Can't Stop the Feeling: Romantic Comedy (Sinclair Sisters Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Strange woman. His intention had been to lay down the law, but instead, he was reeling from his mystifying reaction to her and wasn’t entirely sure if she’d taken anything he’d said seriously.

  “Well then,” he said as he stood. “I’m glad we got that sorted.”

  And then he did the only thing he could think of to do. He left her to finish his meal.

  Chapter 5

  Donna awoke to the Doctor Who theme tune. She groaned, rolled over in bed and grabbed her phone.

  “It’s five a.m.,” she whined at Mairi when she answered.

  “And some of us have been up all night helping you defraud your boss,” Mairi snapped back.

  “Is it really fraud?” Donna lay on her back and slung an arm over her eyes to shut out the early morning light. “What does Keir think you’ve been doing all night?”

  “Something illegal,” Mairi’s boyfriend shouted in the background, making Donna realise she was on speakerphone.

  “Keir knows?” Donna groaned.

  “Sean, the back-stabbing hacker, sold me out to his brother.” Mairi’s words produced a male groan—Sean, presumably. “The rat fink cracked under pressure. All it took was one teeny phone call from his brother, and he spilled everything.”

  “You shouldn’t be doing this,” Keir called out. “It’s dumb, and it’s going to backfire on all of you.”

  “Whatever,” Mairi said. “I have news. We’ve cracked the art school’s email. Now you need to draft an email from the Fine Arts dean to Duncan, and one from him to the dean. Then we can send them and get this ball rolling.” She practically tripped over her words.

  “How much caffeine have you had?”

  “Lots. Lots and lots and lots.”

  Great. Mairi was at her worst when she was hyperactive. “Why do I have to write the emails?”

  “Because,” her sister said, sounding long suffering. “You know Duncan best. Now, chop-chop, get it done. I want to get this over with fast, so I can have some quality time with Keir before he leaves for work.”

  “He doesn’t start work for another three hours.”

  “I’m going to need every minute. I have a lot of excess energy I need to get rid of, and I’m not going to the garage to get serviced. Get it? Serviced?” She laughed at her own joke. She was the only one. Everyone else groaned. “The last time we did the deed in the garage I got oil in places that didn’t need oiling.”

  “Well, you are Rusty,” Keir quipped.

  “It’s a nickname,” Mairi snapped. “Not the condition of my parts.”

  “That’s it,” Sean said. “I’m taking my laptop to the car. I’ll work there.”

  Donna couldn’t blame him for running. “TMI,” she wailed. She was going to be sick.

  “You think that’s too much information? If you don’t get those draft emails to me within the next fifteen minutes, you’ll hear all about the time Keir and I did it on the back of his Harley—in detail. Tick-tock.”

  “Why do you need to be involved in this? I can send the dean’s email to Sean. You can go do other stuff.”

  “I can’t. I’m supervising. You lot would be lost without me.” With that, she hung up, leaving Donna with images in her head that she really didn’t want to have there.

  Donna dropped the phone back onto her nightstand and groaned.

  Master won’t like this. Donna isn’t being respectful.

  She lifted her head to find Dobby sitting on the end of her bed. It wasn’t the Dobby she’d drawn, no, it was the movie version—damn those movies for messing with her imagination—and he was still wearing that stupid sack.

  “Go away. You aren’t real.”

  Donna needs to be nice to Master Duncan, another voice said, and Donna groaned again. She looked around to find Gollum, from Lord of the Rings, crouching in the corner of her bedroom. His wide eyes were staring at Donna in disgust. Gollum loves Master Duncan. Bad Donna will make him sad. Master Duncan is sad enough. Bad Donna! Wicked, tricksy, false Donna!

  Dobby nodded in agreement. Master will never give you clothes and free you if you’re disrespectful. Dobby was very respectful to Harry Potter. That’s why he helped Dobby get the sock of freedom. He held it up and stared at it, a look of rapture on his face.

  “I swear, if you go on about that sock one more time, I’ll erase you from every book I own.” She dragged her pillow over her head and shouted into it, “Everybody, out now!”

  When there was silence, she peeked out from behind her pillow. The room was blessedly clear of imaginary characters giving her unwanted advice. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and dragged herself out of its warmth. Spring in Scotland was still chilly, and the central heating hadn’t kicked in yet. She reached for the silken robe on the chair beside her bed. It had massive red cabbage flowers over a black background. The red matched the lace two-piece boy short and tank set she wore to sleep in. It was a far cry from the old terry robe she’d worn when she’d first taken the job at the mansion.

  She tied the robe tight and padded through her small apartment to the desk in the corner of her living room, nabbing a can of Scotland’s other national drink, Irn-Bru,

  on the way because she was too lazy to make tea, and she needed the caffeine.

  The chair felt cold on the backs of her thighs as she sipped her Irn-Bru and waited for her laptop to wake up. As soon as the screen she needed appeared, Donna started typing.

  Dear Zoe,

  No. Duncan would never write dear. She drummed her fingers on the desktop while she thought. And then she started again.

  Zoe,

  I’ll be in Glasgow the weekend of the 8th. If you still want me to give a guest lecture, let me know and I’ll see if I can fit you in, Duncan.

  Yep. that sounded like him—terse, to the point.

  Now, to sound like Zoe. She flicked through the old emails in Duncan’s account, found one the art school dean had written to him months earlier and used it as the basis for hers.

  Hi Duncan,

  I thought I’d check to see if you’re up for a spot of guest lecturing? We have space on the weekend of the 8th and would love to book you in. Maybe you could come up to Glasgow on the Friday night, and we could have dinner together? Catch up on old times? What do you say? Don’t let me down this time!

  Zoe.

  She sat back and considered it. Maybe she shouldn’t put in the bit about dinner. She didn’t like the idea of Duncan having an intimate meal with a woman she didn’t know. She had to look out for him. He was still so vulnerable. Maybe the dinner wasn’t a good idea. Unless…She brought up Google and searched for the dean of Fine Arts. It was a relief to discover she was a woman in her early sixties who’d been happily married to an equally famous sculptor for thirty-plus years.

  “That’s much better than some man-eater,” she muttered to herself.

  When she’d finished the forgeries, she sent the fake emails to her sister. Her phone rang almost immediately.

  “Are they okay?” Donna asked her sister.

  “They read fine to me,” Mairi said, “but Keir’s made a good point. What if this art school woman calls Duncan?”

  Donna sat up straighter. “I never thought of that. I’ll add a line telling her he only wants to be contacted by email.”

  “What if he decides to ring her?” Mairi said. “You need to make sure that doesn’t happen either.”

  “How?” It wasn’t like she could monitor him twenty-four seven.

  “I don’t know,” Mairi snapped. “I have to go burn some energy. Sean will intercept all emails before they reach their targets. He’ll alert you when he has them, and you can substitute your versions for the real thing.”

  “Targets?” Donna was beginning to regret this plan.

  “What else are we supposed to call them? Targets sounds professional.”

  “Professionally criminal,” Keir shouted in the background.

  “He’s so dramatic,” Mairi said. “Anyway, I need to go. K
eir is looking particularly fine this morning, and I need some of that. Tatty-bye.”

  “Now I need to wash my ears out with soap,” Donna muttered as she hung up.

  Why hadn’t she thought about the dean calling Duncan? She amended his message, telling Zoe he only wanted to be contacted by email. Then she made a quick call to Sean, to ensure he didn’t send the email from the dean’s account until she was ready to deal with her boss. Now all she had to do was stop Duncan from ringing Zoe. Not that she thought he would, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Her life was getting more complicated by the second.

  As she headed for the shower, another character walked out of the pages of Lord of the Rings and into her home—Gandalf, the wizard. Today, he was in his Gandalf the White incarnation, meaning he was less playful and more judgemental. He looked down his hooked nose at her, tugged on his waist-length beard and pointed a gnarly finger in her direction.

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive! he said in a voice that would have resonated around a London stage.

  “Oh, shut up, Gandalf,” Donna said and slammed the bathroom door behind her.

  ***

  Duncan had dreamed of painting, and he woke in a cold sweat. It had been years since he’d planned paintings in his sleep. As soon as Fiona had been diagnosed, his nights had been filled with nightmares about losing his wife. Those nightmares had eased somewhat over the past few months, but he’d given up any hope of every dreaming about art again. He’d thought that part of his life had died along with his wife. Now, his mind was full of paintings again and he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. Because each one of the images his subconscious had planned involved his housekeeper in some way.

  It had all started with the sight of her in front of the open fridge. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind. It had ignited a flame within him. One that had been doused by the loss of his wife. The burning need to paint.

  And now, it was alight again. Only this time, the need to work somehow felt like a betrayal of Fiona’s memory. He wasn’t sure if it was because the paintings in his head involved another woman, or because his art had somehow become entwined with his need for his wife.

  He scoffed as he paced the halls of the mansion. It would take a team of professionals working round the clock to sort out his mind. Everything in his life had become a measure of his enduring love for Fiona. From painting to ensuring her dreams for the mansion were carried out to the letter. Hell, he couldn’t even leave the building without feeling like he was abandoning her.

  He stopped in front of the picture window on the first floor, at the top of the grand staircase, and looked out over the mansion estate. Fiona had loved the symmetry of Georgian architecture, whereas to Duncan, the house had always looked like a huge, grey cube with windows. But he’d put aside his apathy for the place because Fiona wanted to restore the mansion and live in it, and he would never have stood between her and her dream.

  He could feel her touch in every colour she’d picked out for the walls and carpets, in the fancy curtains that hung in fussy ruffles, in the antique furniture that seemed to fill the place to bursting. When she’d been alive, her laughter and enthusiasm had filled the building, and he couldn’t help but get swept up in her joy for everything Georgian as she restored the house to its former glory. Now, he felt hemmed in by the dark wood, patterned wallpaper and plaster detailing. It was everywhere, and it made him feel like he was trapped in a Jane Austen period drama.

  He needed to breathe. He needed somewhere plain, and bare, and white, to rest his mind. He needed his studio. But going back in there without her felt like the worst betrayal of all—which made no sense because he’d been painting for years before he’d met Fiona.

  He was stuck. Mired up to his neck in murky clay that hardened around him until he struggled to breathe. There was no solace to be had in his studio, no place to rest in the fussy mansion, and only guilt when he tried to leave. There wasn’t even any relief to be found in the rolling hills and manicured gardens that led down to the ocean. He couldn’t go on like this, and he knew that, but he didn’t know how to change things. He didn’t know how to let go of his dead wife and the remnants of the life they’d started building together.

  “Good morning, Duncan.”

  The sound of Donna’s voice was a fresh breeze blowing through the mansion. He turned away from the window to see her coming up the stairs from the foyer below. She was dressed in plain black trousers, flat black shoes and a sensible blue blouse. That inner light of hers, which shone so brightly, was in startling contrast to the mausoleum they lived in.

  He shook his head to get rid of his maudlin thoughts. “I told you to wear whatever you wanted to work.”

  “This is what I want to wear.”

  “I like your Snoopy T-shirt better.” It was fern green and matched her eyes.

  “Feel free to wear it whenever you like.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her to let her know he wasn’t impressed by her comeback. Although, to be honest, he was a little. “What’s up?”

  “Have you checked your email today?”

  “Why would I do that?” It was full of people begging him to exhibit or to paint something new for them. He didn’t need that kind of pressure. “I put you in charge of my email.”

  She huffed out a sigh, and he found himself mesmerised by that bow of her top lip again. The curve was sublime. Actually, come to think of it, Donna was full of curves. Knowing women, she probably thought she was fat, but to an artist’s eye—purely objectively, of course—he would term her more Rubenesque. Yes, he could see her in a decadent painting by Ruben, all plump flesh and come-hither gaze.

  She stepped to the side, and the light from the open window caught her hair, making the many tones within it come alive in a halo of warmth around her face. His breath hitched. Not a Ruben, more like the carefree models in a Renoir. He could imagine her painted in wild, swirling strokes of colour that flowed out from her, carrying sensuality and softness into every corner of the canvas.

  He was doing it again.

  Planning paintings that revolved around Donna. He could even feel the tingling in his fingertips as they itched to move over canvas, spreading paint in their wake. His hands suddenly felt empty because they didn’t hold a brush, and he wanted to feel the texture of charcoal dragging over paper again. He felt the pressure of need building inside him and knew that soon, no matter what crazy objections he might have, he’d have to paint again.

  And he wanted to paint Donna when he did.

  “Are you listening to me?” she said.

  He blinked at her, feeling as though he was coming out of a daze. “No.”

  “Duncan.” She let out a gentle sigh. “Are you okay? Is today a hard day?”

  Aye, it was. But probably not in the way she meant, and he hated to see the sympathy in her eyes. He wanted to see them blazing, the way they did when he annoyed her. That was when the soft green came to life and sparkled like emeralds. He’d render those eyes in Winsor Emerald, with a splash of Chrome Green and a touch of Cobalt Green. He shook his head to clear it.

  “This damn house is closing in on me,” he said gruffly. Surprised that he gave her any explanation at all.

  Her reaction was not what he expected. She barked out a laugh and her eyes danced. “This house is over eight thousand square feet. You could run a marathon through the corridors. There’s even a room that’s made entirely of glass. Not your usual set-up for claustrophobia.”

  She had a point. He felt the tension in his spine ease somewhat. “What were you saying?”

  “There’s an email from Glasgow School of Art, they want you to take part in their visiting lecturer programme.”

  “No.”

  “You always say no. You sound like a toddler who’s only just learned the word. I think you should do it.”

  Duncan stilled as he studied her. There was nothing in her demeanour to set alarm bells ringing i
n his head, yet they were blaring. “I don’t remember asking your opinion.”

  “You never ask for it, but that’s okay because I’m happy to give it anyway. I think you should go to Glasgow and talk at your old college. Weren’t you just saying the walls are closing in on you? This is the perfect opportunity to get out there again.”

  The bells in his head turned into wailing sirens. “Why are you so keen to get me out of the mansion?”

  Her eyes widened further. A sure sign she was up to something. “I don’t care either way whether or not you leave the mansion.”

  Aye, and she probably had a bridge somewhere she wanted to sell him too. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.” A faint flush reddened her cheeks. “You’re so suspicious. Is it wrong that I think it would do you good to get away from the mansion for the day?”

  “And spend it talking to a bunch of baby artists with stars in their eyes. No thanks.”

  “What about giving back to the art community and doing your bit to encourage the next generation? What about getting out of the house and giving your staff a break from your angst?”

  Her smile was sweet, distracting him enough that it took a second for the last question to register. “If the staff don’t like my angst, they can shov—”

  “I get it.” She held up a hand. “If you don’t want to do it, don’t. Now, can you sign off on the carriage house renovation, so I can give the builder the go-ahead?”

  “Where’s the paperwork?”

  “Oh, I forgot it.” Those captivating eyes of hers got wider. “Never mind. Look it up on your phone. I emailed it to you.”

  And the alarms in his head grew louder. Donna never emailed anything. She printed it out, shoved it under his nose and put a pen in his hand. Keeping his eye on her, he dug his phone out of his back pocket.

  “For goodness’ sake, Duncan. You’re moving like a snail. Give it to me, and I’ll find the email.” She snatched the phone from his hand, but it slipped and went flying through the air.

  The two of them watched in horror as sailed over the railing and landed with a crash on the marble floor of the foyer below them.