In Mcgillivray's Bed. Anne McAllisterЧитать онлайн книгу.

      For James, with love

      In memory of Belle,

      always the best

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WASN’T exactly heaven.

      It sure as heck wasn’t Iowa.

      But it was as close as he was ever likely to get to perfection, Hugh McGillivray decided as he lounged back in the chair on his gently rocking boat, playing out his hand line, hoping for one last catch as he lazed away the end of the day in the setting Caribbean sun.

      At the stern another rod bobbed in its holder, increasing his odds. But even if he didn’t get any more fish, Hugh didn’t care. It had still been a perfect day. The sort of idyllic day he remembered from childhood—where anything could happen or nothing could—and each was equally welcome.

      They were the days he’d dreamed about during his years as a Navy pilot when rules and regulations and spit and polish had ruled his every waking hour. They were the days he’d been determined to enjoy again. They were the reason he’d left the Navy five years ago and come home to start up Fly Guy, his island charter business on tiny laid-back Pelican Cay.

      Most days flying passengers and cargo kept him busy moving among the islands and to the coastal cities of the States. Most days he was delighted to do it—enjoying the variety of people he met and places he went and jobs he took.

      “Never a dull moment,” he’d told his brother Lachlan cheerfully last week.

      But that wasn’t precisely true.

      Some days—some wonderful days—no one wanted to go anywhere, no one wanted to send anything, things were dull as ditch water. And Hugh loved those days even more because on those days he was totally free.

      Like today, he thought, smiling and flexing his shoulders, then jiggling his hand line just a bit, wiggling his toes and relishing the beauty of the sunset and the soft sea breeze that ruffled his hair.

      Of course, he could have been back at the shop helping his sister, Molly, work on the chopper engine or he could have been doing his paperwork or sending out his bills.

      But the papers and the bills would be there tomorrow. So would Molly. And she’d be a damn sight happier for not having had him underfoot today. They were good friends most of the time—partners for the past four years; Molly did most of the mechanic work and Hugh did most of the flying—but they came close to strangling each other whenever they worked together on the same project.

      So it had been the wisest thing, he assured himself, not to mention the safest, considering Molly’s proverbial redhead’s temper, to wave her goodbye this morning, whistle up his border collie, Belle, and head out for a day’s fishing.

      He’d done some bottom fishing early, checking out several favorite spots. Then, long about lunchtime, he’d dropped anchor at a little cove on Pistol Island, a few miles east of Pelican Cay. There he’d eaten his bologna sandwiches and drunk a couple of beers while Belle had explored the mangroves and then went swimming. After Hugh had swum a bit, too, he’d begun working his way back toward Pelican Cay, though work hardly seemed the operative word.

      Mostly he just fiddled with his lines, soaked up the rays, sipped his beer and drifted along as the sun dropped into the sea.

      He watched with mild interest as speedboats zipped past him. But he felt no urge to move quicker. If he wanted speed, he flew. Today he wanted to drift. He’d waved at the launch taking the day-trippers back to Nassau from Pelican Cay when it had passed him a couple of hours ago. The passengers had waved back, looking tired and sunburned but, he supposed, happy.

      No happier than he was, though.

      No one was happier than Hugh McGillivray in his battered wooden boat—not even those high-living folks he’d seen partying on the snazzy yacht that had cruised past just a little while ago. He could still hear the sounds of calypso floating his way and see its lights in the dusk heading northwest.

      He reached into his cooler and pulled out one last beer. The cooler had been full of ice and beer and sandwiches when he’d left this morning. Now it was full of fish—on top of what ice was left. He had enough fish to last all week and enough to share the largesse with Molly and Lachlan and Fiona, Lachlan’s wife.

      He’d been hoping for a good-size grouper—one that would top the fish Lachlan had brought home last week. They’d been competing since they had come to Pelican Cay as teenagers. Lachlan still held the all-time record—having landed a fifty-eight-pound grouper when he was nineteen. But that had been half a lifetime ago. And even though he’d been insisting since then that Hugh would never beat him, Hugh still figured he would.

      Especially now that Lachlan rarely went fishing anymore. He was far too busy these days with his collection of small inns and resort hotels, not to mention with his wife. Particularly now that Fiona was expecting.

      Hugh grinned as he thought of his normally svelte sister-in-law