The Witch Of Clan Sinclair by Karen Ranney

it on the left side of his desk.
    He didn’t know any woman who would call on him at his home. No, he knew one who might dare.
    “Does she have brown hair and piercing blue eyes?”
    “She has an aggressive manner, sir, and was quite ill-mannered. I believe she does have blue eyes and unremarkable brown hair.”
    “Show her in, Rutherford,” he said, wondering at the surge of anticipation he felt.
    Rutherford nodded, his mouth looking even more grim as he bowed, stiff with dignity, and left the doorway.
    He heard footsteps, sat back in his chair and waited for her.
    She didn’t disappoint.
    Mairi Sinclair stood in the doorway frowning at him in much the same manner Rutherford had only a moment earlier. This time, however, Logan smiled.
    “Why aren’t you wearing a bonnet?” he asked.
    “I hate them. Why do you care?”
    “I’m curious.”
    “About me? Shall I be overjoyed that the Right Honorable Lord Provost evinces some interest in the hoi polloi? Mark this as a day of—”
    “Forgive me for interrupting you, but why are you here?”
    She stared at him.
    Did no one ever stop Mairi Sinclair in mid-tirade?
    “It’s not fair to use your position to try to intimidate me,” she said.
    He settled back against the chair. “All I asked was why you were here.”
    She huffed out a breath. “I don’t mean now,” she said. “I meant in the last two days.”
    “What have I done in the last two days?”
    She had the most remarkable eyes. They animated her face. Angry, she was even more impressive. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes flashing, and that full-lipped mouth thinned.
    “My sources refuse to speak to me,” she said. “My revenue has dropped to what it was five years ago. I’ve lost subscribers. You can’t threaten my sources. You can’t tell people not to talk to me.”
    “Have you had dinner?” he asked.
    She stared at him as if he’d lost his sanity. Perhaps he had.
    “Would you care to eat dinner with me?”
    “Of course not.”
    “You don’t break bread with your enemies? Sometimes, it’s the best way to form an accord.”
    Her eyes darted around the room. “Am I supposed to form an accord with you?”
    “Take the opportunity,” he said.
    “I’m not here to eat with you, Harrison.”
    “No, you’re here to chide me for something I haven’t done.”
    Her words had evidently seared her tongue because she didn’t speak.
    “Come have dinner with me. A peace offering, if you will.”
    “It wouldn’t be proper.”
    “Who’s to know? You’re already here.”
    “My driver. Your staff.”
    “My staff is the essence of discretion. Would you like me to talk to your driver?”
    Her eyes blazed at him. “Why is it that men think they can do something a woman can’t do? If I wanted my driver’s discretion, I would certainly be able to convey that to him.”
    “Then will you?”
    One hand fluttered in the air as if to dismiss him with a gesture. He liked seeing Mairi Sinclair annoyed, and somehow inviting her to dinner had done just that.
    “It’s not a large meal,” he said. “We’re having potato soup. Do you like it? It’s my favorite.”
    He stood and came around his desk.
    “You’re wearing a kilt again,” she said.
    He was still wearing a black jacket atop a blue and green kilt, his sporran hanging from a gold chain. His stockings were white, the cuffs of which were lined with the same blue and green tartan. He’d been required to open a hospital this afternoon and people liked seeing him in formal regalia.
    “Are you wearing anything beneath it?” she asked, tilting her head back to smile thinly at him. “Custom would dictate not, but I can’t envision the Lord Provost bare-arsed for all to see. What if a wind blew?”
    Her smile was edged with daring, as if she expected him to be shocked by her comment.
    “Why don’t you see, lass?”
    He shouldn’t have been surprised when her smile broadened and she took a step toward him, but he was.
    Her hand stretched out,