The Accidental Scot Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Alistair McDonnell? We have an appointment.” He lifted his mug and drained the remaining dribbles of his now-cold tea.
    She frowned at him, picked up the phone, and put it to her ear. “The American says to tell ye he’s here.” She glanced up at him as if he’d been short-changed upstairs. “Go ahead and take a seat.”
    He wandered over to the coat of arms and studied it. After a few minutes, he chose a chair as far away from the Christmas tree as he could and checked his messages.
    One from his mom. One from his sister. One from his brother.
    And crap, Miranda wanted him to check in. He texted back quickly that he’d arrived, was staying in the room over the pub, and was about to meet with NSV’s chief engineer.
    As he hit SEND , the doors swung open and a professionally dressed woman came through. He stood. She had on a well-fitted navy suit with a tantalizing slit up the left side of her calf-length skirt. The way her heels clicked as she walked toward him sounded like a command—the same heels that made her almost as tall as him. Her loose hair from earlier had been stretched into a knot at the back of her head. However, it was her sea-blue eyes that shocked him.
    Pippa was
also
secretary to the owner?
    She stuck out her hand. “Alistair Philippa McDonnell. It’s nice to meet you.” She gave him a firm handshake.
    He fumbled with the mug. If there’d been any tea leftin it, he would’ve doused his kilt and been forced to tour the factory buck-naked.
    She smiled, her professional aloofness daring him to acknowledge the switch-up. “Well, then,” she finally said. “Should we have a look around?”
    He seldom backed down from a challenge. “But last night—” he started.
    â€œLet’s not ruin last night by talking about it,” she purred.
    Bonnie’s head shot up.
    Pippa—
no, Alistair
—gave a throaty laugh and sashayed away, not seeming to give a damn about her reputation.
    Max trailed behind her through the double doors like her lowly servant. They went down a long corridor as a million questions rolled through his baffled brain. He’d been given a data sheet on the McDonnell with as much personal information as could be attained. How had he not known that Alistair McDonnell was female? He certainly knew now by the shapely derriere in front of him. Max’s only explanation for his file not being complete—privacy laws in Europe were much stricter than in the U.S.
    He didn’t let the subject drop. “Hold up. What should I call you?”
    She stopped and turned to him, the epitome of seriousness. “How about
Yere Excellency
?”
    â€œAlistair or Pippa?” he clarified.
    â€œSince we’re in Gandiegow, you can call me
Pippa
.”
    â€œWhere’s the McDonnell? Is he waiting for me in his office?”
    Her eyebrows stitched together and she looked away, not meeting his eye. “Da took the day off.”
    Max frowned at her. “He knew I was coming, didn’t he?”
    She didn’t answer but pushed open another set of double doors. They stepped into a room filled with industrial sewing machines and bolts of canvas. In the corner stood . . .
another Christmas tree?
    â€œWhat the devil?” Max said. Nothing was typical in this factory.
    â€œWe rent this space to Agnes Bowie. She makes custom sails to sell on the Internet. Agnes needed a spot for her shop and we made room for her.”
    Apparently Pippa took umbrage to his shock. She scooped aside a sail as she walked by—much like a cat swishing her tail. And like a cat, her irritation was evident. He hadn’t been criticizing NSV or the sail shop, but it was too late to say so. She was already gone.
    Through the next set of doors was a machine shop, the place finally looking more like a manufacturing plant. However, the machines were ancient and antiquated, some held together with bits