnagair. She had started walking home the six more miles to Invergair, hoping for a lift from a local, when a car slid to a halt beside her. It was a posh car, a sleek black BMW. An electric window rolled down and the driver leaned over the passenger-seat to speak to her. She stood a cautious step or two from the door.
‘Hey, kid, am I on the right road for Invergair?’ the driver called to her.
She nodded in response, but didn’t volunteer more.
‘How far is it, do you reckon?’ he pursued.
She answered, ‘Six miles to the village,’ but was careful to keep her voice low. Dressed in jeans and hooded jacket, she’d been taken for a boy. It seemed wise to maintain the illusion.
‘So, it’s straight on?’ he concluded.
She nodded again, and, stepping back from the car, resumed walking.
Instead of driving on, however, he drew up in a lay-by slightly ahead of her, and, climbing out of the car, called back, ‘You might as well hitch a ride, kid.’
‘I...’ Riona hesitated, torn between saving herself the walk and the potential risk. She looked him up and down, struck first by his size. He was well over six feet and looked muscular in build, despite expensively cut clothes. Riona knew little or nothing about designer labels, but she could still recognise money even when it walked around in casual suede jackets and faded jeans.
He also happened to be the most attractive man Riona had ever met. Her eyes went from his clothes to his face and just stayed there. With thick dark hair above straight dark brows, a long nose and square, unshaven jaw, he looked both handsome and dangerous. Then, all of a sudden, his hard, beautiful mouth slanted into a half-smile and his dark blue eyes glittered with cynical amusement.
‘Do you want references, kid?’ he suggested at her lengthy scrutiny. ‘A ride, that’s all I’m offering. Take it or leave it.’
‘OK.’ Riona opened the passenger door and cautiously slid into the passenger seat, gripping her holdall to her.
‘Relax, kid. Boys aren’t my thing,’ he said with a short laugh.
Riona felt herself blushing and was glad her jacket hood hid much of her face. She decided to keep it on.
He didn’t seem to notice. He set the car in motion before asking, ‘Are you from Invergair?’
‘Yes,’ she replied simply.
‘How big is the village?’
‘Not very.’
‘A one-horse town,’ he remarked in a drawl. ‘That’s what we’d call it in the States.’
‘Really.’ Riona sounded less than interested in what an American would call Invergair.
Her reticence was noted, as he came back with a wry, ‘So tell me, are all the locals as gabby as you?’
‘I...’ Stuck for an answer, Riona glanced at him, then looked away as a mocking brow was lifted in her direction.
Of course he was right. She was being ungracious. Riona realised that. He hadn’t needed to offer her a lift. He didn’t even know she was a girl. It was she who was over-conscious of him as a man.
Silence descended until they approached the turn-off for Invergair, then she deepened her voice slightly to request, ‘Could you let me off here? My croft’s further on.’
He slowed down, saying, ‘How far?’
‘A mile or so.’ She nodded towards the road ahead.
‘Then I might as well take you.’ He shrugged, and, before she could object, picked up speed once more.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured reluctantly. She didn’t want to be the recipient of such generosity, particularly when she’d been so churlish herself. ‘You can drop me here, please,’ she said after they’d travelled the further mile.
He slowed down again, but, seeing no sign of habitation, asked, ‘Where do you live, kid?’
‘On the hill.’ She pointed at the rough dirt track leading towards her croft, then found herself protesting, ‘No, don’t go up it!’
‘Why not?’ He’d already turned on to the track.
‘Well...’ Riona searched for a reason, other than an unwillingness to let him see her home ‘...the track isn’t tarred. Your car might be damaged.’
‘So? It’s a rental.’ He casually dismissed the gleamingly expensive motor car and continued up the rutted road to the crofthouse.
The rain had ceased and, as they reached the top of the hill, they had a clear view of her cottage. Built of rough stone and slate tiles, it could be described neither as cute nor quaint. It was a drab, plain building, with a kitchen and sitting-room downstairs, and two bedrooms in the attic. Round it was a dry stone wall, half falling down, and a garden that had gone to weed. The air of neglect was emphasised by the fact that it was deserted.
‘Where are your folks?’ the American asked as they drew to a halt and no one came out to greet them.
‘I haven’t any.’ Riona’s parents had died in an accident when she was too young to remember them. The grandfather who’d raised her had died in the past year.
‘So who looks after you?’ he pursued, when she made to climb out of the car.
‘No one. I look after myself.’ Riona wondered how old he thought her.
He stared hard at her for the first time. She stared back. It was a mistake.
Before she could stop him, he pulled down her hood and announced with some disbelief, ‘Hell, you’re a girl!’
Riona could hardly deny it. Under the hood, her blonde hair was bound in a long, thick plait, and, though she wore no make-up, her soft skin and the full curve of her mouth made her utterly feminine.
‘Beautiful, too,’ he added under his breath.
Riona ignored it. Her grandfather had taught her to consider beauty a doubtful quality.
‘I’m also twenty and quite able to fend for myself, thank you,’ she announced rather briskly, and reached for the door-handle.
He caught her arm, detaining her. ‘You’re on your own here?’
Riona frowned at the question, not sure how to answer. He was still a stranger and it didn’t seem too clever to admit to being alone.
‘Not really,’ she eventually said. ‘There’s Jo. He lives with me.’
‘Jo?’ He repeated the name, before guessing wrongly, ‘Your husband?’
Riona didn’t contradict him but her blush gave her away.
‘Not your husband,’ he concluded drily, before shrugging. ‘Never mind. Who gets married these days?’
If he was trying to save her embarrassment, he drew a scowl for his trouble. Riona didn’t need his approval for living with a man, especially when she wasn’t—Jo was her collie dog.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ he continued at her hostile silence. ‘You want to get married and he doesn’t. Is that it?’
‘What?’ Riona couldn’t believe the nerve of him.
He went on obliviously, ‘Well, if you want my opinion, he needs his head examined...his eyesight, too.’
Once