Maybe.

But as I walked down the short drive in front of the hotel, I smiled and started to laugh. It felt good to yell at that rude bastard. And why was standing up for myself such a bad thing? As far as his warning shot went, he had no power over who hired me. Still, it gave me a chill to think he would try to threaten my career. I pulled my jacket tighter and raised the collar as a brisk wind blew across my neck.

I forced all thoughts of rude Perry out of my head so I could appreciate one of my favorite places in the world. As I approached the Royal Mile, I drew in the fresh air of Edinburgh and got my first real up-close taste of the ancient city.

The Royal Thistle Hotel was perched on a slope half a block down from St. Giles’ Cathedral in the heart of the Royal Mile. The afternoon air was cold and clear, the sky a deep blue with the occasional white puff of cloud. It was a perfect day for a solitary stroll. I turned left toward Edinburgh Castle, breathing in the scents and absorbing the sounds. I stared at the proliferation of souvenir shops selling everything from tartans and kilts to whisky, to ashtrays and coasters and shot glasses, to cashmere shawls and fisherman knit sweaters.

As I walked along the smooth stone sidewalk, I tried to tune out my angry run-ins with both Perry and Martin. I stared at the window display at the Scotch Whisky Heritage Centre and laughed at myself for thinking I could actually handle a taste of Scotch right now, with jet lag tugging at me. I’d fall flat on my face and never make it back to the hotel. I made a mental note to stop back here in a day or so. I didn’t usually drink Scotch, but when in Scotland, a wee dram seemed the way to go.

It sounded as if I had an addictive personality, and I was okay with that. The thing was, I could just as likely be swayed by a piece of chocolate or a beautiful book or a twice-baked potato as I was by a shot of good Scotch. The only obsession I didn’t seem to possess was the shopping gene, much to the dismay of my best friend, Robin Tully.

Thinking of Robin made me smile, as I was reminded that she would be here tomorrow to lead a small group on a tour of Scotland. Besides being a talented sculptor, Robin owned a small travel company called Wisdom Quest. Most of her clients were Fellowship friends who sought out sacred places throughout the world where they could soak up the mysteries and magic while getting their auras polished and their portals tweaked.

The Fellowship-officially, the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness-was the commune in Sonoma County where my parents had raised me and my five siblings. It was where I first met Robin. It wasn’t much of a commune anymore since its members had discovered capitalism and commerce in a big, fun way and become rich off the California wine boom. But everyone was still close and supported one another, as small town people tended to do.

I reached the fork at the top of the Royal Mile and crossed the cobblestone street to head up to the castle. I stopped and took a deep breath of clean air to clear away the prickly feelings. I gazed back at the picturesque, mile-long High Street that meandered down to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the queen’s official summer residence.

The city had changed in the three years since I’d been here. For one thing, there were more Starbucks now, including the one that shared the block with the venerable St. Giles’ Cathedral. And the Royal Thistle Hotel had expanded recently to include a luxurious health spa-not that I was complaining about that. I just hoped my favorite pubs were still in business. I had my priorities, after all.

I took my time hiking up the last block toward the castle. Halfway there I stopped, distracted by one store window that displayed an astonishing jumble of tartan kilts and sporrans. For some reason, they reminded me of big, brash Abraham. The last time we’d attended the Edinburgh Book Fair together, he’d worn his full kilt ensemble to the Saturday-night gala. Much to the delight of the crowd, he’d danced the jig and felt so unfettered that he declared he was going to wear a skirt from then on.

I chuckled at the memory, then realized my eyes were moist. I had to breathe in some air as the full force of jet lag hit me-or maybe it was simply the acceptance that Abraham was truly gone. Either way, it was time for that nap.

Without warning I was grabbed from behind, lifted off the ground and twirled around.

I screamed and swore loudly at my assailant. Then I realized who it was and swore even more.

“Despite that mouth of yours, you’re more beautiful than ever,” he said.

“Kyle McVee, you idiot!” I cried, and hugged him hard.

“Ah, you’ve missed me,” he crowed as he held me snugly in his arms.

“No, I didn’t miss you,” I said, burying my face in the crook of his delicious-smelling neck. “You’re a cad and a rat fink, remember? The Bad Boy Bookseller of Belgravia. I curse your name every morning.”

“I love you, too, my sweet,” he said with a laugh. “Besides, I’ve mellowed.”

“Really,” I said.

“Yes, I’m quite housebroken these days, not a rat at all.” He kissed me full on the lips. “Mm, you’ve still got the sexiest mouth on four continents.”

“Oh, stop it.” I stood back and looked at the man who’d broken my heart three-or was it four?-years ago. My breath almost caught as I stared. Kyle McVee was simply beautiful. Tall, elegant, with a wicked grin and dark eyes that sparkled with charm and humor, he had the look of an angel but was an unapologetic devil through and through. He was yet another living example of my pitiful taste in men.

Maybe I did have a sad habit of picking the most unsuitable men, but I certainly chose the prettiest ones.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Mmm, and you smell good enough to eat. Let’s go back to my hotel room, what do you say?”

“In your dreams,” I said with a laugh. “How dare you proposition me in the middle of the street?”

“Because you’re still a darling girl,” he said, then backed up and looked me over.

I straightened my shirt and jacket and tried to find some trace of decorum, but it was useless. My cheeks heated up at his blatant perusal. I tried to remind myself that if I’d been so darling, why had he felt so compelled to cheat on me more than once during the six months we dated while I lived in London? A simple question.

I knew the answer: He couldn’t help himself. Kyle came from money, lots of money. Among other things, his family owned a respected London book publishing company. He had a collection of rare books that matched any museum collection in the world. He enjoyed the business of buying and selling and trading, and especially enjoyed the bed-hopping and screwing around that came with being the prettiest, wealthiest man in a business that catered to smart, wealthy people.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“I was enjoying a quiet walk to the castle.”

“How boring,” he said, pulling me across the street. “Join me at the pub and we’ll have a snug chat.”

“Hmm. Thanks, but no.”

“Come on, babe. It’s been too long. We’ve got catching up to do.”

“Don’t you have someone else to torment?”

“There’s no one more fun to torment than you.”

“Oh, don’t I feel special,” I said.

He leaned closer. “Besides, I’ve something to show you that’ll knock your socks off.”

“I’ve already seen it,” I said dryly.

His eyes widened. “Minx! Damn it! I insist we skip the pub and go back to my room.”

“You haven’t changed,” I said, reluctantly enjoying his silliness.

“Why should I?” he said with a wink.

I laughed again and realized I’d missed him. He’d always been a relentless charmer. It had been my mistake for thinking he’d taken our relationship seriously, my mistake to allow the pain to overwhelm me. I’d felt so betrayed, it had taken me months to get over it. And now, gazing up at him, trying to recall the pain and anger, I couldn’t. Truth be told, he was just too adorable to hate.