But discovering nothing protested when he folded his arms over his chest, he did just that and rocked back in his chair, grinning at the memory of seeing a little white ball of fluff trotting up the road beside Shep yesterday, when he and Birch had been on their way home. Niall had been driving—the bullet had barely scratched his shoulder—and Birch had started bouncing in her seat and shouting ohmigods at the sight of her precious pet.
The dogs had made it all the way past the entrance to Nova Mare, and Niall doubted they’d ever know how Shep had rescued Mimi from the clutches of yet another nefarious Leopold. All he had to go on was Jake’s report of seeing Shep, looking like a K-9 officer on a mission, racing south down the main road through town not five minutes after Birch had turned north on her mission to save her mother.
Niall knew dogs could be trained to follow a scent even if that scent was traveling in a vehicle and hours, if not days, old, but what really baffled him was Shep deciding to go after Mimi rather than follow Birch. Unless the scary-intuitive bugger really had bubbled up from a magical spring and somehow known Mimi was a loose end they couldn’t deal with until Birch and Hazel were safe.
And speaking of magical things, Niall dropped down the front legs of his chair when the station door opened and Birch came strutting in wearing a daringly low-cut blouse and tight little skirt, her hair bobbing in loose curls and her eyes made up to look twice their size; all of which indicated she was a woman on a much more interesting mission this evening.
Well, except for the scowl on her face.
“They sold it. I knew some stupid tourist would buy that purse right out from under me. Merde, it’s probably on a plane to freaking Germany right now.” She stopped in front of his desk, also folded her arms over—well, under—her jacked-up breasts, and shot him a very un-spitfire-like pout. “It was the perfect purse.”
“When did ye decide it was perfect?”
Her scowl-turned-pout turned into a frown. “Sometime after the river swallowed my old perfect purse.” She canted her head. “I can’t remember . . . How many days ago was that?”
“By my calculation,” Niall said as he stood up, “nine days and twenty years ago.” He bent and grabbed the large paper bag he’d stashed under his desk this afternoon and plopped it down on top of the desk. “What did this perfect purse look like?” he asked, although he doubted she heard the question, what with her screaming and clapping her hands and jumping up and down the moment she spotted the artisan shop logo on the bag.
She snatched it off the desk, pulled out the purse and let the bag float to the floor, only to stop jumping and screaming, and lifted those oversized eyes to his and tried really hard to smile. “Th-thank you, Niall. It’s beautiful. Yeah, it’s a really beautiful purse.”
“Aye, the perfect purse for Hazel, wouldn’t ye say? She’ll like it, too, won’t she?”
Birch’s cheeks turned three shades brighter than her lipstick. “She’ll love it,” she whispered, walking over and picking up the paper bag. She slipped the purse inside it and walked back, but stopped in the act of setting it down when she spotted a second large bag had magically appeared on the desk.
Niall waited one heartbeat . . . two . . . three . . .
And then she pounced—on the bag, not him—but waited until she pulled out this perfect purse before screaming and jumping up and down again, adding ohmigods as she held the purse against her jacked-up bosom as though it were a long-lost lover.
Okay then; score one for Hazel—which is why she was also getting a purse.
Because it was Hazel who had explained to Niall just this morning that for all of her take-charge, get-out- of-my-way, don’t-be-so-annoying attitude, and despite her ability to break down, reassemble, and shoot any firearm ever made, Birch was a dedicated girly-girl at heart and would go bonkers (Hazel’s term) over anything even remotely feminine that caught her eye.
And that particular combination is what had Niall going bonkers over Birch.
Hazel had also enlightened him on her daughter’s love-hate relationship with guns, in that it seemed every weekend for the four years she’d lived with her father, then one weekend a month for the last twenty-one years, Claude had taken Birch to a firing range to shoot every make and model of gun he could get his hands on. Hazel had shrugged, saying she supposed a twenty-five-year-old military man hadn’t known how else to bond with a precocious six-year-old. And then she’d added that on alternate visiting weekends, Birch had dragged her father to high-end estate auctions, resulting in Claude’s little suburban home being decorated with some pretty pricey furnishings.
And then his astute secretary—who couldn’t fill out police forms with two relocated and bandaged knuckles—just happened to mention a particular purse sitting in a certain artisan shop that had caught her daughter’s attention. The woman had neglected, however, to mention it cost over a week’s chief of police salary—times two, because he couldn’t very well buy Hazel a less expensive thank-you gift.
Niall was so busy patting himself on the back that he nearly missed the sudden silence, and was barely prepared when Birch pounced again—this time on him. Well, she hopped up on the desk—Lord, that skirt was short—and carefully threw her arms around his left shoulder and head, and kissed him like a woman on a carnal mission.
“How many bloomers are ye wearing under that skirt?” he asked when she let him come up for air, wanting to know how long it would take to get inside them.
“None,” she whispered into his mouth just before she kissed him again.
Okay then; since he still had one working arm, Niall used it to scoop her off the desk and started toward the holding cell, only to turn and head for the door to lock it, only to stop when Birch pulled her tongue out of his mouth and said to stop.
“Not yet,” she rasped. “Not . . . here.” She wiggled to be put down, and the moment he reluctantly complied, she put her perfect purse back in its bag, grabbed Hazel’s, and tucked them both back under his desk. “I’ll come back and get it . . . later,” she said, walking over to him—while running her sexy little tongue over her sexy wet lips, Niall couldn’t help but notice—then slipping her hand in his and heading out the door. “It’s a beautiful evening. Let’s go for a walk.”
Niall used his free hand to tug on a pant leg, sure as hell glad it was dark out.
“I thought Sam was going to start crying,” Birch said as she led him up the lane, “when he discovered The Bastard had destroyed the DVDs.”
“Aye. Aye,” Niall repeated less thickly as he stopped dragging his feet to watch her cute little ass and moved up beside her. “Sam hoped they’d have information that could bring down the Leopold dynasty.”
“Do you suppose giving him the copies I made would make up for losing his transmitter?”
Niall brought them to a stop and simply stared down at her, wondering if she hadn’t bubbled up from a witch’s cauldron. “Christ, you scare me,” he muttered, starting them walking again.
“Hey, I was going to use them for leverage if the ring didn’t work. No, this way,” she said, pulling him toward the road when he’d started down the sidewalk. “Let’s take a walk in the park,” she added, her voice sounding a bit gruff to him. “Shep is teaching Mimi to swim,” she rushed on as they crossed the road. She snorted. “Which only shows what crazy things a girl will do to impress a guy, because Mimi hates getting wet. Speaking of impressing,” she continued as they started down the path leading into the park, “it looks like a florist shop exploded in our house. Dad and Sam each sent Mom huge floral arrangements, and they both showed up this evening to see how she was doing.” Another snort. “Talk about awkward. Well, for Dad and Sam; Mom just kept hobbling into my bedroom while I was getting all doll—dressed, and rolling her eyes trying to pretend she wasn’t flattered by all the attention.”
She brought them to a halt at the bottom of the path and looked around a
t the few tourists also taking advantage of the beautiful evening to enjoy the park.
“There’s a free bench over there,” Niall said, pointing to the right. “It’s far enough from the roar of the falls that we can talk.”
She turned left onto the loop path. “I think there are a couple of benches near the base of the falls,” she said, again sounding—nay, not gruff, exactly. More like preoccupied. Aye, she appeared a bit preoccupied about . . . something.
It must be something really troubling, because she’d neglected to give him hell for trying to buy his way into her bloomers with a very expensive purse.
She suddenly veered off the path, the cool mist slowly enveloping them until it was so thick they lost nearly all the light from the park’s streetlamps. “I thought there was a bench back here,” she said, letting go of his hand. She hopped up to stand on the soaking wet bench, which put her eye-level with him—which made it easy to wrap her arms around his neck without putting any strain on his shoulder.
But instead of the kiss he was expecting when he pulled her into his arms, she leaned her forehead against his. “Do you remember yesterday when you said you thought you’d never know what being in love felt like?” she whispered just loud enough for him to hear over the sound of the falls.
“I remember.”
“Was that . . . were you saying that now you know what it feels like because . . . you love me?”
“Aye,” he said, sounding a bit gruff to himself.
“But why?” she half whispered, half cried. “I’m bossy and opinionated and get very annoyed when people don’t agree with me. I always want things to happen my way, I have a temper and swear a lot, and . . . and . . . How can such an old-fashioned guy like you love someone like me?”
Niall threaded his fingers through her hair when she tried to drop her forehead to his again. “I may have noticed your gorgeous eyes and sexy little backside at first, but it’s your confidence, your tenacity, your refusal to back down when ye know you’re right that enchanted me. I like that ye never try to hide your feelings, so I always know exactly where I stand. I like your honesty and your loyalty—to your mom, to Claude, to your residents. To me. All with the added bonus of coming packaged in a beautiful body.” He rested his forehead against hers with a sigh. “I fell in love with a spitfire.”
Niall felt her take a deep breath a heartbeat before she lifted her head. “Well, Chief MacKeage,” she said thickly, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re two people who happen to be standing in the mist of Spellbound Falls.”
“As a matter of fact, I did notice.”
“And it’s my understanding that if we were to kiss right now, we would both fall in love.”
“Aye, that’s what the legend claims. But,” he added when she started to kiss him, “I’m fairly certain both people must believe in the magic for the legend to work. Do ye believe, lass, that there’s a magic powerful enough to help two people destined to be together, no matter if they’re separated by distance or even time itself, to find each other?”
“I didn’t before I moved to a little town in the middle of nowhere and found myself living next door to this really amazing Scotsman. As a matter of fact, I’m going to kiss him right now, right here in the mist, and I guess we’ll see just how powerful this magic is, won’t we?”
And kiss him she did, and Niall would swear he heard the whisper of a chuckle in the roar of the falls—sounding suspiciously like an old magic-maker he knew—as the mist surrounding them sparkled with the light of a thousand fireflies.
But when he lowered a hand to pull Birch more intimately against him, the lass leaned back just enough to lock her eyes on his again, and Niall couldn’t help but notice that hers were shining with mischief.
“You know,” she said, quickly scanning the area around them before canting her head and flashing him a spitfire smile. “I wonder if there’s a legend about what happens if two people make love in the mist of Spellbound Falls.”
Niall also quickly looked around, then lifted Birch so she could wrap her legs around his waist, and walked deeper into the woods to find someplace less wet, not about to tell the lass that those really brave—or very foolish—couples likely found themselves changing diapers nine months later.
LETTER FROM LAKEWATCH
Dear Readers,
Every so often a character will quietly tiptoe into one of my stories and firmly establish himself (it’s almost always a him) before I even realize he’s there. Maximilian Oceanus did exactly that by sneaking into Dragon Warrior as a seemingly innocuous tiger; but it wasn’t until he literally came storming back in Mystical Warrior that I realized the guy wasn’t going to leave me alone until I gave him his own story.
I really hadn’t intended to expand the magic beyond my Gaelic drùidhs, but here was this mysterious, larger-than-life . . . man messing with my highlanders and causing me many sleepless nights trying to figure out what, exactly, he wanted.
Because don’t they always want something?
It’s a bit embarrassing to admit that Mac remains somewhat of a mystery to me even after eight books. And let’s not forget his father, the great Titus Oceanus, who continues to surprise me seven books after first meeting him. As for Nicholas, from The Heart of a Hero, I honestly still don’t know if the mythical warrior is an actual god or not.
Well, guess what? Another mysterious character—this one definitely a god—is right now slowly and methodically entrenching himself in Spellbound Falls. Heck, it’s taken me two books just to learn his name is Telos—which, at this point, is about the only thing I know about him. So if you’ve just finished reading The Highlander Next Door, I imagine you have as many questions about him as I do.
Then again, maybe all you’re asking is, who in their right mind creates a new god?
And I say, well, why not? How much fun could I have, I asked myself, if I created a new mythology to exemplify—and exaggerate—mankind’s strengths and weaknesses? We’ve had fun with Mac and Titus, haven’t we? But they’re so ancient-minded. And that had me wondering what sort of excitement a modern god might bring to the series—especially if he didn’t always see eye-to-eye with the mighty Oceanuses.
There’s just one little problem; I don’t exactly know a whole lot about Telos. He simply up and manifested in For the Love of Magic and has only given me glimpses of himself in The Highlander Next Door. And as I’ve admitted to you before, I write books pretty much the way you read them—which is to watch the story unfold one page at a time. I do have a sense of the overall theme before I begin, but I rarely know what’s going to happen as near as the next scene.
For me, writing is an act of faith. If I sit down at my computer with nothing more than a general understanding of my two main characters—who they are, what it is they want, and how they’re planning to get it—I start typing on the belief they will tell the story. And if a mysterious person happens to show up . . . well, I have to assume he’s there for a reason.
So I guess reading is an act of faith for you, too, in that you believe I won’t lead you down a dead-end path. Oh, that path might get rather crooked and sometimes even appear impassable, but I seem to recall Titus telling Niall that he “must embrace the entire journey to truly appreciate the destination.”
So I give you my heartfelt thanks for joining me on this particular journey, and only ask that you share my hope the destination will be . . . magical.
Until later from LakeWatch, you keep reading and I’ll keep writing.
Janet
); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Highlander Next Door Page 35