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Scotland’s Past’s initial refurbishment work was negatively impacting tourism. Visitors didn’t generally like construction noise.
    But she kept that knowledge to herself.
    She also narrowed her eyes, following his inquisitive lead. “Not many people walk on sand without leaving footprints.”
    “Then you didn’t listen to a word I told you.” He didn’t miss a beat. “The winds at Balmedie Beach are fierce. Gusts so strong they blow away tracks before your foot even touches the ground.”
    Kendra didn’t buy his excuse. “The wind wasn’t that strong last night.”
    “I say it was.” A faint smile touched his lips, causing the dimple in his cheek to almost deepen.
    The air between them crackled again and—­as if at his bidding—­the chill wind whipped around her, pushing her toward him, teasing her with his scent. It was the same mix of leather; cold, clean air; and man that she’d found so heady the night before.
    She still did, and that made her defensive.
    He was much too attractive.
    And his soft, buttery rich burr proved why so many American women melted at the first hint of a Scottish accent. No man should have a voice so wickedly seductive.
    It was an unfair advantage.
    So she let her gaze flick over him, trying to appear unimpressed.
    “Do you always share your opinions with strangers?” She lifted her chin, waiting.
    For a moment he looked surprised, but then he smiled again. This time his dimple did flash. “Right enough—­I do. And as you just spoke of the wind, we’re quit, aye?Besides”—­he took a step closer, his gaze not leaving her face—­“we aren’t strangers. We met last night.”
    “I don’t even know your name.” His nearness made her pulse leap.
    “I’m Graeme MacGrath.” His burr deepened on the
r
’s, softening as if he’d just said something much more intimate than his name. “I have a cottage at the end of Harbour Street—­the Keel.” He glanced out over the rough seas, then back at her. “It’s a wee place, but suits me well. My family has lived there for centuries.
    “And you”—­he reached to steady the car door when the wind strengthened—­“are Kendra Chase, come to stay at the Laughing Gull Inn.”
    Kendra blinked, instantly suspicious. “How do you know my name?”
    “If you weren’t a tourist, you’d know.” A corner of his mouth lifted as he stepped even closer, shielding her from the wind. “There are no secrets in small Scottish villages. Iain Garry, who owns the inn, mentioned you last night. Everyone in Pennard now knows an American is coming to see the famous setting of
The Herring Fisher.
”
    “The film does make you want to visit Pennard.” Kendra didn’t correct his assumption. “I don’t know anyone who’s seen it and not fallen in love with the area. They really did make the scenery look spectacular.”
    “This coast
is
spectacular.” His tone held pride, his gaze flicking over the moors. “But it’s no place to visit now, in the autumn when the seas are in a rage and the haar spoils the views. Haar is mist, if you didn’t know. Thick and sleety at times, it sweeps in from the sea to pulse across the land. You wouldn’t want to be caught by it.”
    “I like wild weather.” She did.
    “Is that why you were backing away from the cliff?” He raised one black brow.
    “I…” Kendra tucked her hair behind an ear. It was hard to think with him so close, his arm bracing the car door, caging her.
    She could feel his warmth. And his jacket sleeve touched her shoulder, the contact sending ripples of sensation spilling through her. His scent flooded her senses, making her heart race.
    She was sure he knew.
    “I wasn’t trying to leave Pennard.” She wasn’t about to admit her dread of left-­side driving and perpendicular roads. “I thought I’d taken the wrong turnoff and wanted to check the signpost.”
    “You’d do best to drive on to Banff.” He didn’t believe her. “The coast road onward isn’t