No Law Against Love

by Deborah MacGillivray

  He’d never have the same feelings for Jessica again, so what was the point of going back to square one? He now accepted they’d never been right for each other. He was a romantic, she only seemed interested in money.

  The next morning he gave Kyle his answer. Though surprised, Kyle wished him all the best.

  At the end of the week, Garrod’s flight touched down at Monterrey and Inez was there, again framed in the golden light of the Mexican sunset. She ran toward him as he disembarked the plane. He caught her in a tight embrace and planted a kiss on her full lips.

  There were no words between them. It had taken awhile for him to come to his senses, but this was one serenade he was sure about – for once.

  Be sure to visit Rekha’s website

  http://rekha.mmebj.com

  Getting It In The End

  Deborah MacGillivray

  • York, England - Excluding Sundays, it’s perfectly legal to

  shoot a Scotsman with a bow and arrow

  Present day, York

  “Why don’t you shoot me? It’d be more humane!”

  James Douglas Kinloch heard those words echo in his brain the past two weeks, though most writers would insist a brain couldn’t echo. Still ticked, he was prepared to argue the point of creative license. He’d meant those words when he tossed them at his boss Murray, editor-in-chief for Money & Trends magazine, after he’d been assigned to cover a Writers’ Renfaire in York, England.

  As he surveyed the pandemonium around him, he saw no reason to retract them.

  These were writers, he should feel at home with them. He penned a monthly column on books and contributed to M & T’s reviews section. Nevertheless, in this case misery did not love company.

  These were Romance writers. Another breed of wordsmith entirely, he’d learnt.

  Amazingly, women were responsible for sixty-five percent of books sold in the world, virtually financing publishing houses to stay afloat on their efforts alone. He understood why Money & Trends sent someone to cover the gathering. Only why him?

  Accepting there was no reversing his boss’ edict, he’d done his homework and learned a lot about the power these females wielded, how often the male bastions of fiction writers―jealous of the higher incomes―mocked them. He’d come prepared to have a male ego adjustment and accept these women for the dynamos they were, give them their professional dues. Having sampled dozens of the genre since taking up M & T’s bookbeat, he admitted they were as talented in their craft as their male counterparts. Maybe more so. He approached the forth-coming article, planning to portray them in the professional light they fully earned.

  Then he landed in the middle of this weeklong madness.

  First Annual York Historical Romance Writers Renaissance Faire.

  He glared at the huge banner strung across the fairway entrance, then sighed. “What a mouthful.”

  These mothers, wives and lovers―even grandmothers―seized the chance to kick loose and let down their hair. Oh, mama, did they ever let down their hair!

  His tush was tender from the grab-arsing going on. Any good-looking male became a target for their turnabout’s-fair-play. Male models, historians, re-enactors and servers were ogled, teased, tormented―and pinched―as the ladies fair let it rip. They were having a high time and it was only the first day!

  This week was going to be a long one. He considered putting in for hazardous duty pay.

  Getting into the spirit of things, most wore period dress. Queens, scullery maids, Scottish lasses and even female warriors flooded the grounds of the two-thousand-acre Majestic Park Hotel. Once, William Wallace had laid siege to York. While he wasn’t a descendant from Wallace, James began to feel he now paid for all Scottish transgressions against the ancient city.

  The faire was a chance for the women to meet their fans, but it was also an opportunity to do hands-on research. They could learn to buckle their swashes, try a hand at jousting, handling a claymore or give the English Longbow a go to strengthen their writing.

  So far, the only hands-on he’d experienced was on his arse!

  Gaggles of giggles alerted him to the approach of marauding females, so he darted around a huge tent to dodge another gauntlet of bum-pinching.

  Peeking around the edge of the canvas pavilion, intent on hiding from the bawdy wenches, James backed up as their voices neared. Focused on saving his tender backside, he failed to pay attention where he was going. Turning another tent corner, he crashed into a body.

  Putting hands out to stop his fall, one closed over a full, round breast, the other on a curvy hip. Female. As he attempted to prevent himself from crashing to the ground, their feet caught on the pegs of the tent. Spinning around the taught lines, they went down in a tangle of arms, legs and a mass of honey-coloured hair.

  He landed on his arse―hard―with her on top of him, air whooshing from his lungs. That sweet curve of her pelvis rode perfectly over his groin as she straddled him, a white-jeaned knee on either side of his hips. He’d enjoy the position if he hadn’t been nearly writhing in agony.

  Vision spun as he fought the urge to puke. With her planted on top of him, he couldn’t raise up. Blawing wasn’t an option! He’d end up drowning in his own vomit. His mind could see the headlines in the papers now―Man dies in hurling accident. And they wouldn’t mean in the game Hurling either!

  His assailant wiggled her derrière against his thighs, then tried to flip that mass of hair from out of her face.

  “Bugger,” the sexy voice muttered.

  The sort of voice that made James think of fine Highland whisky, silk sheets and late nights. Only right now, he really didn’t want such images intruding on his pain.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulders. As the ache receded, James saw a red leather strap was around her wrist and there was a strain on it. Small wonder the collision went out of control. A beast was on the end of the lead.

  “Cat…you’ll be the death of me yet!”

  James turned his head to eye the feline on the end of the leather tether. “Bloody hell―that’s a Scottish wildcat! What idiot runs around with a wildcat on a leash? And one wearing an eye patch?”

  “Half-wildcat,” she corrected defensively.

  She ceased trying to unwind the cat as her eyes locked with his. She stared at him, transfixed, wonder in her voice. “You have lavender eyes.”

  James was ready to throttle her and she worried about his eye shade? “I have grey eyes,” he snapped gruffly.

  She sniffed. “Males. Most are colourblind. They’re not blue or grey. They’re lavender. Liz Taylor eyes. Oh, man, you’re not wearing contacts, are you?”

  “No, I only wear reading glasses.” James stopped and felt for his eyeglasses in his shirt pocket. His flattened glasses. “Or used to.”

  “Oh, you broke your glasses?”

  “No, you broke them…and other things…I think.”

  She wiggled again and turned to look at his legs, as if they were the part of his anatomy he referred to. Then she leaned forward to run her hands over his arms.

  Finally able to focus, he stared up into a pair of witchy eyes. Dark amber with streaks of jade, they appeared green one moment, then transmuted to the color of whisky the next. All about him receded. He stared bound by them, unable to see anything else.

  Part of his body proved it hadn’t been damaged in the collision and pulsed to life under her shifting. “Scratch other things being broke,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry. My beastie is hard to control.”

  His erection throbbed, insistent. James moaned, then chuckled. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

  Shocked, she realized she sat on his aroused groin. “Oh!” Hazel eyes wide, she looked from side-to-side, searching for the best way to get up. “Sorry…really I am.”

  Witchy Eyes started to rise, but couldn’t gain balance. James saw what would happen―she’d come down sitting on his face! He put his hands up to her thighs to stop the descent, but didn’t count on her
weight pushing downward to where his thumbs ended on her crotch.

  Well, this is smart. She sits on my groin and I grab her―James groaned. He couldn’t jerk his hands away or she’d tumble. Bloody hell, they didn’t even know each other’s names. What an introduction!

  With a squeak, she grabbed the guide wire and straightened her knees, allowing him to scoot from under her. James sat up carefully so he didn’t end up with him burying his face where his thumbs were.

  She reeled in the long leash to a controllable length, then offered her other hand to help him to his feet. “I apologize― especially the glasses. Send me the bill. I’ll replace them.”

  He rose to his six-foot height, glad she was tall, about five-seven, but not too tall. As Goldilocks would say, just right for him. She was pretty, no doubt, but something unique, a quality feline, drew him as he stared into those hazel eyes.

  “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves?” He laughed as the huge cat rubbed against his leg like any ordinary housecat. “I’m James Douglas Kinloch.”

  She gazed at him, enrapt. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

  He was about to suggest she’d enjoy staring at his beautiful eyes over supper, when enrapture morphed into shock―and maybe something worse.

  “James…Douglas…Kinloch?” she repeated with loathing.

  Bloody hell, the way she spoke his name you’d think she’d said Osama Bin Laden. “Yes.” What else could he say?

  “James…Douglas…bloody Kinloch…reviewer for Money & Trends?” she growled. “I’d like to know I have the right James Douglas Kinloch. But of course, you are. There could only be one despicable, loathsome worm by that name. The world couldn’t stand two.”

  “Have we met?” James glanced to the side, hoping someone spotted them. While he’d truly love to jump her bones after all the bumping and grinding they’d just done, he began to fear he faced a crazed woman―with a one-eyed, Scottish wildcat, all three stone of him.

  Her teeth flashed, but not in a grin. It was feral, what a cat wore just before pouncing on prey. “Met? Not face-to-face.” Her countenance shifted to a magazine smile. “I’m a follower of your writing. You’ve quite the penchant with words. Ever considered fiction? You’d excel in it.” She moved so fast, male instinct to protect himself couldn’t engage. Her knee connected with the part of a man that could fell the mightiest of modern day warriors. James crumpled to his knees, clutching his groin, trying not to puke. Down on knee level, he saw her feet and the cat’s stalk off, only to hear her steps return behind him. He should’ve expected it, but occupied with writhing in agony, he failed to anticipate the kick to his arse.

  “James Douglas bloody Kinloch,” she snarled.

  This time her steps stomped off down the fairgrounds. The cat with the eye patch came pussyfooting back, dragging the red leash. Putting his feet on James’ thigh, he stretched up and gave his chin a tongue bath. James managed to push him away, only to have the purring cat bump its forehead against his chin.

  “Puss, this is going to be a long week.”

  ~~~

  Catlynne Falconer’s cheeks burned with anger. “The nerve of the bloody man to have such beautiful eyes.”

  She’d envisioned James Douglas Kinloch―the man who trashed every one of her Scottish Romance novels over the past five years―pictured him as a dried up old Scotsman, with an expression like he sucked lemons! Never once had she imagined such a sexy, elegant man. Younger than her furious mind had conjured, Kinloch had blue-black hair that lay in wild waves. And those eyes. Wow! Never had she seen such lavender eyes! Most are too blue or grey. His were truly lilac. He was strong, lean, hard…yep…very hard.

  Oh, why did James Douglas Kinloch have to be as sexy as his name? This man summoned visions of a tartan blanket over silk sheets, maybe a set of lavender ones matching those to die for eyes. He’d hit her senses with the power of a runaway locomotive, provoked her to want to kiss all his booboos and make them better. She wanted those beautiful hands on her, stroking her, squeezing…

  “Bugger. I’m going to have an orgasm daydreaming about him and those eyes,” she commented to the cat. Then she looked down and saw the silly beast wasn’t with her. “Fu…dge.”

  She’d been so bloody turned on by the man, then hit with the bucket of ice water that he was that flaming reviewer from Money & Trends, she’d forgotten her cat.

  “Well, nothing to do but find the pussycat before he eats Virginia Keller’s teacup terrier. Blast.”

  ~~~

  The feline may be half-wildcat and sported a ridiculous black, pirate’s patch, but he obviously was tame. After they had a meeting of the minds, James rather liked having the beast on the leash. Women kept their distance. He strolled down the fairway, checking out tents and booths with no fear of being ravished by Queen Victoria or a Lady Pirate.

  Finding a vendor serving bangers and beer, he and the cat shared lunch. Lifting his mug for a drink, he spotted Witchy Eyes storming toward him. Dark auburn hair swirled about her shoulders, seeing her stand out in the crowd. A Pict warrior-princess out for blood.

  Breaking off a chunk of the banger, he fed it to the fat cat. “I like watching her walk, Cat. She has world-class breasts. Very athletic legs, though I’d prefer she not use them to kick me. It’s hard on a man’s…ego. You have any idea why she hates me?”

  The cat finished the num-num and meowed for another bite.

  As she stalked up, James pretended not to notice her, but fed the beast his last bit of the sandwich. He stared at the jean-covered thighs, the lush hips and envisioned them wrapped around his waist as he drove his body into hers.

  “Kinloch, you’re one sick puppy,” he muttered under his breath. Of all the women chasing him, ready to jump his bones, he’d developed a case of severe lust for the one who kneed him in the groin.

  With a huff, she put her hands on her hips. “What are you feeding my cat?”

  “My lunch. It’s debatable if this critter is a cat. Personally, I think he’s a small pony in a cat costume.”

  Snagging the red leash, she tugged. “Come, Jack.”

  “Jack? As in One-Eyed-Jack?” James suppressed his smile as Jack sat staring at him, ignoring her yanking on the red tether. “Mind telling me why you’re dragging Jack around the Renfaire, Miss…”

  Her body rocked with another huff, as amber eyes flashed.

  daggers at him. “You may ask. Come, Jack.” She pulled again on the strap, but the pussycat wouldn’t move.

  “Had lunch? Want a banger?” Kinloch signaled the waitress. “Jack and I want another, eh, lad?”

  She blinked in shock, then composed her face. “Oh, yeah, it’s a big hotdog.”

  “You’re not Yank with that accent,” he observed.

  “Scot born, but I lived a big part of my life in the US until the last three years.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “Colchester.”

  James paused to give the order to the waitress. “Sit. Jack isn’t finished yet. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  The cat turned his head and meowed at her. Pursing her lips―delectable lips―she flopped down on the end of the bench. Witchy Eyes glared at him as the waitress returned with food, but said nothing until the woman left with the empty tray.

  James broke off the excess and put it before Jack. “Mind telling me why you want to end my family tree? Often I affect women strongly, but I’ve never had one physically attack me, especially when I don’t know her name.”

  He took a bite of the banger and was about to swallow when she spoke.

  “You want my name, Mr. James Douglas Kinloch? Fine. My name―Catlynne Falconer.”

  James simultaneously choked on the hotdog and almost spit it out. Rising, she slapped him on the back―with a bit more strength than called for, James feared.

  Small wonder. Catlynne Falconer. Surely, there was only one.

  “Yes, Mr. James Douglas Kinloch, I’m the writer whose books you’ve shredded with gle
e. You’ve called me a sophomoric writer who must still wear Maryjane patent leather shoes, one whose stories are ‘so cute it’s painful.’ Two of the kinder comments you’ve penned when reviewing my works. Every time sales of my books soar, you take great pleasure in posting your reviews―not only in Money & Trends, but on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. My sales go down the tubes. After eleven books, I could sue you for loss of income.”

  James reached for his ale to dislodge the stuck bit of banger. With a forced swallow, the lump moved down his throat.

  Catlynne Falconer. This vivacious lass with the flashing amber eyes and breasts he’d a hard time keeping his eyes off of was Miz Hearts & Flowers? She pens a rather original series about a pirate reincarnated as a huge cat. The beast went around solving murder mysteries and playing cupid to mismatched couples.

  Bloody hell. Why hadn’t he made the connection?

  He stared at the mangy wildcat―her inspiration obviously. Explained why she had him here at the Renfaire. He recalled seeing her name on the program as one of the guest speakers, giving a talk on animals as characters in Romance writing. She’d dragged Jack along for show and tell.

  What did one say to an author you’d taken great pleasure in harpooning? She was such a sensual writer. Her sex scenes had caused him to take more than one cold shower. Only she persisted in having mismatched lovers falling head-over-heels into happily ever after. When he reached the end of her books he felt he needed a shot of insulin to counter the overdose of sweet.

  Well, best defense was an offence. He stared into her kissable face, raked his eyes down her made-for-sin body, reveling in every delicious curve, then slowly traveled back to lock eyes with her. “Pity. I guess the chances of me getting you into bed tonight just dropped by half.”

  She jerked up to her feet, acting as if he just asked her to go down on her knees before him and do the wild thang. The lass had a temper. Went with that auburn hair. Why did he find that so…ah…stimulating?