In one of those doorways appeared a man as tall as my father. He paused at the sight of us and then made his way across the humongous reception hall.

As he drew closer, I recognized him.

Millions of people across the world knew this guy’s face.

Wearing a fitted, black cashmere sweater that caressed his muscular physique and black dress pants, the man wore casual chic beautifully. He had the body and swagger that fashion magazines loved in their Hollywood actors.

And that’s what he’d once been.

An A-list Hollywood actor.

Lachlan Adair.

Normal women would swoon at his dark blond handsomeness, his lovely blue eyes and brooding mouth, the short, almost dark brown beard. While obviously good-looking, there was a rough edge to his masculine beauty that made his face substantially more appealing. And he was well known for the wicked twinkle in his eyes. From what I could tell, he hadn’t been a bad actor either, although typecast in mostly action movies.

I didn’t swoon as he approached.

I was nervous, but not because his charisma and fame intimidated me.

Beneath my calm facade, I held a deep reserve of resentment toward this guy. It wasn’t his fault. Not really. But this was the man my father abandoned me in favor of.

When Lachlan Adair broke out in Hollywood at twenty-one with a huge action blockbuster, he hired my father as part of his private security. Perhaps it was that they were both Scots that drew them together. I wouldn’t know. I only knew they became close. So close, Mac went everywhere Lachlan did, even if that meant missing out on my teen years. My birthdays. Graduation. And then they moved back to Scotland when Lachlan retired to turn a family-owned estate into this exclusive, members-only resort.

Mac was head of security and lived in the village.

“I heard you had a visitor,” Lachlan said. His attention moved beyond us and he addressed the butler. “Wakefield, there seems to be a problem with a guest in the Duchess’s Suite. Would you mind assisting?”

The butler strode past us. “Right away, sir.” He disappeared up the grand staircase, moving with efficient speed without looking like he was in a hurry.

Adair focused his stony gaze on me even as he addressed my father. “Mac, it seems an introduction is in order.”

“Lachlan, this is my daughter, Robyn. Robyn, this is Lachlan Adair.”

Neither of us reached for the other’s hand. Awkward tension fell between us.

I didn’t know what his problem with me was.

I wasn’t the one who’d stolen his father.

“I know who he is,” I said, unimpressed.

Lachlan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It seems strange to have been in Mac’s life for almost twenty years and never have met his daughter.”

“Yeah, that tends to happen when a father abandons his kid to follow an actor around the world.” I didn’t dare look at my father. Despite my complicated feelings, I hadn’t come here to attack him. There was a small part of me that understood why Mac hadn’t been around.

“Excuse me?” Adair’s tone had a dangerous quietness to it.

I ignored him and turned to my father. “Can we have some privacy?”

“Of course,” Adair answered. “Forgive me for intruding.” He gave Mac a look of concern. “Just wanted to make sure everything was okay here?”

Mac nodded, his expression guarded. “If you would prefer us to go off the estate, we can.”

“Don’t be daft.” Adair took a step back. “Give Ms. Penhaligon a tour.”

Did he just emphasize my surname?

For a moment, Mac pressed his lips together in a tight line and seemed to give Adair a warning glance. The lord of the castle lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and without looking at me, turned on his heel and walked away.

Overall, he’d been as rude to me as I was to him.

But I had an excuse for my rudeness, even if it was unfair to blame him for my father’s actions.

What had I ever done to Lachlan Adair?

2

Robyn

Minutes later, I found myself in a room tucked away at the back of the first floor—Mac’s office. It had been decorated much simpler than what I’d seen of the castle so far.

A shallow window behind his desk offered a barely there glimpse of the estate grounds. Dark and gray, the room was saved from grimness by the multitude of lamps, comfortable antique furnishings, and the surprising collection of books on the shelves.

Two armchairs sat across from his desk. He offered one to me. “Can I send for tea or coffee?”

Suddenly feeling more nervous than I did when Mac first approached me, I nodded and muttered, “Coffee, thanks.”

I took a seat, hoping the tremble in my knees didn’t show.

Mac picked up the telephone on his desk and pressed a button. A few seconds later, he said, “Stephen, can you arrange for coffee and refreshments to be sent to my office, please? For two.”