Read Online In McGillivray's Bed by Anne McAllister - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne McAllister
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âthat he actually had a business and supported himself by flying and apparently by doing other transportation-oriented things, as wellâboggled her mind.
But that was what it said in big swooping letters on the business card: Fly Guy Island Charter. And below that in smaller type, the card proclaimed: âWhenever and wherever you want to go, callâ¦Hugh McGillivray, Owner and Pilot.â
Which meant, she supposed, that there was more to the man than dark good looks, hard muscles, kindness to dogs, a donât-bother-me-while-Iâm-breathing attitude and a smart mouth?
She considered the possibility that he could just have the cards made to toss at people who crossed his path and commented on his lifestyle. But she doubted it. It would take too much effort. McGillivray didnât seem given to over-exertion.
He hadnât even bothered, in the end, to take a shower.Instead heâd headed for the beach saying, âIâll take a swim instead.â
He hadnât come back by the time sheâd finished washing the dishes and had stripped the sheets off his bed and replaced them with clean ones. At least, she assumed they were clean ones as sheâd found them in the same pile in the closet from which heâd taken the towel heâd given her.
There was a certain method to McGillivrayâs housekeeping. Dirty dishes were in the sink and on the countertop. Clean dishes were everywhere else. Dirty clothes were in a heap by the back door. Clean clothes and linens were in the closet in the bathroom and in heaps on the chairs. There were other piles, too, which she hadnât identified yet. She folded the clean clothes and took them into the bedroom. She left the dirty ones in a heap, but kicked them into the corner.
Now she padded out onto the front porch. She picked her way over the snorkles and swim fins and skirted the dog blanket and the portable cooler. Then she stood on the steps and let her eyes become accustomed to the darkness. There was a bit of moonlight spilling on the sea beyond some low bushes and across a narrow expanse of beach.
The sea where, presumably, McGillivray had gone swimming.
She didnât see him.
Just as well. She didnât want to think about him now. Didnât want to analyze the quickening sensation she felt every time she looked at Mr. Fly Guy McGillivrayâor every time he looked at her.
It would be a distraction.
Syd didnât do distractions. She liked to focus. Zeroing in on a problem and assessing ways of overcoming it was her strength. Her father said that. Even Roland said it.
And now dear Roland had some firsthand experience with it, she thought grimly as she tipped her head back and let the nightâs soft breeze blow through her nearly dry hair.The breeze soothed her, calmed her, made Roland and St. John Electronics seem as far away as another galaxy.
It really was gorgeous hereâwhat she had seen of it. And quiet. Very different from Paradise Island. That had been glitz and glamour, casinos and jet-skiing and parasailing and lots of fast-paced to-ing and fro-ing. The only sound she could hear now was the soft rush of waves breaking on the shore.
She was tempted to walk down to the water, but she didnât see a path, and McGillivrayâs warning about the snakes was still fresh in her mind.
Were there really snakes?
She had no idea. With McGillivray, who could tell? His âgotchaâ still rankled. Men ordinarily did not try to annoy Sydney St. John. On the contrary, usually they fell all over themselves trying to figure out what she wanted so they could do it.
Obviously not Fly Guy McGillivray. She studied the underbrush and thought she heard vague rustlings. She stayed where she was, studying his house instead.
It was a low-slung wood frame place of indeterminate age, whose color from what she could see on the porch seemed to be a sunny yellow. It sat on a rise overlooking the bushes and beach. In the
But that was what it said in big swooping letters on the business card: Fly Guy Island Charter. And below that in smaller type, the card proclaimed: âWhenever and wherever you want to go, callâ¦Hugh McGillivray, Owner and Pilot.â
Which meant, she supposed, that there was more to the man than dark good looks, hard muscles, kindness to dogs, a donât-bother-me-while-Iâm-breathing attitude and a smart mouth?
She considered the possibility that he could just have the cards made to toss at people who crossed his path and commented on his lifestyle. But she doubted it. It would take too much effort. McGillivray didnât seem given to over-exertion.
He hadnât even bothered, in the end, to take a shower.Instead heâd headed for the beach saying, âIâll take a swim instead.â
He hadnât come back by the time sheâd finished washing the dishes and had stripped the sheets off his bed and replaced them with clean ones. At least, she assumed they were clean ones as sheâd found them in the same pile in the closet from which heâd taken the towel heâd given her.
There was a certain method to McGillivrayâs housekeeping. Dirty dishes were in the sink and on the countertop. Clean dishes were everywhere else. Dirty clothes were in a heap by the back door. Clean clothes and linens were in the closet in the bathroom and in heaps on the chairs. There were other piles, too, which she hadnât identified yet. She folded the clean clothes and took them into the bedroom. She left the dirty ones in a heap, but kicked them into the corner.
Now she padded out onto the front porch. She picked her way over the snorkles and swim fins and skirted the dog blanket and the portable cooler. Then she stood on the steps and let her eyes become accustomed to the darkness. There was a bit of moonlight spilling on the sea beyond some low bushes and across a narrow expanse of beach.
The sea where, presumably, McGillivray had gone swimming.
She didnât see him.
Just as well. She didnât want to think about him now. Didnât want to analyze the quickening sensation she felt every time she looked at Mr. Fly Guy McGillivrayâor every time he looked at her.
It would be a distraction.
Syd didnât do distractions. She liked to focus. Zeroing in on a problem and assessing ways of overcoming it was her strength. Her father said that. Even Roland said it.
And now dear Roland had some firsthand experience with it, she thought grimly as she tipped her head back and let the nightâs soft breeze blow through her nearly dry hair.The breeze soothed her, calmed her, made Roland and St. John Electronics seem as far away as another galaxy.
It really was gorgeous hereâwhat she had seen of it. And quiet. Very different from Paradise Island. That had been glitz and glamour, casinos and jet-skiing and parasailing and lots of fast-paced to-ing and fro-ing. The only sound she could hear now was the soft rush of waves breaking on the shore.
She was tempted to walk down to the water, but she didnât see a path, and McGillivrayâs warning about the snakes was still fresh in her mind.
Were there really snakes?
She had no idea. With McGillivray, who could tell? His âgotchaâ still rankled. Men ordinarily did not try to annoy Sydney St. John. On the contrary, usually they fell all over themselves trying to figure out what she wanted so they could do it.
Obviously not Fly Guy McGillivray. She studied the underbrush and thought she heard vague rustlings. She stayed where she was, studying his house instead.
It was a low-slung wood frame place of indeterminate age, whose color from what she could see on the porch seemed to be a sunny yellow. It sat on a rise overlooking the bushes and beach. In the
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