Joanna's Highlander (Highland Protector #2)(31)
The road they were on grew narrower until it couldn’t even be called a path. Joanna grabbed hold of the straps hanging down from the roll bar, rocking in the seat as they bumped across a washed-out section of what could only be called a dirt trail through the woods. Dammit. He wasn’t kidding when he said his place was private. It’s freaking secluded.
“Nearly there,” Grant said, rapidly whipping the steering wheel back and forth to find the smoothest parts of the road. “I dinna think I have any coffee in the place, but I’m sure I can find a bit of tea for ye, some ale—and for certain, whisky, if ye need something stronger.”
“I’m thinking I’ll definitely need whisky.” Of course, as queasy as she was currently feeling, weak tea might be the best. An alcohol-induced crying jag and a grand finale of puking would probably make Grant kick her ass out into the woods, and she’d never find her way back to civilization from this remote level of what was soon to be her own personal hell.
Grant geared down and braked the UTV to a rough stop in front of a sprawling structure of rough-hewn wood beams and stone that looked as though its oversized blocks had been chiseled and set during the Dark Ages. Tall slabs of ancient limestone stained a greenish brown from encroaching moss and ivy framed the foundation to the roof eave, but modern-day tinted windows guaranteed to keep out the heat and the cold.
“?’Tis a combination of both old and new. Dwyn wouldna hear of anything less.” Grant waved her toward the entrance.
“I was expecting something a lot smaller. Just you here—right?” Joanna climbed out of the vehicle and followed a leaf-strewn path of large, flat rocks to a porch massive and elaborate enough to hold its own with the over-the-top design of the house. “It’s like a castle mated with a Swiss ski lodge and this is their secret love child they’re hiding in the woods.”
“Aye, perhaps.” Grant shrugged, his gaze roaming across the split-level compound that covered nearly an acre of mountainous North Carolina woodland. “I ne’er thought of it that way. All I know is this place is what came to mind when I decided I needed a sanctuary of me own.”
“It’s lovely.” If I stall long enough…
“Come.” Grant held out his hand. “Best ta get this o’er with. I see what yer about. Time t’talk this out. Now.”
Dammit. Joanna ignored Grant’s hand and climbed the wide limestone steps leading up to the enclosed porch that appeared to run the length of over half the building. Rustic wooden chairs, chaises, and loungers were strategically placed in cozy seating areas on the finely sanded oak plank flooring that had been bleached a pale shade to lighten up the space.
Bronze lanterns with decorative bubbled and wavy glass housed thick ivory pillar candles. Some were placed on the small end tables arranged beside the chairs and others hung from the rafters. A fireplace was built into a turn in the porch and a wet bar filled the wall beside it.
The entire outside living space was screened in but since it was March, the protective glass storm windows had yet to be removed. Ceiling fans evenly spaced across the porch created a pleasant breeze throughout.
Entwining her fingers in the rope netting of a hammock-style reading chair suspended in a corner overlooking the river, Joanna lightly spun the cozy seat, then patted its overstuffed cushions covered in the MacDara plaid. “You designed the seating areas on this porch? This reading nook with the pillows and throw blankets? The breakfast table and chairs with the pine bough and candle centerpiece?” If Grant MacDara had designed all this, the man was really in touch with his designer side.
“Nay. Esme. She’s fond of makin’ spaces more…pretty, she says—when she’s no’ actin’ like a wee sixteen-year-old beastie.” Grant made his way to the bar. Lining up two heavy-bottomed short glasses on the dark granite counter, he glanced back at Joanna. “Will it be whisky then?”
What the hell. Might as well. “It’s a little early, but sure, why not.”
He splashed a good amount of amber liquid into both glasses, picked them up, and motioned toward a bench fitted out with enough cushions and pillows to be deemed a full-grown sofa. “Have a seat, lass. Ye look as if yer about t’bolt.”
If she thought she stood a chance at getting away, she would. But a night of no sleep, no breakfast, and damn sure not enough coffee did not make for the best prepping for a cross-country run. She accepted the glass of whisky, then backed up and leaned against the narrow wooden shelf running almost waist high around the circumference of the screen wall of windows. “I’d rather stand if you don’t mind. Don’t worry. I won’t run away, but you’ll wish I had before I’m done here.”
“I verra much doubt that.” Grant smiled as he lowered himself to the couch and took a long, slow sip from his glass without taking his gaze from her.
How could a man make the simple act of taking a drink look so damn sexy? Joanna took a hesitant swig of her own drink, then hugged the glass to her chest. The liquid created a not unpleasant burn all the way to her middle, hit her veins, and spread warmth clear to her fingertips.
Grant’s glass was dwarfed between his large hands. He patiently waited, sitting there looking at her as though she were about to read him a bedtime story.
Joanna took another hurried sip of whisky to stoke her courage and stared down at her feet. “What exactly do you want to know?”