The Great Scot. Donna Kauffman

but was envious of their vitality nonetheless. The bright spot of color, along with the neatly trimmed box hedges that ran beneath the lower windows, and the topiary trees set on either side of the front door, all leant the place a rather magical glow.

      She could easily picture a horse drawn carriage circling the cobbled driveway and made another mental note to tell the production staff to consider using one in the opening sequence. Maybe Greg could come prancing in on some fine stallion when he met the women for the first time. She sighed just a little, framing the shot in her mind.

      There were no cars in the drive, so she pulled all the way around to the front of the house. Only then did she see the view from the house itself. She’d wound her way so far into the mountains she’d lost her bearings, but she’d assumed, this being the Chisholm clan stronghold, and perched on the peak as it was, that it would look out over the valley that ran between the village and the mountains, allowing the clan chief to look down over his domain. She’d expected to see Glenbuie and the distillery dotting the vista below.

      The view was altogether different, however, but equally majestic and commanding. She climbed out of her rental car and turned, shading her face with her hand against the sun. Standing in front of the house looking out, her view was straight down the mountain range. An endless ripple of deep blue and green peaks, contrasted to the plum and rose hues of the early evening sky. The peak on which she stood was clearly the highest, providing her with an awe-inspiring outlook.

      She walked over to the part of the circular driveway that edged along the steep drop off. It was railed off and quite safe, but the way it jutted outward, stepping to the railing felt like stepping off a cliff. Her heart caught in her chest as she looked down at the tops of trees that soared stories high. The dense stand of pines were so thick she couldn’t quite make out any of the winding mountain road below. She looked out across the narrow drop to the rise of the next mountain, then the peak beyond it, and on and on, as far as the eye could see. It was definitely a rush, like standing head and shoulders above the world. She could only imagine what it would be like to stand here during a wild storm, or when the mountains were cloaked with mist and fog.

      The canals of Venice, the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa…each had been backdrops for previous seasons of the show. Glenshire was so completely different from anything they’d used before, far more remote, without a famous historical landmark as a marketing tie-in. But standing there with the warm, late afternoon breeze whipping at the tips of her hair, she couldn’t think of a more fitting setting for their next Prince Charming happily-ever-after story. Glenshire was earthy and bold, ancient and imperfect…and utterly romantic.

      “The view is something, is it no’?”

      Erin let out a little yelp. The unexpected voice had come from quite close behind her. A very deep, beautifully melodic, male voice. She made a grab at the railing when her feet slipped on the cobblestones as she whipped around to face him. She was rarely caught off guard, her internal radar having become highly developed by, oh, around age four. Being raised in a state home did that to a person. No one snuck up on her.

      Disconcerted by so swiftly losing the upper hand, she plastered a self-deprecating grin on her face even before she found her balance. “So much for my grand entrance,” she quipped, even as he moved swiftly to take her arm and help her regain her footing.

      “The stones get a bit slick when the evening mist comes in.”

      The sun had just begun lowering in the sky and there wasn’t so much as a hint of mist in the air, but she welcomed the gentlemanly offer of an excuse. “Yes, thank you.” She slid her arm free from his unsettling touch and leaned back against the railing, gripping it with both hands, just as a precaution. Her knees had gone a bit wonky when she’d gotten her first full tilt look at him.

       Earthy and bold, yet utterly romantic.

      Her words to describe Glenshire could easily be used to describe its owner. Back in the village, they’d affectionately referred to him as The Great Scot. She’d never gotten around to asking why.

      Now she didn’t have to.

      He was tall, more than a head-and-a-half taller than her own five-foot-seven, forcing her to look up to see him properly. Way up. Like his younger brother, Brodie, Dylan Chisholm had a gorgeous mane of thick, dark hair, but the family resemblance ended there. His was straighter, and he wore it more on the long side. It fell across his forehead in a rakish sweep and brushed well below his collar in the back, which only added to the overall Heathcliffian effect. She doubted it had seen a brush in some time, but looked as if it had been repeatedly raked through by his own hand. Made a woman want to sink her fingers into it and tousle it a bit more. Her grip tightened on the railing as she realized she wanted to be that woman.

      Her gaze lifted to his, and she noticed his eyes were a dark gray, fringed with dreamboat-thick lashes. All that lush beauty was offset by high, aristocratic cheek bones, a strong nose, and a hard jaw shadowed by a hint of a beard. It was an incongruous jumble of angles, not a classic profile by any stretch, and yet arresting for its imperfection. But it was his mouth that snagged the best of her attention.

      His lips were firm, but slightly full, as if they’d been chiseled on an Italian Renaissance statue. Even more compelling were those deeply grooved lines on either side of his mouth that hinted at dimples, yet his expression was far too serious to truly believe him capable of it. And when you added his accent into the mix? Well, what warm-blooded female wouldn’t have gotten a bit wonky-kneed? If she had indeed seen any mist, she could be easily convinced it was just a cloud of pheromones wafting around him.

      She belatedly realized she was standing there, all but ogling him. And he was letting her, with nary a flicker of amusement or consternation filtering into his steady expression. Although she couldn’t be too sure on that last part. He was rather hard to read. And it wasn’t like her to get so caught up in appearances. Far from it, in fact. Working in Hollywood had long since inured her to dreamboat good looks.

      So why was it that this one made her want to fluff her hair and check her teeth for leftover bits of parsley? That was about as foreign a concept to Erin as wearing makeup or worrying about what outfit to wear. And yet, she had to resist the urge to run her tongue over her teeth and suck in her tummy a little.

      She made herself release her death grip on the railing long enough to stab her hand toward him. “Dylan Chisholm, I presume? I’m Erin MacGregor. Your brother, Brodie, was supposed to call and tell you I was coming.” Which, from the totally blank look on his face, she could only assume hadn’t happened. Great. Strike two.

      He took her hand, in a quick, business-like shake. His palms were wide, a bit work roughened, he had long fingers, warm skin and…and why in the hell was she noticing that? She jerked her attention back to his face, which didn’t help all that much. “I’m guessing you missed his call.”

      “Apparently,” he said. “So…what exactly am I missing?”

      Not the flirty question it could have been, despite the hint of amusement that had crept into his tone. In her experience, men who looked like Dylan generally didn’t make innuendo-laden, sexually suggestive small talk with women who looked like Erin. Which was to say average. Dead average.

      And up until right that second, she’d been perfectly okay with dead average. Average was non-threatening and it enabled her to get what she wanted more often than not. As long as what she wanted was a production location and not…well, what she found herself suddenly wanting right at the moment.

      “I’m interested in booking Glenshire. I understand you’ve turned part of it into a bed and breakfast.” She forced a steady, confident smile, when she, surprisingly, felt anything but.

      “Ah, I see.” As understanding dawned in his eyes, he seemed to relax a bit. “I appreciate the interest. I’ll have to thank my brother for sending business my way, but I’m afraid we dinnae open for guests for another fortnight.”

      “Oh, I know. That’s okay. Preferable really.”

      He quirked one eyebrow and frowned a little, somehow managing to look even hotter doing