Grace Under Fire (Buchanan-Renard 14)

TWENTY-TWO

Damn, but he was happy to see her. Michael walked into the room, quietly shut the door, and leaned back against it. He was weak with relief. Thank God she was all right. No one had gotten to her. The tightness he’d been carrying around in his chest since he’d heard that she had left Boston was finally easing, and he could breathe.

Isabel backed away from the door. “Why are you here?” It was a reasonable question, she thought. She sat down on the side of the bed and waited for him to answer. And waited. He had such an intense look on his face. She couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.

“Michael?”

“I’m here to take you home,” he said with both relief and urgency in his voice.

The worry of the last few hours had been torture, but now that he was here with her, and she was okay, it was time for action.

“Why would I want to go home? I just got here.”

He hated answering her because he knew he was going to scare her. “Something has happened,” he began, slowly walking toward her.

She jumped to her feet. “Oh my God, did someone in the family get hurt? Is it Kate? Dylan?” Her mind raced with dire possibilities.

He put his hand up. “Everyone back home is fine. You’re the one in trouble.”

Before she could demand an explanation, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her. “I was... worried about you, but you’re all right.”

Isabel was utterly confused. Why was he acting so strange? It wasn’t like him to be so emotional. And yet, she had to admit, after the shock of finding him at her door wore off, she really was happy to see him. Then her mind cleared, and she remembered he had broken her heart. She also remembered the lovely conversation she had had with Amanda. Broaching that subject was going to spark a whopper of a fight. She’d been building steam since she left the party, but it would have to wait until later. First, she wanted to know why she was in trouble. She hadn’t been in Scotland long enough to do anything wrong.

She tried to step back, but he wasn’t ready to let go of her, and if room service hadn’t interrupted, she thought he might’ve kissed her. She decided she would let him, and after he explained what his sudden appearance was all about, she would give him hell.

Michael opened the door, and Brodie, the proprietor of the small hotel, wearing a white apron over his tweed suit, carried her breakfast tray in and placed it on the table. “Cook added another cup and saucer and a few more scones and such for your mister.”

Her mister? Isabel didn’t correct him. “That was thoughtful of her,” she said. “Please tell her thank you.”

Turning to Michael, he said, “Per your instructions I changed the name on the register and will use your credit card for the charge. Will you be staying another night?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Isabel said, wondering why he directed his question to Michael.

At the same time Michael said, “No, we’ll be leaving on a flight to Boston tonight.”

“I’ll keep the room available for you just in case.”

Isabel followed him to the door. “Thank you, Brodie.”

“No, no, I should be thanking you,” he replied. “Your suggestions were spot on. I’ll let you get to your breakfast.”

Michael waited until she had closed the door, then asked, “What were your suggestions?” Before she could answer, he said, “You didn’t give any, did you? I’m betting you didn’t say anything. You just listened, didn’t you?”

“Good guess,” she said.

“Not a guess,” he corrected. “I just observed your past behavior.”

Isabel took a seat at the small table, lifted the cozy from the teapot, and poured the hot liquid through the strainer into her cup. She offered Michael a cup of tea, but he declined with a shake of his head.

“Sit down, Michael. You look so tense.” When he was settled in the chair across from her, she said. “Now, are you ready to tell me why you came all this way, why you want to take me back to Boston, and why you think I’m in trouble?”

“Yes,” he said. “But first I need to know if you have contacted anyone connected to Glen MacKenna.”

“No.”

“What about Donal Gladstone, the solicitor handling the estate? Or James Reid, the man harassing you? Have you talked to either one of them?”

“No,” she insisted. “I spoke to Mr. Gladstone right before I went to Boston, but I haven’t spoken to him since. I don’t have to worry about Reid anymore.”