Secret Things and Highland Flings. Tracy Corbett

woman rushed over. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’ She looked frantic, torn between wanting to help him and steering well clear. ‘I need to call the police.’

      ‘Don’t call the cops,’ he pleaded, the blood from his arm smearing across the white tiled flooring.

      She picked up the Woman at the Window and clutched it to her chest. ‘You were trying to steal my painting.’

      He staggered to his feet. ‘I wasn’t. I have no interest in that painting.’ Which was entirely true … he was after a different painting. ‘Please don’t call the police.’

      She waved the Stanley knife at him. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

      He lifted his hands, blood running down his right arm. ‘I’m really sorry if I frightened you.’ He opened his palms. ‘But I’m not here to cause trouble.’

      She didn’t look convinced. Her pale complexion had drained of colour. She began to sway. Was she about to faint, too?

      ‘Are you okay?’

      ‘Funnily enough, no. A man just broke into my gallery, attacked me and tried to steal one of my paintings. I am far from okay.’

      Indignation overrode contrition. ‘Hey, I didn’t attack you. And I didn’t break in – the doors were open. And I’m the one who’s bleeding.’ He pointed at his arm.

      ‘Well … what did you expect?’ She leant against the wall. ‘You were trespassing. Now get out, or I will call the police. And you can tell whoever sent you I haven’t got it. They’re wasting their time.’

      He looked puzzled. ‘Haven’t got what?’

      ‘Don’t play dumb.’ She tried to sound tough, but her voice shook. ‘I won’t be intimidated. You hear me? You tell Marcus I’m made of sterner stuff.’ Her legs buckled.

      ‘You’re in shock. Let me help you—’

      ‘Get away from me.’ She batted his hand away. ‘If you think I’m—’

      ‘Hey, I was only trying to help.’

      ‘I don’t need any help from you, thank you.’ She backed over to the stairwell, taking the painting with her. ‘And stay … stay there. You can’t be trusted.’

      Things were spiralling out of control.

      ‘Look, I don’t know why you think I’m after that painting, but I’m not.’

      She hugged the painting tighter.

      ‘My name’s Oliver Wentworth. I’m here because my sister Louisa Musgrove sent you a painting by mistake.’

      She froze. ‘Your sister?’

      ‘The collection from Rubha Castle? She sent you our late mother’s art collection, but another painting was included that shouldn’t have been. I’m here to retrieve it.’

      She frowned. ‘And why should I believe you? You could be anyone. A con artist. A fraudster. Show me some ID.’

      Why hadn’t he thought to bring ID? ‘I don’t have any formal ID, but I’m telling the truth. I was going to explain, but when I got here the place was empty, so—’

      ‘You thought you’d walk in and help yourself?’ She looked incredulous.

      He shrugged. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

      ‘Do you make a habit of just taking things? I mean, is there anything else you’d like while you’re here?’ Her tone had morphed into sarcasm. ‘A lift home, perhaps? A couple of paintings on your way out? A cup of tea?’

      ‘Actually, tea sounds great.’ He took a step back when she glared at him. ‘Loss of blood. You can’t throw me out like this.’

      She opened her mouth and then hesitated, as if her mind had changed direction. She looked conflicted. She also looked as cute as hell. But he was smart enough to know mentioning that wouldn’t do him any favours.

      A beat later, she went over and closed the external doors. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ she said, heading upstairs.

      He followed. ‘Is that a yes?’

      He took her silence as an affirmative.

      The staircase was narrow. When her foot caught on a loose bit of carpet and she stumbled, he reached out to grab her waist. ‘Don’t faint on me, there’s not enough room. And besides—’

      ‘Let me guess?’ She swung around to face him. ‘You’re the one who’s bleeding?’

      He was about to apologise for the umpteenth time, but then noticed the challenge in her expression. The colour had returned to her cheeks and she no longer looked so shaky.

      Maybe he needed a different approach. If he couldn’t steal the painting back, maybe he could charm her into giving it to him instead.

      He tried for a boyish grin. ‘Technically, I’m the victim here. ABH … use of a lethal weapon.’

      Her blue eyes widened. ‘It was self-defence.’

      He came up a step. ‘I’d surrendered.’

      ‘You were trespassing.’

      Another step. ‘My hands were up.’

      ‘You startled me.’

      He was eyelevel now, their bodies separated by the painting. ‘You stabbed me.’

      After a long-drawn-out pause, where they both stared into each other’s eyes, she turned and hurried up the remaining two flights. ‘Stay by the doorway. I don’t want you bleeding over my carpet.’

      Her perfume hung in the air, playing havoc with his ability to think rationally. He had to shake himself out of his trance. Who was playing whom here?

      The door at the top of the stairwell opened into a residential dwelling. The space was open-plan and painted soft white with a few period pieces of furniture, including a jukebox. Mark Rothko artwork hung on the walls, providing a splash of colour. It was a mixture of modern and retro, like the owner. A stretch of worktop was decorated with elaborate cupcake stands and boxes of Tupperware.

      What he wouldn’t do for a sugary snack. He hadn’t eaten all day.

      The woman came back to the stairwell and shoved a handful of kitchen towels at him. ‘Hold that against the wound and sit where I can keep an eye on you.’ She pointed to a barstool and then fetched a first-aid kit, stretching up to reach it from the cupboard above.

      His eyes were drawn to her shapely legs and he was hit by another wave of dizziness. Christ, how much blood had he lost?

      When she turned back, she caught him staring. ‘Don’t get any funny ideas.’

      Before he could reassure her that he wasn’t interested in anything other than getting his painting back, their eyes met and something hit him hard in the solar plexus. He immediately squashed the feeling. He was here to save his family. Not flirt with a cute woman.

      Seemingly flustered, she busied herself making tea, using a proper teapot. She carried the bone china cup over to him and placed it on the worktop.

      He raised an eyebrow at the cherry blossom design that matched her blouse but refrained from comment.

      She opened the lid on her first-aid box. ‘Roll your sleeve up.’

      He flinched when he saw a bottle of witch hazel. ‘Will this hurt?’

      She tore open an antiseptic swipe. ‘For a burglar you’re not very brave, are you?’

      ‘I told you, I’m not a burglar.’

      ‘Oh, that’s right, you’re …?’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Remind me again?’

      ‘Oliver