Among the Heather (The Highlands, #2)

The last sounded accusatory.

His smile only deepened, causing his eyes to crinkle sexily at the corners. “That I am.” His gaze leisurely moved down my body in inappropriate perusal. My hand wavered. I knew from my research that North had been dating British pop star Cara Rochdale for two years. So when he finally deigned to drag his attention back to my face and there was no mistaking the heat in his eyes, I struggled not to hide my distaste. I wondered how many women he’d cheated on the English beauty with.

North took hold of my hand, his grip tight. “You look different in real life,” he mused in that lilting accent that was unfairly attractive.

He looked different too. Or rather, his magnetism was muted in film. I could practically sense his energy vibrating up my arm, and as he held my hand for too long, I felt a tightening in my breasts.

Sucking in a breath, I yanked my hand out of his.

I’d been fooled before by hot looks and charisma. Never again. Ignoring the comment that suggested he’d googled me (there were a few red carpet shots online of me with my family, but the last one had to have been taken at least four years ago), I moved back behind my desk. I’d put a key card for North’s room in my drawer last night.

“As you know, I’m Ms. Howard, and I run Ardnoch when Mr. Adair is otherwise occupied. However, we have a full staff who are at your disposal. There is information in your room regarding spa treatments, personal trainers, physical therapists, golf lessons, tennis lessons, yoga, Pilates, mindfulness, tour guides, and things to see in the area. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to press zero on the telephone in your room to be connected to our liaison service.” I grabbed the envelope with his key card and rounded the desk again to hand it to him. “Welcome to Ardnoch.”

“You said that already.” He took the envelope and glanced inside it.

I waited for him to leave.

Laughter twinkled in North’s eyes. “Is that it, then? Is that my warm welcome?”

I tried not to let my discomfort show. “Is there anything else you require, Mr. Hunter?”

“Well, I’d love it if you’d call me North.”

Since that would be inappropriate, I didn’t respond.

A furrow appeared between his brows. “Have I done something to offend you, Aria?”

“Ms. Howard,” I insisted gently. And maybe stop looking at me like I’m something you want to eat. “Of course not. However, I am late for a meeting, so if you’ll excuse me.” I crossed the room and pulled open the door.

When I glanced back over my shoulder, North’s eyes were on my ass.

Indignation filled me and I cleared my throat, even as I wondered if he was looking at my ass because he liked it or because its largeness surprised him.

He didn’t appear even a tiny bit sheepish about being caught as he strolled over to the door. “Thank you for the short and not very sweet welcome.” North halted inches from me, and I fought the urge to step back. He searched my face like I was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. “I do feel as though I might have offended you somehow, and that bothers me more than I like.”

He sounded sincere.

That was the thing about actors.

They were very good at pretending.

“Of course you haven’t offended me, Mr. Hunter. We’ve never met until today. It’s just a busy morning here at Ardnoch.” I noted Max, one of our valets, waiting outside. “Max here will show you to your suite. I took the liberty of procuring the Bruce Suite for your stay. It has a wonderful view of the North Sea. If, when you return to Ardnoch, you would like us to reserve a particular room or lodge, please give us plenty of notice and we’ll do our best to accommodate.” Even as I spoke, I fought the invisible pull to lean closer to him, to breathe deeply of his sandalwood and citrus cologne.

A coolness entered his expression at my crisp formality. “Very good, Ms. Howard.” He strode out of my office without looking back, and I quickly shut the door.

Resting my forehead on the wood, I exhaled shakily.

What the hell was that?

Whatever it was, my alarm bells were ringing. The last time I was attracted to an actor, he ripped my fragile self-esteem to shreds.

And this actor was one of my members.

I needed to stay as far away from North Hunter as possible.





One


NORTH





December


The driveway led through woodlands for what felt like forever before the trees disappeared to reveal grass for miles around a mammoth building in the distance. Flags were situated throughout the rolling plains of the estate—the golf course. Only a few months ago I stood on that grass with my mate Theo Cavendish, pretending like we knew what the hell we were doing.

Carefree. Confident. Celebratory. Assured my life was about to change in the best way.

Oh, aye, it had changed all right.

In the worst fucking way possible.

Ardnoch Castle was a rambling, castellated mansion, six stories tall and about two hundred years old, situated on thousands of acres of estate. When Aria Howard had reached out to my management to ask if I was interested in membership, my publicist Annette was on at me to buy it. I thought it was a bunch of pretentious, overpriced nonsense. But they said it would be good for my image, and I liked the idea that the club was in my homeland. I hadn’t expected to fall in love with the place. I hadn’t anticipated that because of its security, I’d need it as a haven to run to.

The low winter sun hovered over the horizon, making the windows of the castle glint in welcome.

Wakefield, the butler, appeared out of the large main entrance before the Range Rover had even pulled to a stop on the gravel. The weirdest part of the transition from impoverished nobody to famous actor was the way people wanted to do everything for me. It chafed a bit. Wakefield opened my door as soon as the car stopped.

“Welcome back to Ardnoch, Mr. Hunter,” he said with warm professionalism.

No hint of accusation or judgment in his voice.

“Thank you, Wakefield,” I replied, even though I didn’t want to speak to anyone.

“Any luggage, sir?”

No. As soon as my team told me what the papers would publish this morning, I jumped on a plane to Scotland. I’d been in LA, getting ready to fly back to London to start shooting Birdwatcher, the spy movie that was going to change my life. With a director as infamously brilliant as Blake Forster at the helm, it was set to rival James Bond.

A knot twisted in my gut.

Annette told me to flee to Ardnoch to ride out the coming storm while my agent, Harry, warned me this might wreak havoc with the film and its schedule. That’s all I needed. To be the reason the studio lost money on delays because the tabloids were fucking savage animals who didn’t give a shit what they put anyone through.

“My luggage is arriving separately,” I told Wakefield. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be staying at the moment.”