In McGillivray's Bed by Anne McAllister Page B

don’t need you. “We don’t do managing directors. We don’t do hotshot female executives. So you’ll just have to go somewhere else to find yourself.”
    She stared at him, opened her mouth, then she did itagain and looked at him pityingly. “As if you would know a hotshot executive of any sort even if it came up and bit you.”
    â€œI—”
    â€œJust because you have nothing better to do than fish all day doesn’t mean the rest of the world is the same.”
    â€œYou ought to be glad I was.”
    â€œI said thank you.”
    â€œDid you? I don’t remember.”
    They glared at each other. Then Hugh leaned forward suddenly so that all four chair legs landed on the floor with a thump. Abruptly he stood up, carried his dishes to the sink, and dumped them in.
    â€œSince you’re so determined to work,” he said to her over his shoulder, “feel free.” He jerked his head toward the overflowing sink. There were enough dirty dishes there to keep her busy awhile. “I’m sure you can manage that.”
    She sputtered indignantly. Served her right for being so snotty about his fishing trip. Deliberately Hugh yawned and headed toward the bedroom.
    Behind him he heard her scramble to her feet. “Where am I going to sleep?”
    â€œNot with me.”
    â€œI didn’t imply—”
    â€œThere’s a hammock on the porch.” He cut her off, not wanting to discuss her sleeping arrangements any more than necessary. “Take that. Or you could try the sofa.” He glanced at it. There was a sea kayak on it, balanced on several loads of laundry. “Maybe not the sofa.”
    â€œYou don’t have a guest room?”
    â€œIf you have a guest room, you get guests.” Like his well-meaning parents or his interfering aunt Esme. He let them stay with Lachlan at the B&B. Far less meddlesome that way.
    But Syd turned to look in the direction of his spare room. “What’s that?”
    â€œA mess.”
    It was his extra room. His “office” he called it. But it was more a closet than anything else. Lachlan had bunked there before he’d bought the Moonstone and the Mirabelle. Before that Great-Aunt Esme had commandeered it for her spring getaway one year and had expected him to clear it out for her. No one said no to Aunt Esme.
    â€œWe could clean it out,” Sydney St. John said.
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œYou don’t have to. I will.” Captain Ahab was back.
    â€œNo, you won’t. It’s almost midnight.” He sighed when he could see she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Look, okay. You take the bedroom tonight. I’ll take the hammock. One night only.” Then he turned and snapped his fingers for his dog. “C’mon, Belle. Time to hit the rack.”
    â€œBy all means,” Sydney St. John said. “Get your rest for another hard day fishing tomorrow.”
    Hugh’s lips twitched. “I wish,” he said. “Unfortunately, I’m flying to Jamaica in the morning.”
    Syd stared as if she hadn’t heard him right. “You’re—” long pause “—flying?”
    Hugh dug into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled a business card out of his wallet. He flipped the card at her as he headed for the door.
    â€œMaybe we’re not all hotshot executives, but you’re not the only one who can manage a business, Ms. St. John. Have fun cleaning up the dishes.”

CHAPTER THREE
    S HE had never done so many dishes in her life—and not just the ones in the sink.
    Sydney did those as soon as Mr. “Fly Guy” McGillivray had banged out the door. Then, because she was still trying to work out the implications of that business card he’d flipped at her, she kept right on going. Heaven knew there were plenty of dirty dishes.
    â€œFly Guy” must do them once a week.
    But the notion that he flew