The Heir of the Castle. Scarlet Wilson

Why did he live in a castle? And why on earth hadn’t he made contact with his potential family members while he’d still been alive?

      She was trying not to be angry. She really was.

      She read the letter once more. Property law wasn’t her forte, but could this even be legal? There were some differences between English and Scots law, but she wasn’t sure if this was one of them.

      A Murder Mystery Weekend to decide who inherited the castle?

      There was no getting away from it: Angus McLean must have been stark raving mad.

      She blinked. A bit like how she’d been feeling lately.

      Maybe it was a family trait. The thought didn’t really fill her with pleasure—only fear.

      She watched as people marched past the glass in her office wall, all with a purpose, all with not a minute to spare.

      Exactly as she felt.

      How many holidays was she overdue now?

      She straightened in her chair, the thick paper between her fingers.

      Her father had been a grocer, her mother a shop assistant. No one had been more surprised than Laurie when she’d excelled at school. She liked learning. She liked finding out things. And she’d got swept along with the potential and expectations of her exam results. The careers advisor who’d pushed her towards university. The teachers who’d encouraged her to excel. Her father had cried the day she’d been accepted at Cambridge to study law.

      And it had only taken her two months to realise that she hated it.

      But, by then it was too late. She couldn’t disappoint her dad. Not when he’d spent every waking hour working to help her achieve what he thought was her ‘goal’. And especially not when she could hear the pride in his voice every time he told someone his daughter was going to be a lawyer. Turning her back on law would be like trampling on his grave.

      She’d been miserable here for months. Always smiling, always agreeing to do more, to work late, to help others out. Never mind the hours she put in at the office, there was never really time off at home. Aches and muscle pains, sleepless nights, tension headaches, all signs that her body needed a break.

      And maybe this was a sign.

      No matter how ridiculous it sounded.

      Her fingers tapped out the email quickly—before she had a chance to think straight and change her mind. She picked up the files on her desk and carried them outside.

      Alice was worried. Laurie could tell by the frown on her forehead and the way her pencil was banging on the desk.

      Laurie took a deep breath and gave her a smile, lifting a pile of Post-its from her desk. She started slapping them on the files. ‘I’m taking some time off. Pink for Frances, green for Paul and yellow for Hugo. After I’ve been at court this afternoon there’s nothing they can’t handle. Ask them just to pick up where I left off.’

      Alice nodded, her mouth gaping open as Laurie handed her the instructions from the letter. ‘Can you book me a train ticket and sort out some accommodation for me?’

      Alice put her pencil to good use and started scribbling. ‘You’re going to go? Really? When do you want to leave?’

      ‘Tomorrow.’

      ‘Tomorrow?’ Several heads poked up at the surprise in Alice’s voice from the pods around them.

      Laurie nodded. ‘I’m supposed to be there Friday through to Monday evening.’

      Laurie Jenkins taking a holiday. It was unheard of.

      Maybe it was time for change.

      * * *

      Callan stared at his watch for the twentieth time. This was his last pickup of the day.

      Thank goodness. So far, there had been the loud Canadians, the over-excited Americans, the bad-tempered Irishman with the very sweet Irishwoman, and several others from around Scotland. Once the hoity-toity lawyer arrived from London he was all done.

      He must have been mad. Why on earth was he agreeing to be part of this ridiculous debacle?

      He sighed. What was the bet that Ms Lawyer was extra tired and extra crabbit? By his estimations she’d have travelled four and a half hours from London to Glasgow, another four hours from Glasgow to Fort William, and the last part of the journey on the steam locomotive.

      He leaned back against the stone wall of the old station. He could see the steam in the distance. She could have stayed on the train from Glasgow—it did come on to Mallaig—but like any good tourist she must have preferred to take the Harry Potter train and cross the viaduct.

      It wasn’t really a problem. He couldn’t blame her desire to see the stunning Scottish countryside. It just meant she was a later arrival than everyone else.

      The train pulled into the station and the tourists piled out. Most of them would be staying overnight in Mallaig—a coach was parked outside the station to transport them to their accommodation.

      It took a few moments for the steam and chattering crowds to completely clear.

      Wow! That was Mary Jenkins? So, not what he was expecting.

      Instead of an iron-faced middle-aged woman the smoke cleared around a long-haired brunette, with slim pink Capri pants, a white loose tunic and a simple holdall in one hand. Far from looking tired, she was fresh-faced and brimming with excitement.

      Callan was used to beautiful women—he’d dated enough of them—but this was a shock to the system. Her clothes highlighted her curves, the swell of her breasts beneath the thin tunic and her Capri pants showing a hint of lightly tanned skin.

      She walked over quickly. ‘Callan McGregor? Thank you so much for meeting me.’ She reached over and grasped his hand firmly between both of hers.

      Zing. What was that? A wave of tiny electric shocks shot up his arm.

      ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She waved her hands around. ‘What an absolutely gorgeous setting. I’ve had an absolute ball on that train.’ She pointed to the camera around her neck, nestled next to a gold locket. ‘I must have taken around a hundred pictures.’

      He was trying to remain calm. He was trying not to let the corners of his mouth turn upwards in surprise. It wasn’t just that she was pretty—she was gorgeous. Warm brown eyes, clear skin, curls bouncing around her shoulders and full pink lips. ‘Mary Jenkins?’ he queried. The name just didn’t suit her at all.

      She let out a laugh. Nothing quiet and polite, but a deep, hearty laugh that came all the way up from her painted pink toes. ‘What? No one has ever called me that! It’s Laurie. Laurie Jenkins. My father called me after his elderly aunt Mary, but I’ve always been known by my middle name Laurie.’

      He nodded. The Mary Jenkins he’d pictured in his head had looked nothing like the Laurie Jenkins standing on the platform before him. Around twenty years of nothing.

      Was she really old enough to be a lawyer?

      She shuffled some papers in the front pocket of her holdall. ‘Let me take that for you,’ he said as he reached down and swung it up onto his shoulder. It was light. It was surprisingly light. Maybe Laurie Jenkins wasn’t planning on staying long? Unlike the Canadians, who appeared to have brought the entire contents of their house with them.

      He ushered her along the platform towards his car, trying not to watch the swing of her hips and shape of her curved backside. Focus. That zing was still bothering him. Callan McGregor didn’t do ‘zings’.

      He waited for the comment—there weren’t many people with a pristine James Bond DB5 in this world. One of the few over-the-top purchases since he’d made his fortune. But she just happily climbed in the front seat and pulled on her seat belt. ‘Do you know much about Angus McLean?’

      He was thrown. He