Catherine O'Connor - Mandate For Marriage

‘How about some coffee?’ he asked casually, a sudden smile brightening his face, and Fiona’s stomach flipped over, despite the armour with which she had surrounded herself.

‘Coffee!’ she repeated, glaring at him.

‘Yes, brown, hot liquid full of caffeine,’ he mocked as he took a sheaf of papers from his case and began to sort through them.

‘I thought you considered our coffee the pits,’ she drawled, imitating his accent.

‘I do, but it’s something I’d best get used to,’ he informed her, before adding, ‘I’m planning on staying.’

‘There’s nothing to stay for—’ began Fiona, her heart thudding as she realised the six months’ separation had obviously not meant the same to him.

‘Fiona!’ His voice was suddenly sharp as if tired of her constant defiance. ‘Make the coffee!’

She glared back at him. This was her company and she was not the office junior! How dared he order her to make coffee? She fumed inwardly. How she disliked the smooth way in which he was managing to manipulate the situation, making her feel insecure. She suffocated her indignation and rage. She would not allow him to annoy her; she would not waste any more emotions on him. She rose gracefully and forced a sweet smile.

‘That’s a great idea! It will refresh us before we settle down to business,’ she said lightly, hoping that gave a little bit more of a firm footing back to her. His sensual mouth twisted into a humourless line at her words, and once again Fiona felt the floor slipping beneath her. ‘White, no sugar?’ she said briskly, denying the effect of his expression. She walked from the room with a graceful sway of her hips, aware that he was watching her, and for some reason that pleased her.

The kettle took an age to boil, and by the time she returned he had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, loosened his tie and had undone the top button of his shirt. She could just see a few stray dark hairs peeping over his open white collar and felt a sudden weakness. His long legs stretched across the table and he held the telephone under his chin while his long, sensual fingers rapidly flicked through the papers. He inclined his head to the table, indicating where he wanted his coffee placed, and Fiona felt another surge of anger begin to boil inside her.

‘Shall I put your coffee here, sir?’ she said, making a full curtsy.

‘Thank you,’ he mouthed as he continued his conversation on the phone, seemingly unaware of her sarcasm. Damn the arrogance of the man, she seethed as she resumed her seat and sipped at her coffee, trying to feign indifference, though she knew that was impossible.

From the moment she had met him, she had been drawn to him like an innocent, dull moth to the shining brightness of a deadly light; she had still been recovering from the knowledge that Mark had not really cared for her. However, she had grown up a lot in those ten months when she had first been back home, looking after both her grandfather and the distillery. Yet, at twenty years old, she was still no match for a cool sophisticated, mature man like Grant. Fiona leant back, closing her mind to the image of the man before her, and remembering how they first met.

She had rushed home from college the moment she had heard the news about her grandfather, but her initial relief that he was alive soon faded when she realised the extent of his stroke. It had been quite dense, leaving him paralysed down one side and his speech terribly impaired.

She had been so grateful to Andy; he had taken over the running of the company. He had worked for her grandfather for several years and knew the business inside out, but she had never really liked him. She didn’t know why, there was just something about him. But she banished these thoughts from her mind; this was business and she could ill afford flights of fancy.

Andy had constantly reassured Fiona that everything was fine, so she’d had plenty of free time to assist her grandmother, helping with the boarding house and Grandad’s physiotherapy, and the exhausting regime had paid dividends. Grandad was making a remarkable recovery, astonishing everyone with his resilience. It was funny, fate, she acknowledged: it had been her turn to take Grandfather to the day centre but when Kate, the guide who led tours, had not turned up for work at the distillery, Fiona took her place, grateful for the change of scene. She loved taking the tourists around the distillery; she was proud of her heritage and found the whole process of making whisky fascinating. Her natural exuberance was transmitted to the tourists, who always seemed more talkative and questioning when she took them around. Fiona allowed herself a smile as she thought of Grant; he had asked more questions than she had ever thought possible! She could remember that day so clearly, as if it had been branded into her brain. The damp smell of autumn mists was already in the air, and vibrant colours filled the moors as the forests turned from verdant green to a kaleidoscope of crimsons, yellows and browns. At the end of the summer, tourists—mostly families on holiday—had returned for the start of the new school term, leaving only the retired catching the last moments of sunshine, or younger parents with tiny tots still not old enough to attend school. Fiona had hurried them all into the foyer away from the crisp chilling air—she was well aware how the damp could affect old bones, so she had decided to begin the tour inside. It was then that she first saw him and he had immediately started her pulses racing. He had pushed the hood of his dark green waxed jacket from his face, revealing a thick corncoloured mane of hair that fell casually around his deeply tanned face. His tan was not weathered but smooth, and its colour even, making a perfect backdrop for his vivid blue eyes. At first, Fiona imagined he was Swedish; he looked Scandinavian like a Viking warrior of old, and maybe it was some historical instinct that had warned her to beware of him as her pulse increased still further.

‘Hi, I’m Grant.’ He smiled widely and she knew at once he was American.

‘Hello,’ Fee managed to respond. ‘Come inside, I’m just about to begin the tour,’ she said, stepping back to allow him to enter.

‘Thanks. I was going out walking but the weather looks a little…’

‘Yes, yes, it does. I think you were wise not to go. The mists can come down so very quickly, though you do seem properly dressed,’ she remarked, noting his thick navy sweater with an intricate cable pattern which seemed to emphasise the breadth of his muscular chest. The well-worn denim jeans that curved around his firm hips and thighs seemed to fit with an almost indecent snugness, and they were pushed carefully into a pair of ancient, scuffed brown walking boots. Fiona felt herself blush as she realised how closely she was looking at him. She turned her attention to the other tourists, offering a sample of her family’s best whisky to everyone.

‘It has an unusual flavour,’ Grant commented, sipping the amber liquid with appreciation.

‘Indeed it has,’ Fiona said loud enough for everyone to hear. Her attention was directed solely at Grant, as if drawn by some powerful hidden magnet. ‘This is a family distillery; we produce our own Scotch to a family recipe.’ The pride in Fiona’s voice was evident. Grant nodded his approval and Fiona’s heart leapt at his appreciation. A small child pulled eagerly at her tray, nearly causing the glasses to unbalance.

‘Oh, no, you don’t, young lady,’ Grant laughed, lifting the squirming bundle high into the air and tickling the little girl till she crowed with delight, forgetting all about the tray of drinks.

‘Thank you.’ Fiona smiled her gratitude and was awarded the full brilliance of his perfect white teeth. He laughed as he placed the child back safely on to the floor and turned his attention to Fiona.