Chapter 15
Cecilia Barstowe flipped through messages on her phone as she lay on the crappy hotel bedroom ten miles from Inverlochy. The Secret Services of eight countries had booked out everything for miles around and it was the closest she could find.
She sneered, Harry from The Wall Street Journal was over thirty miles out, halfway to Perth—which she’d thought was in Australia but apparently Scotland had one too.
Actually, her room wasn’t crappy at all. It was just…weird. A quilt on the bed, flowered wallpaper, cheerful rugs with hunting scenes—every frill and trim in place until she felt as if she was trapped in one of her six-year-old niece’s fantasies. This wasn’t a B&B, it was the Hollywood version of one. But admitting that it was comfortable and cozy was not something you ever l
