Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots by Caro LaFever Page B

might see it as a challenge. “I’m going to change the subject.”
    “Are ye?” He kept running his gaze over her body, a dark, intent perusal. “What if I rather like the subject we’re on?”
    “Why don’t we make dinner?”
    His focus went to her face and the sneer turned into a scowl.
    Apparently, the man didn’t appreciate her cheerful tone or the subject. Too bad. This was for his own good. “What’s on the menu?”
    “Why the hell do ye think I should feed ye again?”
    “Because I’m in your home and it’s dinnertime.” Walking past him, she headed for the kitchen.
    “I didn’t ask ye to be here and I don’t have much food left.” His grumbling words followed her.
    “Then you can always stock back up at Mrs. Butler’s when this storm is over.”
    “No.”
    She turned to find his own arms crossed in front of him and a determined look on his face. “No to stocking up?”
    “No to ordering anything at all from Mrs. Butler.”
    “Why not?” Dropping her hands to her sides, she hoped the gesture would loosen his stance and his position.
    He only fisted his hands and frowned.
    “Mrs. Butler is a wonderful woman and you’ve known her all your life.” She bent forward on the cedar island, trying to reach across the divide and figure him out. “She needs the business, too.”
    “That’s the point.”
    It was her turn to frown. “The point?”
    “I want her to leave the island. I want everyone to go away.”
    His mantra and, now she understood, his current purpose in life. Make everyone go away. Before she could respond to such a horrible plan, he stomped past her and into the hallway behind the kitchen where the laundry room lay.
    Good grief. The villagers and her dad had been right. The McPherson was trying to purposefully destroy the island’s economy. And now she knew why.
    He wanted everyone to go away. For good. Forever. The man didn’t understand what he needed were friends surrounding him, people to encourage him and listen. Isolation was the last thing a person suffering from depression should strive for.
    She had a lot of work to do with this guy.
    “Here.” He marched into the kitchen with two white-papered packages and slammed them on the counter. In his other large hand, he held two potatoes. “We’ll have this tonight. Not that ye deserve to be fed.”
    Lilly pulled the paper off to find two frozen steaks. “You’ve got a freezer back there?”
    “Yes.” He flung the potatoes down. “And the room is locked so ye can’t get in.”
    “Why do you lock it?” She gave him a puzzled look. “You live alone.”
    “Not at this moment, do I?” He scowled at her. “And a soldier learns to lock up his gear and everything else he can.”
    “Okay. Just asking.” Giving him a nonchalant shrug, she looked at the steaks again. “I wondered where that door went.”
    “You’re a nosy pest, aren’t ye.” It wasn’t a question, and he disappeared into the den before she could answer it, anyway.
    She stared at the meat in dismay. Cooking meat wasn’t her specialty. Eggs and sausage she could handle, but these cuts were expensive, she could tell. She’d bet they were prime Angus—the pride of Scotland. No Scotsman who had any knowledge of her lack of cooking skills would want her fiddling with this. “Um. Iain?”
    “What now?” His growl got cut off by a blast of music, a loud, angry piece she identified as Beethoven.
    Walking around the cedar island, she peered into the den. The fire danced with merry glee, shedding a bright light across the stone floor and walls. The flames were the only happy thing in the room, though.
    He sat in his leather chair, his long legs thrust out, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her, his hands fisted on his lap.
    The music roared its fury at her, expressing his own feelings, she was sure.
    Before she thought it through, she was across the room. The click of the off switch brought a welcome silence.
    Except for the roar of the storm