Bloody bleeding heart, Niall thought. But just be ready to escape. Be prepared to step into the gray, okay? Hop back to your flat.
Yes, sir, Fabia thought, shaking her head. But Niall was right. It was easier to extend this kindness knowing that if the man grew strange or crazy or even dangerous, she could disappear in an instant, traveling through matter to the police station where she could report the crime she’d just escaped. The Moyenne she worked with at the clinic were always amazed that Fabia would go to flophouses and tenements and dark alleys looking for clients. What she couldn’t tell them was that she was protecting them by doing so, keeping them away from danger from which they might not be able to escape.
Fabia bent down, trying to attract his gaze. But he wouldn’t look at her, and she could feel the tension radiating from inside him.
“Hi, there,” she said. “My name’s Fabia Fair. I live at the flat just down a bit.”
He didn’t move his eyes, but he blinked, once, twice.
“Would you like to come with me?” Fabia said, crouching down farther and looking into the man’s desperate, searching eyes. “How about a wee bit to eat?”
He licked his lips, breathing in, scanning the ground as if he’d dropped some change. Not drunk, Fabia thought. Schizophrenic.
Perfect, Niall thought. Go from Cadeyrn to just another crazy. Get yourself into another fankle.
Haver on, man! Would you mind affording me some space here? she thought back. Go watch your bleeding telly.
Fabia closed her mind to her brother and moved closer to the man. He was shaking, his knees hitting together. Again, he moved his mouth, but then shook his head, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.
Fabia watched him, trying everything she knew to get inside his mind, but there was no opening, as if the block was put there on purpose. And not by the man, who clearly was in no shape to create or even maintain a block, even if he were Croyant, magic, like her. And there was something about him, even with his quaking gaze and his long, thin, dirty body. Fabia couldn’t read his mind, but she could feel…kindness.
“All right,” Fabia said. “That’s it. Please, come with me.”
She stood up straight and held out her hand. The man breathed in, looking at her hand and then her face, her hand, her face, and then slowly, he lifted his dirty palm from his knee, studying his movements with surprise as if he’d never moved before. His fingers quivered, shook, and Fabia took them in her small gloved hand, feeling how cold he was even through the leather and wool.
Shit, she thought to herself, hating how Moyenne treated their castaways, knowing that in her world, the world of Les Croyants des Trois, this man would have food and a bath and a bed, no matter what was wrong with him. Adalbert Baird made sure of that, finding places for the damaged and weak—the only people who escaped his care were the ones who disdained it. Like Caderyn Macara. Like Quain Dalzeil. And what will happen if Quain wins? she thought.
We’ll end up like this poor sod, Niall thought.
Shut it, Fabia thought and clutched the man’s hand more tightly.
“Come on,” she said. “Don’t be scared.”
But the man was scared. More than scared. She felt his fear in the energy coming off his body, in the sizzling whites of his distracted eyes, in his stiff, hesitant walk. Who had done this to him? What had happened?
“It’s all right,” Fabia said, her hand holding his as they walked slowly to the door of her building. “You’ll be fine.”
He turned to look at her, his black eyes so dark she couldn’t see the irises. His forehead was creased with worry, his face gray with cold and hunger and fear. Despite the filth on his clothing, the blood on his head and body, and his clearly distressed mind, Fabia wanted to stop, pull him to her, and comfort him.
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He was thinking of warm Christmas cookies, songs on the piano, and strings of popcorn, when he spotted the confusion in front of the funeral home. Lights from a police car flashed blue and red and an elderly couple, bundled in coats over pajamas, gestured with excitement.
Ozzie pulled up behind the cruiser and parked. It took him only moments to identify himself to the officer and to find out that someone had stolen a donkey from the Nativity scene erected on the funeral home’s lawn.
Marci. Somehow, he just knew she was behind this. She’d probably claim the damned donkey was shy, or that he didn’t like the colored lights, or God-knew-what. But Ozzie’s instincts screamed and so, with a few more words to the officer, he gave up on the idea of sleep and instead headed to Marci’s apartment.
Lucius used to live in the apartment across from Marci but, thankfully, he’d recently moved out—so Ozzie didn’t have to worry about Lucius finding him at Marci’s door. He and Bethany had purchased a home of their own. Lucius still owned the apartment building, but he left Marci in charge of it.
Not a good idea, in Ozzie’s opinion, given that Marci was a kook. But far be it for him to tell Lucius how to run his business.
When he parked in front of the building, Ozzie looked toward Marci’s porch window and, sure enough, her inside lights were on. Okay, so it was seven-thirty and she was maybe getting ready for work.
Or hiding a donkey.
Ozzie slammed his truck door, trudged through the crunchy snow and ice, and went up the walk, inside, and up to Marci’s door. He knocked twice.
Breathless, Marci yelled, “Just a moment!”
His body twitched. More specifically, his cock sat up and took notice of her proximity. Damn it.
A full minute later, Marci opened the door. A look of pleasure replaced her formal politeness. “Osbourne. What a surprise.”
He stared down at her and thought, if she’d just not talk about animals, if she’d just smile at him like that, he’d be happy to ravish her for, oh…a few hours maybe.
When he said nothing, her smile widened, affecting him like a hot lick. She wore a soft pink chenille robe, belted tight around her tiny waist. Her small feet were bare, crossed one over the other to ward off the chill. Her baby-fine, straight brown hair had the mussed look of a woman fresh out of bed—or fresh inside from the blustery outdoors.
Shaking out of his stupor, Ozzie looked beyond her. He saw nothing out of the ordinary in her tiny apartment, but that didn’t clear her.
She took a step closer to him, staring up in what seemed like provocation to him, a heated come-on, a…
She tilted her head and said, “Osbourne?”
Lust tied knots in his muscles. He cleared his throat. “Busy?”
Big blue eyes blinked at him, eyes so soft, and with such thick, long lashes she didn’t need makeup. “I just got out of the shower, actually.” She patted back a delicate yawn. “It’s early. Would you like some coffee?”
He’d like her.
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Travis winked at her and she tossed him a narrowed eye hiss before walking back to the open grave and Manny. “Get rid of that reporter,” she said irritably to Travis. “Make sure he knows he’s not to print a word until he hears from me.”
Travis’s smug expression faded into one of confusion. “What reporter?”
She pointed to where she’d last seen the NYT wannabe. “That…”
“Hello, Greer.”
The husky undertone of that voice slammed into her with all the subtlety of a runaway freight train. “…reporter,” she finished weakly as she turned around and faced her past.
The air between them sizzled. She looked into the breathtakingly handsome face of the one man from whom she had no secrets.
The high-pitched ringing in her ears deafened her. The ground beneath her feet shifted. This simply could not be happening. Why did
that damned loose end she’d left dangling for so long have to become a noose tied around her neck today? Why now?
Ash.
Her every dream, her every regret rolled into one painful reality staring her in the face. Those delicious dark brown eyes once filled with affection were now colder than the granite headstone behind him. She expected or deserved, nothing less.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she blurted rudely. The suit. She should’ve known. Standard FBI blue, she thought, remembering her own closet once filled with the same dull rainbow of subdued hues.
“The report you filed with VICAP. It was brought to my attention.”
“Faith.” Who else? Faith worked closely with Ash, and had been the only person she’d kept in contact with at the Bureau for a short time after she’d left. Of course Faith would’ve passed the report on to him. She was Ash’s eyes, ears, nose and throat for crying out loud.
Ash nodded. There was an underlying arrogance to the slight curve of his mouth that set her teeth on edge one second, then made her as nervous as a whore trapped in a confessional with a judgmental priest the next.
“And you thought you’d just come on down and take over my investigation, is that it?”
Travis cleared his throat. “I thought you—”
She glared at her boss, warning him to shut up. True, she wanted no part of the investigation, but having Ash breathing down her neck wasn’t something she was anywhere close to being able to handle.
Thankfully, Travis wasn’t a stupid man. “Never mind,” he said, then clamped his teeth around a half smoked, unlit cigar.
A glinting flash of light caught her eye when Ash moved his hands to tuck them into the front pockets of his trousers. Probably just the sun reflecting off his watch, she thought. Anything else was unthinkable.
“You know how the system works, Greer,” he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“You’re right. I do. And this case doesn’t come close to meeting the criteria for ISU’s involvement. I don’t recall a section in the manual about steamrolling an investigation, either. You’re not wanted here, Ash.” She didn’t want him anywhere near her. “Go home.”
He leaned toward her and she breathed in his scent. Flashbacks of a different kind peppered her conscience. A private celebration. Candlelight. Champagne. Making love until dawn. His hands, his mouth. Never getting enough of each other.
“You develop a sudden understanding of the word?” he said in a low voice with enough of a hint of controlled anger to push her past the edge of reason.
Bad Boys in Kilts
Bad Boys in Kilts
DONNA KAUFFMAN
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
This book is dedicated with love and a wink
to my sister, Kathy.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those who helped me with this book. To all my Scotland contacts, the usual lot of suspects, once again, I couldn’t have done it without you. To my sons for putting up with the crazy hours and for keeping Dominos on speed dial. To my mom, to Kat, and to Jill for being my constant lifelines to sanity. I’m pretty sure it’s working, but let me have the fantasy if it’s not. You know I’m always here to return the favor. To my agent and champion, Karen Solem, who has steadfastly been there for me this past year in ways I will never be able to fully repay, thank you, thank you, thank you. And lastly, but very importantly, to Kate Duffy, my wonderful editor, whose unflagging support and enthusiasm reminds me every day why it is I write what I do for a living. Thank you all!
Contents
Bottoms Up
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
On Tap
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Night Watch
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
BOTTOMS UP
Chapter 1
“This place isn’t big enough for the both of us.” Kat Henderson wiped her hands on the already grimy rag hanging from a loop on her coveralls. She glared across the cobblestone square as Daisy MacDonnell flipped the OPEN sign over in the small stationery shop that sat catty-corner to the Hendersons’ own motor-body repair business. “Call me Daisy Mac,” Kat mimicked, remembering how Daisy—all perky American perkiness—had introduced herself several weeks back upon taking over the place for her late aunt, Maude.
Of course, if that sign in the window was the only thing Daisy was flipping in Glenbuie, Kat would have been first in line to welcome their newest resident to their small, eastern highland village. Every male in all of Tayside, it seemed, had been panting after the Yank since the moment she’d stepped out of that hired car.
“Come now,” her father urged. “Enough of that. Hand me that wrench. This bastard is being a stubborn stick in the arse if ever there was one.”
Kat absently handed over the wrench, her thoughts still on the American interloper.
“If you ask me, I say you go over and befriend the enemy,” her father said conversationally, between grunts as he tried to loosen whatever it was that was stuck now. Given the condition of the old Cooper he was working on, it wouldn’t surprise Kat if the whole undercarriage was permanently welded together with ancient axle grease and decades worth of dried manure. Only Hinky Thomas would think a Mini Cooper capable of being used as a farm vehicle.
“Make nice with her? Why on earth would I do something like that?”
“Do you a sight more good than standing here, shooting fiery beams of hell through her front door, that much I do know.”
Kat muttered something under her breath, and reluctantly pulled her gaze away from Maude’s shop. She took the wrench when he waggled it back up at her, then handed him a rag when he asked for one.
“You can’t blame the lads for sniffin’ about now, either,” he went on. “Of course they’re going to do a bit of ogling and the like. She’s a might bit younger than most of the single lasses about town, yourself excluded. She’s not hard on the eyes, and besides that, she’s—”
“Fresh meat. I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me.”
Alastair Henderson rolled out from under the car and looked up at his only daughter. “I wasn’t going to use quite that language, but aye, you’ve hit squarely on it with that observation. She’ll be a challenge to them for a bit, then the dust will settle. More than likely she’ll take up with one or the other, and all will return to normal.”
“She can have all the rest of them, but why did she have to set her sights on—” Kat’s rant ended abruptly as she spied the object of her lust strolling affably down the opposite walkway, stopping just in front of—“Och, the ruddy bastard! Already staking his claim. And in broad daylight, no less. Cheeky wanker.”
“Such language. Yer sainted mum is surely rolling her eyes in the heavens, hearing you talk like that.” Her father reached up and snagged the dangling tool from Kat’s hand before she dropped it on his head, then rolled himself back under the car. “And I sincerely doubt he’s in there doing anything other than chatting her up. Although God love him if he could swing something more at half past eleven in the morn—”
“Papa!” Kat kicked the trolley he was lying on with the toe of her boot. She scowled when he chuckled. “It’s not funny. I’m in pain here. Your only offspring’s heart is bleedin’ and you’re wantin’ to raise a toast
to the man’s sexual prowess.”
“What better reason to raise a glass, says I,” he responded, completely unrepentant. “At least it gives the rest of us poor sods some hope.”
Kat shook her head. “Incorrigible, the lot of you.” Although she was certain Brodie Chisholm had had more than a toast raised to his prowess. Which was well documented in these parts. And those a bit abroad as well, if rumors were true. And they likely were. She’d known his charming self all her life, as well as most of the girls he’d spent time honing those skills with. None of whom had been her. Something, of course, she’d been fine with. After all, she was more to him than any of those backseat crumpets would ever be, and proud of it. She’d much rather be his valued friend and confidante than chance losing the special bond they shared for a brief peek at heaven.
Not that she’d ever had the opportunity to turn down the invitation.
“You wouldn’t have us any other way,” her father was saying. “Your mum would be quite disappointed in me for spendin’ as much time alone as I have these past ten years and we both know it.”
Kat had nothing to say to that, because her father was right. Her mum made him promise on her deathbed that he wouldn’t wallow in grief and be a burden to their only daughter for the remainder of his days. In fact, what she’d said was, Find yourself someone to care about and do it before you’re too grizzled for anyone to find ye’ charming.
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