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The Highlander’s Time
Copyright © 2011 by Belladonna Bordeaux
ISBN: 978-1-61333-064-7
Cover art by Dara England
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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The Highlander’s Time
Belladonna Bordeaux
Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.
Don Marquis
Chapter One
Will the person responsible for this mess, please stand up?
The downtown Los Angeles office of Lila Matanucci, present day.
“Where the hell is my double mocha cappuccino with extra foam?” The slam of a hand hitting a wood surface rocked through the posh workspace.
“It's on your desk next to your backup cell phone and near the pink stapler.” Jenny Lofstrand braced herself for her boss's tirade. Of course her cafe au lait was right where it belonged. It had been hot fifteen minutes ago when she'd set it on Lila Matanucci's desk. Unfortunately, she'd dropped off the drink before the diva pop star stumbled into the office with her sunglasses perched on the bridge of her plastic surgery-perfected nose.
The big, super-dark tinted sunglasses served as a warning to Jenny, as well as Lila's assistant to her personal assistant, Charlzie. Lila was hung over—again. She'd crash sometime around ten this morning, and if they were lucky, wake up demanding a double shot of vodka on the rocks just before quitting time. The ice cubes’ sole purpose was to give the appearance Lila was trying to stick to her diet.
You'd think two stints in rehab would get you off the bottle. Ha! Only when you sing an aria with a choir of angels.
Lila was the epitome of the young twenty-something pop star drunk on fame. She'd done exactly what her star-maker had said was the stellar move to create the most drama and boost her record sales. She'd taken the Britney effect and the Paris snobbish ditzyness to an extreme that urged the paparazzi to pitch tents on the sidewalk outside her Hollywood Hills mansion, and prod the tabloids to pen tons of articles about another of ‘her particular kind’ gone astray.
The crash of the stapler hitting the glass divider separating Lila's office from the reception area jerked Jenny out of her musings. You are so sad. If this is what it costs to gain fame, I'll pass.
She'd more than pass on some golden opportunity that involved partying like there was no tomorrow. Getting drunk was fine on occasion, but she liked her liver sans cirrhosis.
The truth was she'd be damned before becoming a worn-out-too-soon woman like Lila.
“I'm going to be sick.”
“Trash can,” Jenny and Charlzie chimed at the same time. Their fists came up and pumped in the air three times. Charlzie's index and middle finger formed a 'V', while Jenny's remained fisted. “Rock smashes scissors.” Jenny sounded apologetic to her own ears. “Good luck.”
“If she gets punchy, you're taking over,” the long drink of brunette sitting across from her toned. The rattle of her casters on the plastic floor mat chorused the stomach churning sound of puking coming from the office. “I don't want my dad getting all upset over another black eye.”
“Just hold her hair, and watch for flailing elbows. I'll help you if she gets out of control.” Which was a given. Lila hated being hung over, but couldn't lay off the booze. “I'll call her dad.”
“No!” The shout came an instant before they listened to a fresh bout of retching. The hard hit of Charlzie’s footfalls working their way across the floor ended with Lila groaning. “Get the fuck away from me, bitch. I don't want your filthy hands on me.”
And why did I take this job? Because Lila is helpless. That was Jenny’s great downfall. She'd taken care of her mother when she'd battled cancer. She'd supported her father after her mom's death, giving him the constant comfort he needed while he mourned his loss. When he died of heart disease, she bid farewell to her small town roots but couldn't shake her character flaws.
She was a pathetic woman attracted to the needy and lost souls of the world.
If you needed a handout, Jenny would give you the last ten bucks in her wallet.
If you were desperate for a mother figure, Jenny exemplified the maternal spirit.
It was worse than having the armchair psychology term—the disease to please. In her case, it was a disease of being needed by the dregs of society.
Jenny sighed as she stood. The foul odor of vomit and vodka struck her like a fist to the gut. “You okay, Charlzie?” Hurrying into the office, she shook her head at the sight of Lila slumped on the floor. Holding her hand over her mouth for a moment, trying to calm her own tummy, Jenny swallowed hard against the bile burning her throat. She motioned for Charlzie to get out of striking range with a tilt of her head. “This is out of hand, Lila. You need to get it together if you want to make all your scheduled appearances this week.”
“I'm allowed to have fun, Jenny.”
“Yeah, but you aren't much of a role model if you throw up on everybody. It's time to grow up, princess.”
“Don't tell me what to do.” Lila leaned forward, dry heaves attacking her system. She spent another few minutes over the trashcan. Pushing the stainless steel container away, she propped her head against the side of her desk. Charlzie immediately removed it to the washroom open to the public. “I could employ twenty of you and fifty of her.”
“Yeah, but who'd give a shit about you? Come on, Lila, you know working for you is like working for a combination of ‘Cruella De Evil Boss’ and Satan's darkest demon.” It wasn't the first time Jenny had employed guilt or brow beat Lila, and she doubted it was the last. Lila required a daily, if not hourly, reality check.
Jenny walked into Lila's private bathroom. Flicking on the cold water, she doused a washcloth, wrung it out and turned around on the pointed toe of her stiletto heel. Her shoes were a job requirement. In Lila's world, her assistants dressed as well as she did. The posh office grew quiet as Jenny carried the damp cloth to the full-blown alcoholic.
Four years ago when she'd started working for Lila, they were both scraping by. Lila had a CD in the can, but was fighting for market share. Jenny epitomized the stereotypical down on her luck girl. They'd been together through the highs and the lows, the mistakes and the triumphs. Jenny felt like they were at a turning point. “Are you ready to go back to rehab?” she asked. Kneeling beside Lila, she brushed wisps of hair away from her boss's beautiful face.
Shakily, Lila wiped her mouth. “What good does it do me? All that happens is I feel alone and trapped. That's what it’s like, Jenny. They put you in prison.” She paused, her throat working. Tears filled Lila's cerulean blue eyes. “I can't do it by myself. I have to have someone with me. Someone who cares about me.”
Jenny heav
ed a sigh. “Lila, I'm not becoming an alcoholic so you have a friend in rehab.” An apology sat on the tip of her tongue. Sitting beside the wayward diva, Jenny put her arm around her shoulders. She rocked her gently to and fro. “You can do this.” Out of her peripheral vision, Jenny watched Charlzie enter the room, shake her head and place the garbage can where it belonged.
“I'm really a wreck, aren't I? You know what the tabloids said about me this time? They said I was the poster child for teen stars gone wild. How could they say that about me?”
She wasn't about to feed Lila's depression or low self-esteem. “You know what you have to do.” Staring at the acoustical tile ceiling, Jenny sighed. “Sweetheart, we've been friends for a long time. You can't go on this way. Get clean.”
“Will you call my dad for me? Tell him I'm ready to try again? I'm not ready to face him yet.” Lila haltingly sniffed back tears. She covered her face with her hands and burst into sobs. “I failed him.” Shaking her head, her hair fell around her shoulders in an attractive effect.
Considering how Lila's father was part of her problem when it came to drugs and alcohol, Jenny waffled for a moment. The whole, 'I'm calling your father' was but another ploy she used when Lila needed to get clean. Jason Matanucci was the voice of common sense when it came to Lila's career because if she made jack, so did he. “I'll give him a buzz.”
“Thanks, Jenny.”
Together, they helped Lila to her feet. Easing her down into her desk chair, Charlzie laid her hands on Lila's shoulders to keep her steady. The freshly cleaned garbage pail sat near the teak credenza and within arms reach.
Jenny headed for the outer office and the phone ringing off its hook. “How about if I order you some tea from the coffee shop downstairs? It'll help settle your tummy.”
“That sounds good. Can you book me in a nice rehab center this time? The last one smelled like a hospital.”
Jenny exchanged a dubious glance with Charlzie. “I'll try my best.” She lifted the receiver and punched the blinking button on the phone. “Lila Matanucci, please hold.” She ran down the line of waiting calls. Connecting the private line, she rang the coffee shop and ordered three large cups of Earl Grey and asked that they be delivered to the office suite, then began handling the calls.
Within ten minutes the tea had arrived. Jenny was still struggling with the massive number of calls but the enticing aroma rising from the brew had her taking tiny sips between conversations, mostly to soothe her own frazzled nerves. Just my luck. Ninety-eight percent of the calls were asking for some statement from the diva about a physical altercation Lila had been in with her frenemy, Sasha Blue.
Understanding the whole pseudo-fight was nothing more than a show for the press, Jenny relayed a stock answer with a panache that came from years of working for Lila. “Once we have a statement, I’ll be sure to send it over to you.” The chipper affectation she put in her tone grated on her frustrated body more. This is ridiculous.
“Everything okay in there?” Jenny asked once she'd cleared the lines. Making a mental note to call Jason, she peeked across the expanse of her desk. She saw Charlzie sip her tea. “Hey, you okay?” she asked again when Charlzie nearly spilled the contents of her cup all over Lila’s desk. Frowning at the two women gaping in the direction of the bathroom, Jenny shook her head. “What's up?”
“Call 9-1-1,” Charlzie murmured, fear etching her tone. “Do it now.”
“What has gotten into you two?” Jenny strode back into Lila’s office ready to give them a piece of her mind. She opened her mouth to tell them to stop the theatrics when she came to an abrupt stop and blinked at a whirlwind spinning in the corner. The bright pink stapler swirled around and around making Jenny dizzy. The miniature twister backed into the fake ficus, plucking off most of the faux leaves before meandering toward them.
Jenny took a defensive position in front of Lila and Charlzie. Her fingers searched for Lila's expensive desk phone. Finding it, she ripped the receiver from the cradle. “Okay, 9-1-1 it is.”
Scrambling to dial the number, her teeth chattered as the swirling air tore at her hair. She clamped her lips together as it moved over her hand, snatching the phone off the desk. An exquisite pain rifled through her. It wrapped the parts of her body trapped inside the whirlwind in a soothing warmth, but her other extremities felt as if they were being shorn from her torso. “Get out of here.”
It was too late.
Jenny grabbed Lila's hand. Their gazes met and locked. “Hold on.”
An ear-piercing scream mingled with the drowning rumble.
Then, just when Jenny thought the noise couldn't get any worse, silence overwhelmed her, and she was consumed by a nothingness that chilled her blood.
***
The Highlands of Scotland, Late Autumn 1111.
“By God's bones, milord. The wind is howling like a banshee tonight.”
Laird Iaen Kincaid thought his master of the guard, Kevin's, words a gross understatement. In all his years in the Highlands, which was all of the six and a score years he'd lived, he'd ne'er witnessed a gale like this. The rain pounded down on Castle Kincaid so hard the roof had sprung leaks and a cold draft kept slinking its way through the shuttered windows. “What be the word from the river?”
“'Tis rising, milord.”
Iaen heaved a heavy-hearted sigh. He had nay reason to worry for the Keep. Granted, the roof would need major repairs, but the stone walls would hold. If he had to, he'd move families inside the hall. “Have all the clansmen in the flood area been removed to higher ground?”
“Aye, many are staying with family. The remainders were placed in the abandoned cottages per your command.” The dark-haired man hesitated. “Only Graham refused to leave, but you know how stubborn he is.” Kevin shook his head. “Naught will take him from his cottage save death is what he told me.”
“Aye.” If that didnae sound like the old man who had followed the pipes and drums for most of his life, Iaen didnae not know what did. Graham also had the misfortune of being like his laird. They were born from the mix of Scots and Norse blood. Graham's mother was a slave traded to his father for fox pelts in the last century. Iaen's mother had married his father to seal a peace accord between the Kincaids and the Viking Wulfson clan. “Let him alone for the time being. If the river comes up to the back wall of his cottage, inform me at once.”
“You think you can convince him to leave?”
“Nay.” Iaen dodged a bucket catching drips from the ceiling as he strode across the Great Hall. Considerations by the dozens stiffened his shoulders. He didnae have the time for Graham's attitude, nor did he have hours to waste cajoling an old man from the only home he'd known. He also knew Graham wasnae long for this world. His advanced age and poor health said as much. “I think he will curse me to the ends of the earth.” Which wasnae aught out of the normal. The man hadnae ever had a kind word to say unless he was hunting for a favor from his laird. Propping his fists on his hips, Iaen steered his gaze to the Great Doors. “If this is how he wants to meet his end, I'll not interfere.”
“Milord, you speak suicide.”
“Nay, Kevin, I speak of a man's right to face death on his own terms.” To Iaen's thinking, if he had his choice, he'd prefer to die at the end of a sword than to the fate of a helpless old man lingering in bed. He was a warrior, and by God, he'd die with honor, hopefully in the heat of battle.
“As you wish, milord.”
A rumble of thunder rolled through the Great Hall. The unusual acoustics of the vaulted, open beamed ceiling turned the sound into a riotous roar. “Keep me apprised of the situation at the river.” Why he felt the need to reiterate his order to a man he knew would follow him straight to the gates of Hell, Iaen didnae know. He turned toward the wooden stairs leading to his chamber. His sword hand itched to grip his blade, to battle back the weather, and claim victory. What good was a sword versus a storm let alone one of this strength? His weapon against a raging river? Naught.
Use
lessness sat like hot lead in his belly. Flexing his hand open and closed, he climbed the stairs. The thud of his footfalls against the treads echoed in the cavernous room. Halfway to the landing, he stopped. “Send a messenger to the families living on the border; the Great Doors are open should they come under attack or if their stores grow low.” A small, sardonic smile flitted across his lips. “We may suffer tight quarters for a while, my friend.”
“Aye, milord. Now, if the twins come to the Keep, 'twill be worth the close confines.”
Iaen laughed at Kevin. For as long as he'd known the man, he'd lusted after Megan or Mary. The problem with desiring identical twins was Kevin couldnae tell the two apart. Iaen could, but he didnae want either of the twins in his bed. “Try staring at their faces rather than watching their arses go by.”
“The view from the backend is much more pleasant, though.”
“Aye, but to have a woman meet you eye to eye and toe to toe—that's a woman you can find happiness with.”
“When might you find that joy, milord? You know what the women say?”
“I have heard the gossip, Kevin. Afore long, I will take myself a bride.” Just who the unfortunate lass would be was beyond him.
“Thank God. My mama was beginning to worry Castle Kincaid would never ring with the sound of children's laughter again nor glow with the warmth of a lady fair.”
“Kevin, you sound like an old washer woman.”
“Aye, milord, but 'tis time you took a bride. The clan will find hope in it.”
“I am well aware.” Now the task was to find a woman who could survive the harsh Highland weather and create a peaceful home for a man who had never known solace. You arenae an easy man to live with. The reminder of his unbending attitude made Iaen wonder if there was such a prize anywhere in the known world. “Be about your duties.”
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