by Amy Vansant
The trunk slammed shut. Dez nodded to Fiona. Fiona nodded back.
Rune stood beside Fiona, sucking his canine tooth with his tongue.
“So you’re saying it’s that easy?” he asked, watching the car with Tyler inside roar away.
Fiona nodded. “Yep. I’m telling you. Take a walk around tomorrow. You’ll feel the weakness. The desperation is almost choking. Everyone in this town is begging for someone to tempt them into something. Anything.”
“So I should stay following my immediate business?”
“If you like. With the two of us here, anything is possible. Americans believe anything celebrities tell them. We influence the celebrities and they influence the country.”
Rune grunted.
“Of course, there’s two good guys here.”
He turned to her. “Two. Plus that other girl?”
“The other girl?”
Rune shrugged and mumbled. “The one that looks like you.”
“Catriona? You mean my sister?”
Rune grunted again.
Fiona sighed. “That’s who I meant, Catriona and the Highlander.”
Rune’s mouth turned down. “Then there are three.”
“Who’s the third?”
“Ryft.”
“Ryft?” Fiona repeated the name She didn’t know anyone named Ryft. She searched her memory for people she’d come in contact with, who’d given her the same feeling as Catriona and Broch.
No...I can’t think of—
She gasped.
Sean.
It had to be. She’d rarely seen the man without Catriona or Broch nearby, so she’d attributed that odd tingling in the back of her neck to them.
“Is Ryft Sean? Sean Shaft? He works for Parasol. He’s Catriona’s father. Adoptive, so I never—”
A man walked by with a woman too attractive and tawdry to be his date. Seemingly drunk, he threw a sloppy grin and a wink at Rune, as if to say, look what I got.
Rune’s lip snarled in what looked like disgust, but he followed the man’s progress until he disappeared around a corner.
Rune sniffed and turned back to Fiona.
“Ryft. What does he look like now?”
“Sean? He’s older. Salt and pepper hair, close-cropped beard...”
Rune ran his left hand down his right arm to his glove. “It’s him.”
“Who.”
“The man who took my arm. The man who took you.”
“Nobody took me.”
“When you were a baby.”
“Here? I wasn’t a baby here.”
“Yes you were. I saved you from the breeding cow and then that man—”
“That was Catriona.” She sighed. She’d hoped her father’s time away had cured his mental irregularities, but it seemed he still had trouble telling her and her sister apart. “We should probably get you home, dad.”
Rune’s expression flashed with anger. “What is this dad. Why do you call me that?”
“It’s a name people call their fathers here.”
“You may call me Father.”
She chuckled. “Okay. Whatever—”
He grabbed her upper arm with his gloved hand and Fiona knew it wasn’t flesh filling that leather. His fingers felt harder and stronger than any human’s. It was as if steel bands had wrapped around her bicep.
“You’re hurting me.” She tried to jerk away but he held her easily.
He leaned his face to hers and his laser-like white eyes pointed through her brain.
“Father.”
She nodded, frantic for him to release her. “Fine, yes. I’ll call you Father. I’m sorry.”
He let her go and she pulled away, rubbing at her arm.
“Show me Sean.”
She stared at the ground, anger burning in her chest. “I don’t know where he is now. I’ll take you to him tomorrow.”
He glared at her, but she refused to be intimidated.
“Tomorrow, Father. I have to sleep.”
He sighed. “Fine. But know I’m disappointed.”
He strode towards her car and stood at the passenger door, staring back at her.
Pushing herself off the wall, Fiona followed. She’d wanted her father to find her. She’d liked the idea of an ally.
She’d forgotten about his temper, his moods, his breaks with reality...
Fiona sighed.
This might have been a mistake.
Chapter Four
Catriona entered Sean’s office at nine-thirty a.m., already feeling behind schedule. She’d been in the shower when the phone rang. Rushing to get the shampoo out of her hair, she’d grabbed her cell on the fourth ring.
“Catriona?”
“Yes?” She remembered looking at her wet hand on the phone, wondering if she could be electrocuted by a cell.
“It’s Bobby. I’m security at Studio Twelve this morning. You told me to give you a call if I ever saw the big dude doing anything weird.”
She’d groaned, dreading to hear what Broch had gotten himself into.
“He’s at Studio Twelve? What’s that? Morning Chat? ”
“Yep.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Uh...he’s on air.”
“He’s what?” Her screech had made the shower door quiver.
She’d hung up the phone, thrown on jeans and a shirt that should have been tucked in but wouldn’t be, skipped the elevator and taken the stairs two flights to the payroll office beneath her apartment. She ran past a confused Jeanie sitting at her desk there, and bolted across the lot to Studio Twelve.
That’s where, with wet hair and no makeup, she’d pulled Kilty away from the microphone. She hadn’t even had a chance to yell at him when her phone rang a second time and Sean demanded they come to his office.
Weren’t Fridays supposed to be easy days?
Now in Sean’s office, she flopped to her seat beside Luther on Sean’s worn sofa. Her father’s friend and work partner sat in his favorite corner, hidden behind his morning paper.
“Good morning, girlie,” he said in his Barry White baritone.
“Good morning, Luther.” She threw her head back to stare at the ceiling. Broch wandered in. He’d fallen behind when the laces on his leather boots had come untied. She thought the soft boots looked as if he’d made them himself out of roadkill, and since they’d come with him via old timey Scotland, she probably wasn’t far off.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Sean, blithely enjoying his morning coffee like a person not in charge of wrangling rogue Highlanders.
Catriona sighed. “I remember that.”
“What?”
“Enjoying an invigorating cup of coffee in the morning. Must be nice.”
Sean smiled at Broch as his son took a seat in the chair across from his desk. As usual, the Highlander looked happy as a puppy.
Catriona scowled. “I didn’t have the luxury of a cup of coffee this morning.”
Sean took a sip from his own mug. “Should I guess from the way you’re staring laser holes through the side of Broch’s head, that your lack of caffeine has something to do with him?”
“You should. I got a call from Bobby, standing security over at Morning Chat. It seems some kilted idiot wandered down to the question mic seeking love advice this morning.
Luther snorted a laugh. Catriona tried to throw her disapproval in his direction, but he shifted his paper to block her view.
Sean peered down his nose at Broch. “You were on set? During filming?”
Broch held out his hands and tilted his palms to the ceiling. “The woman’s man cuidnae fin’ a place tae hing his towel, sae ah tellt her aboot the hook oan the back o’ the door, ‘n’ then thay asked me if ah had quaistions.”
Sean turned back to Catriona. “You’re sure he was on air?”
She nodded. “Yep. As was I. No makeup, wet hair…generally looking like a crazy person because I didn’t get my coffee.”
Sean rubbed his temple. “Y
ou can’t go on sets, son. They’re filming.”
“Sorry.” Broch nodded and stood to pour himself a cup of coffee from Sean’s machine. “Thare wis a wifie thare wha touched mah hindquarters. Ah think that’s against policy.”
Sean looked at Catriona, his expression hovering somewhere between alarmed and amused. She shrugged, flopping her hands to her sides. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
Catriona watched as Broch poured the last drop of coffee from the carafe into his mug and settled back into his chair to enjoy it. “You’re lucky I wouldn’t drink his coffee on a bet.”
Sean scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with my coffee.”
Catriona tried to fluff her hair in the hopes of salvaging the chance it might dry pretty. She glanced at Sean. “So what did you need?”
“I need you to check on Tyler Bash. I’m hearing rumors he might have gotten into some trouble last night and he’s not answering his phone.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Celebrity poker game. He lost, and I don’t think it’s the first time. Sounds like someone tried to collect and he made a run for it.”
“One of Alain’s games?”
Sean nodded.
A smalltime French gangster known as Little Alain ran the largest and most prestigious underground celebrity poker game in Hollywood. No one called him Little Alain to his face, though. Five-foot-five of pure Napoleon complex, Alain had dealt broken bones, missing teeth and missed call times to Parasol Pictures talent in the past. He didn’t mess around.
Sean handed Catriona a slip of paper. “Here’s the address Tyler was playing at last night. See if you can find any cameras. Check his house first. I put that address on there, too.”
She stood and took the torn notebook page. “You know, you could just text me this stuff.”
Sean shrugged. “Why, when I have a perfectly good pen here?”
Broch threw back the last of his swill and stood to put the cup back near the machine.
“You stay out of the studios,” said Sean, following his movements.
Broch offered a sheepish smile. “Aye.”
Catriona reached for the door and heard Sean whisper behind her. “And keep an eye on her.”
“Aye.”
She turned. “Kilty’s not my bodyguard, you know. I did this job just fine before he dropped out of the sky.”
Broch scratched his head. “Ah don’t think ah fell oot o’ the sky.”
She pointed at him. “You shut it. You’re on my last nerve today.”
He tucked back his neck to keep her finger from poking him in the chin. “Ye wouldnae be sae cranky if ye’d juist marry me. Ah—” He sent a sideward glance in Sean’s direction before lowering his voice to a whisper to her. “Ah cuid explain why later.”
Luther snickered from behind his paper.
Catriona huffed. “Don’t encourage him.” She flung open the door and hustled from the office, striding down the hall until she reached outside.
Broch followed on her heels. “Whaur ur we gaun?”
She glanced up at him as he flanked her. “Let’s get a few things straight—”
Broch rolled his eyes. “Och, here we gae.”
“First off, I’ve told you a million times do not go on sets without me.”
He nodded. “Sorry. Ah watch they wummin oan mah television set ‘n’ ah couldnae hulp masell.”
The way Broch said the word television with no Scottish accent made it hard for Catriona not to laugh. It sounded like a bad dubbing, where a different actor had filled in the word. It was how he pronounced all words unfamiliar to his eighteenth century Scottish vocabulary and it never ceased to amuse her. But giggling in the middle of a scolding would sap all the power from it, so she set her jaw and continued.
“You could cost Parasol thousands if they have to reshoot a scene because you wandered through some modern day romantic comedy in that filthy kilt.”
He loured at her. “‘Tisn’t filthy. Ye washed it and erased a decade o’ fine seasoning, remember?”
She ignored him. “Second, don’t ever tell me I won’t be cranky if I marry you.”
He chuckled. “Did ye understand whit ah wis sayin’? Ah wis sayin’ wance ye slipped intae mah kip, I’d—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “Yeah, I got it. The point is, you said you’d pound the cranky out of me in front of my father.”
“Ah didnae say pound.” He smirked. “Though ‘tis fair ‘n’ accurate.”
“You implied it in front of Sean.”
“Sae?”
“Sae you may be his real son but he raised me. What if some guy came to your crappy mud hut—or whatever hovel you lived in back in Outlander-land—looking for your daughter? Said he was hoping to work the temper out of her?”
Broch’s expression clouded. “Ah’d knock his head aff his neck.”
“Exactly. Sean doesn’t want to think about me in anyone’s kip. And he’s not stupid, he knows there’s something between us, but the whole thing puts him in a weird position, worrying we’ll be hurt and he’ll have to take sides.”
“Whyfur wid we git hurt?”
Catriona sighed. “Things happen. Believe me.”
Broch slapped a hand to his chest. “Dae ye think Sean wouldn’t give his blessing tae me?”
“It isn’t that. I’m sure he’s proud of the big slab of haggis you’ve grown into. But we’re both his kids.”
Broch recoiled. “Nae we aren’t.”
“Not by blood, but it’s still a lot to deal with. So no sex talk in front of Sean, okay?”
He nodded. “Ah ken.”
Catriona realized her directions had been too specific. “Wait, what I mean is, no sex talk in front of anyone, especially Sean.”
“Aye.”
She took a moment to gather her thoughts.
I know there was a third thing...
“Oh, and last, don’t you ever tell me a little time in your kip would change my attitude. It’s insulting.”
He giggled. “Aye?”
The sound of his child-like amusement made her laugh. “Yes. It makes it sound like without a man women’s brains don’t work right.”
Broch tilted his head to the side. “Ye said it...”
She punched him in the side of his pec.
“Ow.” He grabbed his chest, giggling harder.
Chapter Five
Catriona pulled as close as she could to Tyler Bash’s house in the Hollywood hills, parking her Jeep on the steep street outside. She put the vehicle in park and looked at Broch, who sat in the passenger seat, still in his kilt.
“Let me do the talking,” she said, opening her door.
He scoffed. “Lik’ ah cuid stop ye.”
Trudging up the hill, they navigated to the gate at the end of Tyler’s driveway. Catriona pressed the button on the callbox several times. No one answered.
“We really should look inside,” she said, tilting back her head to eyeball the tall gate.
Without another word, Broch jumped, grabbing the top horizontal bar of the gate, hoisting himself up with one mighty pullup. Swinging a leg over the spiked top of the gate with much more grace than Catriona would have imagined possible in a large man wearing a skirt, he balanced there, stabilizing his position. As his leg arced, she caught a flash of neon yellow. It seemed his love affair with the boxer briefs she’d bought him hadn’t ended.
Thank you, Calvin Klein.
At least she didn’t have to worry about him flashing the family jewels with every twirl of his tartan.
Broch held himself suspended on the opposite side of the gate and reached down towards her.
“Ah’ll hoist ye up.”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. Drop down and hit the button on the box on the other side.”
He fell to his leather-booted feet and found the control panel. The doors cranked open and Catriona walked inside.
“Let’s get a move on before the neighbors call the cop
s about a monkey wearing a skirt.” She reached under his kilt, and sliding her fingers beneath the thin fabric, gave the bottom of his boxer briefs a tug.
He spun away from her. “Hey, harassment. That’s workplace harassment, lassie. Ah learnt aboot it and ah’ll report ye.”
She laughed. “I wish all the new employees took that course to heart the way you did.”
Striding up the driveway to the house, Catriona let her gaze wander, searching for anything odd on the grounds. All seemed well until they reached the cement porch of the Spanish-style home.
The ornately carved front door was ajar.
Not a good sign.
No telling what waited inside. She patted her hip and glanced back in the direction of the Jeep.
I should have brought my gun.
She motioned for Broch to step away from the direct line of the door and pushed it open with her fingertips.
“Hello? Tyler?”
Nothing.
She poked her head inside.
The place was a mess.
Like many young stars, Tyler had the money for a fancy house but not the taste or brains to hire a decorator. The inside looked as if a college student had moved home for the summer. A worn black leather sofa demanded center stage. The coffee table—an early-American-style hand-me-down from mom, no doubt—served as support for a video game machine and its corresponding controllers. The side table, fashioned from a whiskey barrel, sported a lamp made from a whiskey bottle.
At least that part of the room has a theme.
They wandered through the rooms finding varying degrees of mess, but little evidence as to what had happened to Tyler.
“Whit now?” asked Broch, plucking an apple from a bowl on the counter and biting into it.
Catriona sighed. “Well, we can find out who saw him—”
“Who are you?”
A blonde appeared in the living room, staring at Catriona, a paper grocery bag tucked in the crook of her arm.
Catriona detected a nervous lilt lacing the girl’s inquiry. “We work for Parasol. Who are you?”
Broch moved behind Catriona and the girl’s shoulders released. Catriona could tell by the girl’s reaction she’d been relieved to see Broch. She’d been worried Catriona was competition.
“I’m Tyler’s girlfriend, Abigail,” she said, confirming Catriona’s suspicion.