Chapter One

 

Nathan Hunter was a man for whom determination was not only instinctive but had been built up by his education and experience in life to something of a cultural imperative.

His grandfather had started with nothing and built up a successful oil and gas exploration and development firm. His father had built that into a worldwide conglomerate. They were both men determined to get their way and Nathan had been raised with that mindset, in competition with four older brothers.

He had always been the last to do anything, which meant he had clear goals in order to not be the least. He had always known how many runs his older brothers had batted in, how many touchdowns they'd scored, how high they'd placed in their Harvard classes, and ensuring he surpassed them had become something of a fixation of his in his youth.

He was older now, but overcoming goals was second nature to him. He could not compete with his brothers, who were already well-established with the company before he even graduated. Evan, the next youngest of his brothers, was five years his senior, and running the exploration effort in Malaysia.

What Nathan had become was the company fixer. When a problem or obstacle arose, with the authorities, with partners, with rules or regulations, Nathan would be sent in to see it was removed. He was an affable, charming man, but there was a core of unstoppable will within him which would not be defeated.

At least, not so far.

He would overcome all obstacles, by honeyed tongue or iron fist, by hook or by crook. If he had to bribe someone or threaten them, well, business was business. If he could sweet talk them (something he was very good at) make promises which seemed legitimate (sometimes they actually were), or otherwise persuade people to cooperate that was all to the good.

If they wouldn't be amenable then he would go around them or over them or through them, if necessary. Nathan Hunter liked to think of himself as the pointy end of the company's sword, cutting its way either through the jungle or through whatever natives hindered them.

It had been seven years since he'd left Harvard. He'd traveled around the world since then in pursuit of his family's business pursuits. He'd been to Africa on a number of occasions, and understood the issues of its chaotic anarchy. He'd spent considerable time in Asia, greasing the many palms which required attending to. He'd bribed politicians in America and sweet talked those in Europe.

He had, of course, been in London on many occasions. Next to New York, where his family's business was headquartered, it was the most important financial capital of the world, after all.

He had never been to Scotland before. And was beginning to wish he wasn't here now.

Discipline was his watchword, his code. Self-discipline was how a many measured himself. The discipline of his employees spoke to the application of his authority. Business was not a democracy. It was organized from the top down, and if the top was organized, the bottom damned well had better be - or else.

It had been ... frustrating, dealing with the Africans, who were perhaps the least punctual and disciplined workers on the planet. It had been annoying dealing with the Asians, who would talk around a subject for hours without getting to the point. But he'd never quite encountered the sheer stupid, stubborn obstinacy of the Scottish in refusing to do things in an efficient and effective manner.

And too damned many of them didn't seem to speak any recognizable form of English!

He had taken to counting to ten before replying fairly often. He quite admired the Japanese culture, particularly the part about 'losing face'. He was not a man who lost his temper, however angry he was. He was a man filled with self-control. His anger would show in how flat his voice was, not in screaming at people.

But the Scottish were trying even his patience.

He would not, of course, show it. To Nathan, his face was but a mask he donned for a play. It was a very good face, a very handsome face, with a strong chin the men admired, but boyish, in a way which seemed to appeal to women of all ages. His hair was a tad long for business, but nicely tousled in a way which, combined with an earnest, friendly smile, could make people forget they were dealing with a cutthroat, Harvard trained lawyer from New York.

The word 'can't' was a word he took to be a challenge, and yet it was a word the Scots kept flinging up at him with negligent ease, along with various drawled synonyms such as 'cannae', 'naw' and 'nae'. It hadn't been too bad back in Edinburgh, where he could at least understand them (mostly) but up here in the northwest the dialect seemed to have taken a definite turn towards unintelligible.

"Wares t'heid bummer?" a voice demanded from the outside room.

He raised his eyes from his computer screen in irritation, muttering under his breath as he heard Pamela's softer reply. He couldn't quite make out what she was saying but her voice had a placating tone. She, at least, did what he told her to do, even if she didn't seem to understand why. He had little hope she'd deal with it, though, and wasn't surprised when a burly man in a hideous brown suit stormed through the door a few moments later.

"Aye, Mister Hunter there," he said. "Were ya after telling Josh Mackinnon t'take his lads over to plot Forty-Three and run thet survey?"

Nathan counted to ten. He really would have liked to fire Bryce, but after a day or two here he'd realized he was actually one of the more effective of the company's local employees.

"I did," he said.

Bryce gaped at him. "Yir aff yir heid!" he exclaimed.

"Have you ever heard the term 'better to ask for forgiveness than permission'" Nathan asked.

"You'll get bloody little of that if ya go traipsing onto the Ferguson land wit'out his get!!"

"Mister... Lord Ferguson is in London," Nathan said with a tight smile. "I'm sure he'll forgive us when we apologize for mistakenly crossing the boundaries."

"Oh aye! He's noted as a most forgiving fellah!" Bryce said in disbelief.

"We're not going to do any harm, Mister Bryce. We simply need more information on local groundwater."

"Weel, you don't need to tell me, and yer a canny lad taking advantage of an empty, but Mackinnon's lads are feart of crossing onto Ferguson lands against his get. His quine is still there ya know."

"Riiight," Nathan said, closing the laptop and getting to his feet. "Suppose you send Eddie to me and I'll go see these lads," he said.

"Ah'll do jest that then!"

Nathan shook his head and sighed, then pulled his jacket on and headed out past the desk where Pamela was acting as his temporary secretary.

"I'm going over to Lot Forty-Three, Pamela," he said.

"Shall I send Eddie?"

"Please."

He liked that she anticipated his need, and with two of them searching for him Eddie should hopefully turn up promptly. Eddie was barely out of his teens and, an appalling suckup, Nathan thought. But he was useful as a translator and scrounger. Clearly he was going to have to go along with MacKinnon and make sure things got done before that old bastard Ferguson who'd been standing in their way for months returned home.

"Are ye sure you want to be wearing this whilst traipsing about, Mister Hunter?" she asked, running a finger lightly along the cuff of his sleeve.

He gave her a boyish smile and she flushed. "Don't you be worrying yourself, Pamela," he said. "I don't intend to be putting in any hard labor."

She half giggled as he turned away. He'd barely thought of his suit. Why would he? Yes, it probably cost something more than she would have considered affordable (he'd never asked or checked) but he had lots of them. They were made in Italy, tailored to his exact measurements. He wasn't sure what they were made of but they were comfortable, and, like his face, his suits were a necessary part of convincing people to listen to him.

No one would see Nathan Hunter in one of his Italian suits and not understand instantly that he was a man of some power and means. And that was often quite useful. Yes, he was a handsome man, broad shouldered, though slender, and he worked out. But adding the designer suits gave him a cachet which got him attention anywhere he'd ever gone.

Important men looked at him with respect, and service people, waiters, clerks and the like, came running, eager to see to his needs. All of which he had come to take for granted.

"G'day, Mister Hunter!"

Eddie Ives hurried up to him as he stepped outside, and Nathan nodded his head. Eddie was about twenty, one of those types he'd run into forever, a scavenger and weasel. Such people were enormously helpful for they knew how to get things done. And in Eddie's case, he also served as Nathan's unofficial translator. He'd spent a lot of time down south and Nathan could actually understand him.

"Up for a bit of a drive, Eddie?"

"Of course, sir!"

"Fetch the car, would you?"

"Right on!"

Eddie hurried off to the nearby garage where the Jaguar was stored, and Nathan looked around him at the busy little camp. Most of it was trailers, for it moved as the survey was completed. There were also some large, portable buildings for storage and repair bays for the machinery around the dusty lot.

Eddie returned quickly, and before he could rush around to open the door Nathan climbed into the rear. He'd rather have sat in front, however odd that felt given they had the steering wheel on the wrong side, but sitting in the rear conveyed a suitable image to the locals. And Nathan was all about image. It helped him get his way, after all.

And he had a certain level of dignity to uphold.

The car circled the dirt road, then turned out onto the nearby highway and headed north.

"What's an empty?"

"What?" Eddie looked at him in the rear view mirror.

"An empty?"

"Wahl, it's like a house when the parents have gone off, you know, and there's just the kids there to play."

"Ah, that makes sense. And a quine?"

"A girl, daughter usually."

Nathan pondered this. "Does Lord Ferguson have a daughter?"

"Naw, but his granddaughter is staying with him."

Nathan frowned. "How old is she?"

"Something near to twenty, I figure, maybe a bit more or a bit less. She's a looker."

"Is she now?"

The presence of a girl didn't cause him much anxiety. Especially one that age. Girls and women had been flinging themselves at him since he'd hit adolescence. They were like money, always available whenever he wanted them for whatever purpose he chose to use them for. He'd never met one between twelve and forty he couldn't make giggle and blush.

And he'd never met one he wanted to see naked who hadn't cooperated fairly easily either.

Besides, the survey area was down near the lake, loch, they called it, well away from the castle, right on the edge of the Ferguson lands. It was unlikely she'd even know they had ever been there. If she did show up, somehow (he'd been told there were no roads leading there from buildings around the castle to the east), he'd give her a song and dance, charm her, and send her on her way.

"Aye, she's a temper, though. You know them redheads."

"I doubt we'll see her," he said, putting reassurance into his voice.

He didn't quite understand the way the Scots acted about the local blue-bloods. They seemed to mock them and respect them at the same time. He was sure that was one of the reasons he kept finding roadblocks in his path every time he applied for permits from the environmental and resources commissions, or sought help in persuading the old man to let them complete their survey.

It could be the bureaucrats were just incredibly inefficient, of course. But he'd been around the world, and he could generally recognize it when someone behind the scenes was working the levers of power against him. Scotland's nobles had no more official power than those of England. But there behind the scenes, well, they seemed to wield enough of it to get their way often enough.

Of course, they hadn't run into Nathan Hunter before.