One More for Christmas(45)

Michael turned his head. “The what conversation?”

“Nothing.” Samantha glanced at her mother, but Gayle was standing apart from them, gazing into the distance in a world of her own. She’d been quiet on the flight. Samantha might have said nervous, except she’d never seen her mother nervous. Maybe she was as worried about spending Christmas together as they were. “Are you all right, Mom?”

Gayle stirred. “Yes. The air smells so fresh,” she said. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here.”

“When were you here? You mentioned it, but you haven’t told us the details.”

“Haven’t I?” Gayle turned her head. “Look—vehicle approaching. I hope that’s our ride. I can’t feel my fingers.”

Samantha had no opportunity to question her further, because a vehicle pulled up next to them and a man emerged from the driver’s seat.

“Samantha Mitchell?”

She relaxed.

Not someone in his sixties. Not the craggy, weathered face of the man she’d spoken to. A younger man. Early thirties she guessed. Presumably someone who worked at Kinleven Lodge, although he wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting. She’d expected a tough-looking, weather-beaten, outdoors type. Apart from the high performance winter jacket and sturdy boots, this guy looked more like a college professor.

Ashamed of herself for stereotyping, she picked up her suitcase. Just because a guy had a lean, intelligent face and wore dark rimmed glasses, didn’t mean he was an intellectual. And whoever said that outdoorsy people couldn’t be intellectual? The important thing was that he wasn’t the man who had been on the end of that phone call. Her professional self would rather have been met by the owner, but her personal self was relieved that he’d sent someone else.

“I’m Samantha.” She thrust her hand out. “I appreciate you meeting us. I wasn’t sure if it would be Brodie McIntyre himself.”

“I’m Brodie. Good journey? You must be tired. Do you have all your luggage?” He nodded to the rest of the group, and gestured to Tab. “There’s a booster seat for the little one in the back. Also a blanket in case she’s cold. I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I threw everything in the car.”

Ella was immediately won over. “What a thoughtful gesture.”

Everyone piled toward the car, except for Samantha who couldn’t move her feet.

“You’re Brodie?”

“That’s right.” He gave her a quick smile and loaded up their luggage with ease.

Her practical side was reassured that although he might look as if he spent his time grading papers and holding large lecture theaters of students enthralled by his academic arguments, he was also the type of man who would be able to dig a client’s car out of a snowdrift or fell a tree in a power outage.

“So your dad is Brodie, too?”

He waited for Gayle, Michael and Ella to climb into the car and slammed the door shut. “Cameron Brodie.” His voice was rough. “My father was Cameron Brodie, but everyone called him Cameron.”

“Was?”

“He died in January.”

“Died?” The wind tugged at her hair, determined to unravel her dignity. “But I spoke to him—”

“You spoke to me. Is this the last suitcase?” He removed it from her numb fingers and fitted it into the car with the others.

“You were the one I—” Drenched in embarrassment, she stared at him. “I thought—”

“You thought I was my dad? I’m afraid not, although I wish it had been because then he’d still be here. This is our first Christmas without him, so if you find us less than cheery company, that will be the reason. And I probably shouldn’t have told you that. A little too honest. Maybe I’m not built for a commercial enterprise.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and his smile was so engaging she wondered how she could possibly not have noticed how attractive he was.

“I appreciate honesty.” And she did, which made it all the more bewildering that she’d built a persona for herself that didn’t reflect the person she was inside. And he knew that, of course. He knew all of it.

It was difficult to know which of the two of them felt more uncomfortable.

He gestured. “You should get in the car, before you freeze.”

The cold was the least of her problems.

She felt terrible. He was clearly raw with pain and she’d just hurt him. Why hadn’t Charlotte’s research flagged the fact that his father had died? And why hadn’t she checked? Disappointed in herself, she caught his arm and then pulled her hand back.

“I didn’t know about your father. My assistant searched the internet, and his picture was there—we assumed—”

“Easy mistake to make. They have his picture, with my name. Technology is fallible it seems, which won’t come as news to anyone who works in that area. No harm done, Miss Mitchell.”

And now he knew she’d been searching for his photo.

“Call me Samantha.” She could see the rest of her family gazing through the window. Ella, mouthing, What? Michael with a concerned frown on his face. “First the phone call, and now this. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.” She didn’t ask herself why it mattered so much what he thought of her.