LITMIR.BIZ

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documents till she found what she wanted. ‘I’ve got the letter here. He was murdered by his brother, which is why you inherited. What’s she like?’

      ‘Emotional.’

      ‘A lachrymose widow,’ she said with instant sympathy. ‘My poor Hamish, how awful. Will she be hard to move?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘If she’s been living there…she’s not a tenant for life or anything, is she? You can still sell?’

      ‘She offered to move out tonight.’

      ‘That’s great!’

      ‘I can hardly kick her out tonight,’ he said and heard her regroup.

      ‘Well, of course not. Will you need to use some of the inheritance to resettle her, do you think? Does she have somewhere to go?’

      ‘She’s American. She’s coming home.’

      ‘Not entirely silly, then,’ Marcia said with approval. ‘She has plans. What about you? How long do you think it’ll take to put the place on the market?’

      ‘I’ll paint a “For Sale” sign on the gate tomorrow.’

      ‘Be serious,’ she told him. ‘Hamish, this is a lot of money. If the place is full of kitsch you’d best clean it out so it doesn’t put potential buyers off. Will it sell as a potential hotel?’

      That much he knew. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then there are specialist realtors. International hotel dealers. I’ll get back to you with names.’

      ‘Fine.’

      Was it fine?

      Of course it was fine. What Marcia suggested was sensible.

      He thought about posting Queen Victoria to his Aunt Molly.

      He watched Susie.

      ‘Steak and chips.’

      Hamish had only partly opened the kitchen door when Susie’s voice announced the menu. He blinked, gazing around the room in something approaching awe. This room was built to feed an army. It had huge overhead beams, a wonderful flag-stoned floor, an efficient gas range, as well as an old-fashioned slow combustion stove.

      ‘How do you like your steak?’ she demanded.

      She was being brisk. She wasn’t crying. Emotion had been put on the backburner, and she was being fiercely efficient.

      ‘Medium rare,’ he said, and she smiled.

      ‘Great.’ Then her smile faded, just a little. ‘Medium rare, eh?’

      ‘Is that a problem?’

      ‘It might be,’ she said cautiously. ‘It depends.’

      ‘On what?’

      ‘On how it turns out. I was planning on beans on toast before you arrived. Much more dependable.’

      ‘You know where you are with a bean,’ he agreed, and she looked at him with suspicion.

      ‘Don’t you give me a hard time. Kirsty’s bad enough.’

      ‘Kirsty?’

      ‘My sister. She and her husband are the local doctors. Kirsty said I have to give you something good to celebrate your first night here. She dropped off the steaks a few minutes ago. She would have stayed to meet you but she has evening clinic and was in a rush. But she left Boris, just in case you turn nasty.’

      Boris was—apparently—a nondescript, brownish dog of the Heinz variety who was currently lying under a high chair. A toddler—a little girl about a year old—was waving a rusk above the dog’s head, and the dog had immolated himself, upside down, all legs in the air, waiting with eternal patience for the rusk to drop.

      The dog hadn’t so much as looked up as Hamish had entered. Every fibre of his being was tuned to the rusk. Some guard dog!

      ‘What will Boris do if I turn nasty?’ he asked, and Susie grinned.

      ‘He’ll think of something. He’s a very resourceful dog.’ She produced a frying-pan and then looked doubtfully at the steaks.

      The steaks lay in all their glory on a plate by the stove. They looked magnificent.

      ‘How are you planning on cooking them?’ Hamish asked.

      ‘I’ll fry them,’ she said with a vague attempt at confidence. ‘That doesn’t sound too difficult.’

      ‘You’re cooking chips?’

      ‘They’re oven fries,’ she confessed. ‘Kirsty brought them as well. You put them in the oven, you set the timer for twenty minutes and you take them out again. Even I can’t mess that up. Probably.’

      She was making a huge effort to be cheerful, he thought, and he’d try to join her.

      ‘Tell me you’re not responsible for Queen Victoria,’ he said and she grinned. She had a great grin, he thought. He was reminded suddenly of Jodie.

      Jodie would love Loganaich Castle.

      ‘Aunty Deirdre is responsible for Queen Vic,’ Susie told him. ‘Angus gave her carte blanche to decorate the castle as she saw fit—but he also gave her a very small budget. I think she did great.’

      ‘She surely did,’ he said faintly. Susie brushed past him on her way to the fridge and he started feeling even more disoriented. She’d showered since he’d last seen her. Or since he’d last smelt her. She was wearing clean jeans and a soft pink T-shirt, tucked in. Her hair was still in a ponytail but it was almost controlled now. And she smelt like citrus. Fresh and lemony. Nice.

      ‘Mama,’ the little girl said. ‘Mama.’

      ‘Sweetheart,’ Susie said, and that was enough to slam reality home. His mother always called him ‘sweetheart’ when she was trying to manipulate him.

      He stopped thinking how nice she smelt, and thought instead how great it was that he had his Marcia and his whole life controlled, and he’d never have to cope with this sort of messy tearful existence.

      Susie was carrying a tub of dripping to the stove. She scooped out a tablespoon or more into the frying pan. Then looked at it. Dubiously.

      ‘What are you doing?’ he said faintly, and she raised her eyebrows as if he’d said something stupid.

      ‘Cooking.’

      ‘Deep frying or shallow frying?’

      ‘Is there a difference?

      He sighed. ‘Yes. But with that amount of fat in the pan you’re doing neither. The chips are already in the oven?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How long have they been in?’

      ‘Five minutes.’

      ‘How do you have your steak?’

      ‘Any way I can get it.’

      ‘Then you’ll have it medium rare as well, and I have five minutes before I start cooking. Can you find me an apron?’

      ‘You’re kidding.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Gee,’ she said, stunned, but willing not only to hand over cooking but to be admiring while she was at it. ‘You really can cook?’

      ‘I can cook steak.’

      ‘Would you like to make a salad, too?’ Her voice said she knew she was pushing her luck. It was almost teasing. ‘I can mix up chopped lettuce and tomato but anything else is problematic.’

      He sighed. ‘I can make a salad. But I do need an apron.’

      ‘An apron,’ she

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