Read Online What Lies Between by Charlena Miller - Free Book Online Page A

suit and becoming someone else.
    “It’s a small group traveling in a comfortable Mercedes van. Would be a nice holiday.” He caught my eyes again, waited for my response.
    When I said nothing—my thoughts were working themselves out—he continued, “You could relax, see more of the Highlands, and Skye, and you wouldn’t have to drive, eh?”
    “I don’t know. I’m not even unpacked.” Puttering around Glenbroch and settling in to my new home appealed to me. But a chance to see Skye and spend time with travelers who had booked a premium tour would be free market research. I’d be crazy not to go. Besides, I’d already decided. “Sure, why not?”
    “Bring a small bag, and I’ll pick you up at six.”
    “Six tomorrow morning? Is it too late to say no?”
    “You can manage. And throw in some food.” Ben turned to leave, then wheeled around. “You should know you’ll be in the same bed and breakfast as me. The guests will be staying in a different place.”
    “We have our own rooms, right?” I asked in mock suspicion.
    “No, I assumed we’d share.” He gave me a quizzical look. “Is that a problem? You would have your own bed, of course.”
    I crossed my arms, narrowed my eyes in a stern warning, and pursed my lips in defiance.
    He laughed. “Of course, you’ll have your own room. Och, Ellie, you’re safe with me.”
    Obviously I am safe with you, but do I want to be?
     
    I glanced over at the alarm clock and bolted upright, the faint memory of hitting the snooze button more than once coming into focus. Leaping out of bed, I grabbed items I’d meant to gather up the night before and threw them into my pack in between yanking on various pieces of clothing and brushing my teeth. I’d hauled everything to the foyer just as two short beeps announced Ben’s arrival, prompt at six.
    After opening the front door, I bent to retrieve my pack, bag of food, water bottle, and rubber boots, just in case. My hiking shoes were still damp and wouldn’t fare well if the trip dumped loads of rain. A last-minute panic started me rummaging in the pocket of my pack to confirm I had stuck in some British money when a scuff of shoes on gravel caught my attention.
    My eyes were greeted with a sight I wasn’t expecting—heavily worn leather hiking boots, thick wool socks pushed down to their tops, sinewy calves leading to muscular knees, a tooled leather purse strategically draped down the center of a green and black plaid kilt. A black thermal shirt hugged every muscle of the man’s athletic upper body.
    I instantly understood the dreamy look on Kami’s face, couldn’t imagine any woman, or man, being immune. Despite the jokes of guy friends back in the States, a kilt hardly qualified as a skirt. Whether because of history, tradition, symbolism, or the confidence of the Scotsman wearing it, what stood in front of me punched another level of masculinity. I’d never personally seen a man in a kilt and had discounted Kami’s starry-eyed ravings as a bit dramatic; I had thought it would be nothing more than kitsch, but I admit when I’m wrong. And holy schnikey, I was wrong by a prairie mile.
    Standing to my full five feet seven, I forced a nonchalant expression, a ridiculously wasted effort. Ben strode toward me, kilt swishing behind with theatrical effect.
    “Good morning, ready for a Highland adventure?”
    If not for what appeared to be a genuinely oblivious look on his face, I would swear the man was the master of the double entendre. “Of course,” I replied, stifling a chuckle.
    The conversation of the day before had faded along with my frustration and we fell into a comfortable banter; an observer might assume Ben and I had known each other for months rather than a couple of days. A tentative friendship had started, but I still wasn’t sure about him. Being around Ben was beginning to make me feel as Glenbroch did—peaceful and wildly unsettled at the same time.
    It was too early in the morning to be