Love of Her Lives by Sharon Clare Page B

— but that had no bearing on her urge to drive clear into another province with him.
    Right.
    Better watch that. She would not be ruled by physical attractions . Remember how Matthew had looked like the whole package? With a vital break–up dinner pending, she would not be fixating on another man — ever. She would be a career girl, a psychologist specializing in addictions. Sex was the addiction that had ruined her family. She would save others from the same fate.
    The sun had set when Beth slowed the car and pulled into the Hilton parking lot. “Where are we then, lass?” he asked.
    “Montreal.” She stretched out her legs with a satisfied smile and waited for his exclamation. He had abducted her with a pretext of protection from a threat he wouldn’t explain, so he shouldn’t be surprised to learn she would seek her own answers. Too bad for him those answers were a province away. Perhaps he’d learn a lesson in minding his own business.
    “Very good.”
    She felt her brow rise. “Very good? You’re not bothered that I’ve taken you so far from Ashbury?”
    He shot her a dry look she couldn’t fathom interpreting. “No,” he answered simply. “You choose to stay here?”
    She nodded her head. “Don’t you have to answer to anybody? No girlfriend at home who might be surprised to hear you’re in Quebec?”
    “No.”
    “Fine then, if you don’t want to share details of your personal life, so be it. I’m tired. Make sure my suite has a Jacuzzi, please and thank you.”
    “I’ll see what I can do about a Whatoozi, but I’ll not have you staying alone, not yet.” His fair eyebrows drew together. “You can wipe that look off your face. I’ll not sleep in your bed.”
    • • •
    Calum made up an address and checked them in, ignoring Beth’s gape when he admitted to not having a credit card. And no, he didn’t need help with their luggage. Did he look like a man who needed a lad no bigger than a toothpick to carry a few bags? Not that they had any luggage. Beth made him stop at the gift shop for all sorts of toiletries.
    It was a good thing she’d not seen his face when that little room she’d boxed them into had risen up in the air and taken them to the eighth floor. An elevator, he realized afterwards. He’d not liked it one bit. For a man used to living in the Highlands and given the choice, he preferred solid ground.
    Calum locked the door to the hotel room after they entered. No suites were available, only a room with a king–sized bed. If it was suitable for a king, it should be adequate for Beth, but bloody hell — the room was tiny with only one bed.
    Two upholstered chairs sat in front of a window flanking a round table. He looked from the enormous bed to the puny chair. Damn. It would be an uncomfortable night.
    He dropped the shopping bag on the floor and flexed his fingers. “I need to clear my head. Where will I find the whiskey?” Inside the closet, he found hangers and a long board, ah, pressing clothes.
    “Over here,” Beth said with a lopsided look as though he’d been in a Hilton before. It wouldn’t serve him to admit it, not yet. She left a small door open for him under a contraption named Braun.
    Snatching a tiny bottle of Crown Royal from the shelf, he tried to imagine a purpose for such an apparition. “What kind of men are these Quebecers? Are they wee people then or can they not hold their liquor?”
    Beth’s mouth almost quivered to a smile as she took a step back. “Just so you know, I don’t find you funny at all. Humour often doesn’t translate well across cultures. And speaking of that, where did you say you were from?”
    He swallowed the contents in one not nearly satisfying swig. “From a place where you’d as soon die as serve a customer a piddle as that.”
    Beth sighed. “Can’t you just phone room service for more instead of complaining? I feel clammy from the drive and need to scrub the scent of Bruce Hopkins from my skin, so I’m going