Men. Cars. Great form, no function, and they both overheated at the
wrong time. Who needed them?
Kathy Bartlett glanced in her rearview mirror hoping to spot her hero of the moment,
Rod’s Reliable Tow Service. Nothing.
Okay, so she’d lied. She needed her car, but she needed it functional.
“Speaking of function...” She glanced at the shiny hourglass-shaped
toy perched happily on the seat beside her. “What the heck do you do?”
She picked up the toy, turned it over, tapped the amber lights on top of its head,
then plunked it back onto the seat.
“The strong silent type, huh? Hate to break this to you, but young America
likes toys that do something. Loudly. That’s why you were left on the shelf,
kiddo.” She stared out her sleet-blurred windshield at passing New York
traffic. Great Christmas Eve. “You know, you sort of remind me of my ex-husband,
Peter Matthew Stone. Looks hot, does squat. A major PMS moment in my life. Mind
if I call you Peter?”
The toy was cool with that.
“What did I do to deserve this, Peter? I’m an okay person. I make
women’s hair safe for America. When Alice asked me to pick up some toys
for the shelter, I said sure. I didn’t hire a hit man to knock off old PMS
because he’s suing me for mental anguish. And I never once laughed when
he called a certain body part his love gun. So why is this happening to me?”
Peter hadn’t a clue.
“This is all your fault, Peter.”
Peter didn’t think so.
“I get out of work late then run to a few stores looking for toys. You know
what’s left on Christmas Eve? Rejects. No offense.”
Peter handled it.
“Now I’m stuck on the side of the road with a sack of slightly weird
toys in my trunk and one beside me. Fine. So I’m a pushover. I bought you
because you were just sitting on the shelf. Admit it though, you were feeling
kind of lonely all by yourself. Hey, I understand what it’s like on the
shelf. Besides, no one should be alone on Christmas.”
Kathy cast another look in her mirror, then sighed with relief when she saw the
tow truck edging toward her out of the darkness on the shoulder of the highway.
She took a deep breath and opened the door. Sleet and frigid air hit her in the
face. Yech. Shoving her cell phone into her purse, she grabbed her backpack full
of hair supplies, climbed out, then went to retrieve her bag of toys from the
trunk. Maybe she could convince the driver to swing past the shelter. She’d
hate to think of kids without toys on Christmas morning.
Darn, she’d forgotten Peter. She’d just shove his two feet of shiny
nothing into the sack with the other toys. Pulling open the passenger door, she
watched blankly as he tumbled out of the car and landed on his face. At least
she guessed it was his face. Sort of hard to tell.
Amazed, she stared at him. “Gee, look what shook loose. You’re now
the proud owner of three sturdy legs.” Sighing, she picked him up and set
him next to her. “You’ll make someone a great bedside table, pal,
but you won’t fit in the bag with those legs sticking out.”
Staring into the darkness, she hunched her shoulders and tried to stop shivering.
Damn, damn, and double damn.
“I hate this. I need a vacation, Peter. Somewhere warm, peaceful, with every
modern convenience at my fingertips, and no stress. And I may as well throw in
a man. Yeah, a man who’ll do everything I want, never argue, and won’t
ever tell me to relax and enjoy it.”
A gust of wind blew sleet into her face.
“That’s it, Peter. I want warm, peaceful, conveniences, and a subservient
man. How’s that sound?”
Peter must’ve thought it sounded pretty good, because his amber lights flashed,
and he rose to his full height, which wasn’t too spectacular.
A sudden wave of dizziness drove away all thoughts of Peter. A kaleidoscope of
whirling colors made her slightly nauseated. She couldn’t be freezing to
death, because she could still feel her toes.
Please, don’t let me pass out. She couldn’t let Mrs.
Tierney down tomorrow. The ninety-year-old woman would be waiting for her monthly
cut, knock-em-dead blond coloring, and latest issue of Cosmo. Mrs. Tierney’s
cheapskate nephew had stopped paying Kathy years ago, but that didn’t matter.
Mrs. Tierney called Kathy her hair princess. It felt good to be someone’s
princess.
Kathy blinked, trying to clear her vision. Kick her if she skipped any more lunches
trying to squeeze in frantic clients.
The whirling colors had become a long tunnel with Peter’s flashing amber
lights at its end. A near-death experience?
She sank to her knees still clutching her purse, backpack, and bag of toys. If
the tow-truck driver discovered her cold stiff body, she hoped he’d find
Peter a good home.
And as the whirling colors took her, Peter spoke.
“Hasta la vista, baby!”
CHAPTER ONE
Arnold Schwarzenegger? Big bad voice for cute little toy? Poor marketing decision.
No wonder good old Peter was left warming the shelf. What parent would want their
kid to have a two foot high tin Terminator?
"Ye must prove yer worthiness, Ian. 'Tis the only fair way. What say ye,
Neil?"
Kathy winced. Talking about big bad voices... The tow truck driver? She knelt
on the ground, still clutching her things.
"Aye. Ye're the eldest, Ian, but that doesna mean ye're the best. Neil Ross
has satisfied many a lass."
Well, cheers for Neil Ross. At least satisfied customers meant they knew which
end of her car to hook up to.
Letting everything slide from her grasp, Kathy held her head. Maybe if it would
stop spinning she'd make a stab at opening her eyes.
"Ye must let us choose, Ian, if 'tis to be a true test. Do ye agree, Colin?"
What? What test? All they had to do was hook her car up and tow it to Mel's where
for the nominal fee of her firstborn child she could get it back in running order.
"Aye. We will find one wi' a heart that canna be touched."
Yep, that was Mel. Cash or credit card. No personal checks. Against her better
judgment, she opened her eyes. She blinked.
Uh-oh. No busy highway, no sexy car. No city. Only stark green hills and a small
stream coated in morning mist. Morning? What had happened to the night? And silence.
A silence so intense it terrified her.
Had she passed out? No, she'd fainted once when old PMS had decided that aromatherapy
would loosen her up. He'd said the scent was discovered in an ancient Egyptian
tomb. She believed him. It smelled like Essense of Mummy. Anyway, she didn't remember
having any strange hallucinations then. She pulled her wool coat tightly around
her, warding off the chill, the unspeakable fear tapping on her shoulder.
"I dinna know where we might find such a cold creature, Colin."
Here. Here. She’d never felt so cold in her life, and the brisk wind numbing
her ears had nothing to do with it. Still on her knees, she turned toward the
welcome human voice. “Please, you’ve got to...” She stared.
Two male behinds stared back at her. Bare behinds. A “Playgirl” chorus
line. She resisted the urge to rub her eyes. Two guys mooning her wouldn’t
be that strange in New York... New York? Where in New York?
"Mayhap we will find one in England, Neil. English lasses can freeze a man's...”
England? Suddenly, she realized what they wore. Wool thingees, belted
at the waist, didn’t quite reach their knees, and from what she could see,
boxers or briefs would never be a burning issue with these guys.
Kilts? She had to be dreaming. Nothing else made sense. Okay, dreams were symbolic,
so she'd just figure this baby out. The empty landscape probably meant she needed
some inner peace and tranquillity, an escape from the frenzy her life had become.
The bare buns? Easy. She thought of her ex as a butt-head on a daily basis, so
here he was in duplicate.
The rocks she knelt on dug into her knees through her long skirt, and she shifted
uncomfortably. Funny, but she couldn't remember feeling anything physical in dreams
before.
"Aye, Colin. But even though an English lass may have a cold nature, it matters
not to a Ross. 'Tis hot enough she'll be in bed wi'..."
She shivered as the chill wind whipped around her and lifted the kilts higher
on the men leaning over... Wait a minute. There was another man sitting on the
ground, his back braced against a large boulder.
"Ye have reason to fear us, Ian. We will beat ye and take what we want."
Beat? Ohmigod, a mugging. At last, something familiar. She couldn’t
see enough of the man on the ground to know how badly he was injured, but she
knew she had to do something to save him and probably herself, because any second
now they were bound to notice her.
Her logical self reminded her this was a dream, so she didn't have to do anything.
Her logical self could take a hike. She needed a weapon.
Reaching inside her purse, she fumbled around for something she could use. Nothing.
No handy little gun, no pepper spray. Rats.
Her can of mousse? Right. That would certainly scare the pants off... Okay, no
pants to worry about. Maybe if she wrapped both hands around the can she could
bluff them into believing she had a can of Mace. She drew in a deep breath. She
had to go for it.
Pulling the mousse from her purse, she shook it, then climbed shakily to her feet.
Her whole world seemed out of kilter, but she could only focus on one thing right
now, saving the man on the ground.
She tried to clear her throat, but her voice still came out in a wavery croak.
"Get lost, scumbags, before I Mace you. The cops are on their way."
As one, the two men straightened then swung to face her. She gulped. Large. Very large. And hairy. With dry split ends that would challenge even her expertise.
"A lass." Translation: yum-yum.
Her heart pounded madly. The Three Little Pigs would've been laying bricks like
crazy at the sound of that voice.
They moved toward her. Forget trying to hit them in the eyes. They were too tall.
While she was jumping into the air trying to get one in the eyes, the other would
tear her apart. She needed a lower target.
The wind whipped and swirled, lifting their kilts high enough to offer a more
assessable body part. Without hesitation, she moussed each of their Love Guns
with a defiant squirt. Hey, one patch of voluminous and shiny body hair was better
than none.
Kathy did a mental head-slap. Dumb habit. She bet no one else thought in smart-mouthed
one liners when they were scared or nervous. And this was life and death stuff.
Time to run like hell. But where?
Staring down in horror at the fluffy globs of mousse sticking to them, the men
stumbled away from her.
Strange. Against all reason, Kathy had the feeling neither of them knew the mousse
was harmless. Well, she recognized an advantage when she saw one. "Hmm. I
wonder if they'll fall off now or later."
With wild bellows, the kilted giants turned and fled.
She watched them disappear as she let the mousse slip from her fingers.
The man on the ground. But by the time she turned back to him, the
mist had closed in. A flowing sea of gray created shifting shapes of fear, twining
like skeletal fingers around dark silhouettes of trees and shrubs. Kathy could
almost believe it was alive—feel it breathing, waiting.
She swallowed past throat muscles that refused to work, fighting the terror
of knowing she was the only person on earth.
"Come to me."
His voice. She could taste it. Hot chocolate, smooth brandy, and
sex. She recognized it. All the forbidden things Mom had warned her against—going
out in public without panties, talking to strangers who tempted you with pictures
you’d never forget, touching yourself in the darkness of your room while
you imagined unimaginable acts.
Crazy thoughts. Whatever this was, it was affecting her mental balance.
"Are you okay?" Her words echoed in the cold gray void, while her
mind promised she’d never be okay again. She stumbled in the general
direction of his voice.
Just as she was losing her battle with hysteria, she saw him.
He sat, relaxed against the boulder, one leg bent at the knee, his head turned
from her as if watching something only he could see.
Then, he looked at her. And as much as she wanted to forget the rest of the dream,
this moment she’d remember. Always.
"Ye must need me badly, lass." His husky murmur warmed the damp chill
of the mist, made her remember needs she’d vowed not to think of again.
His face was harsh beauty and raw sensuality. Half-hidden by a wild tangle of
dark wind-blown hair, his eyes held secrets, his smile pure sin.
“Yer heart is cold and alone. Ye must think of all things warm, all that
would make yer heart pound, all the feelings and scents that have brought ye pleasure.
Live them now to bring ye peace.”
"No." She rubbed her eyes with a shaking hand. Come to me. The image. A hot summer night. This man and her. Their naked bodies, sweat-sheened
skin, and stark white cotton sheets tangled at the foot of the brass bed. Her
bed. And the scent of honeysuckle drifting in the open window, moving the sheer
curtains in a lazy rhythm. She could see the heat, touch the scent, taste the
passion.
"I...I have to get back to my car." She'd never been so frightened in
her life. Where had the image come from? The last time she'd smelled honeysuckle
had been on Grandpa's farm when she'd been about sixteen. And...the other things.
They weren't connected to her life with Peter and his Love Gun. And they'd felt...real.
Too real.
Wake up. “I don’t understand. Where...? How...?”
Her trembling legs couldn’t support her as she sank to her knees in front
of him. “Why honeysuckle, the brass bed?”
“Whate’er yer thoughts, they brought ye pleasure for the moment. Hold
them tightly to ye.” Effortlessly, he reached out and pulled her onto his
lap. "Let me warm ye."
"Have you seen New York around here anywhere? I..." She was ice flung
into his flame. The helpless melting, the absorption, the sizzle and spark, the
steam as the two met. She felt him, through her heavy coat, through the rough
wool of his clothing. Sinew, muscle. His sharp exhalation hot against the side
of her neck, his heat touching her everywhere.
“This isn’t a dream, is it?” The intensity of a dream like this
would’ve brought her to sweating, shaking, heart-pounding awareness. Then
what was happening? “Are you familiar with out-of-body experiences?”
"Out of body?" He wiped a tear from her cheek with his finger.
Crying? When had she started crying? She sniffed. She wouldn’t resort to
tears. Old PMS had taught her that criers were losers.
"'Twould be passing strange to want to be out of yer body when ye're wi'
a bonny lass. 'Tis the body that makes it so wondrous."
What about the heart? What about love? “Sure. Stupid comment.”
Who was she to dis the senses when they seemed to be the only things working right
now?
Reaching down, she braced herself against his hip, fixed her attention on the
checked pattern of the cloth. Her legs were wedged between his thighs, but she
had no strength to move, could barely concentrate... "All of you are wearing
kilts. Just what New York needs, another street gang. Guess you don't need guns
and knives. You just moon anyone you don't like. I bet grossed-out enemies keel
over by the hundreds at the fanny display put on by those two I chased away."
She felt his deep exhalation. "'Tis the cold making you blather so."
"Right." She didn't even make sense to herself. Not a dream? Then what?
When she finally managed to lift her gaze, she looked into eyes as gray as the
mist surrounding them. A midnight tangle of hair framed a face meant for a dark
god or fallen angel. And something so explosive it took her breath away passed
between them.
She'd imagined it. Nothing explosive had ever passed between a man and her. After
her failed marriage, that’s the way she liked it, that’s the way she
meant to keep it.
"Are ye feeling a wee bit better?"
"No." Too much. Her confused thoughts made no sense of what she saw,
felt. And so she focused on just one thing. His hair. She reached out with fingers
as icy as the dread building in her soul, then slid her hand the length of his
hair, past his shoulders to where dark strands spread across his chest.
Fascinated, she watched the rapid rise and fall of his broad chest, a rise and
fall matching the beat of her own heart.
With all her questions fighting for supremacy, she could only force one comment
through her lips. "You have virgin hair."
"I dinna think so. I havena had any virgin parts for a verra long time."
She felt his deep chuckle shudder through her and raised her gaze once again to
his face. The white flash of his wicked smile fixated her attention on his lips.
A full lower lip, sensual, but somehow not softening the hard angles of jaw and
cheekbones.
His gaze slid the length of her body, and it was as real as though he'd touched
her with his fingers, his mouth.
A dangerous man. Perhaps the two she’d chased away were the
ones who’d needed saving.
His smile turned wolfish. "Ye wouldna enjoy a man who hadna lain wi' a lass."
Panic clattered around in her mind, frantically trying to get her attention. It
finally succeeded. She tried to push away from him, but he simply closed his thighs
on her legs and she might as well have been shackled in iron.
Even as she raised her fists to pound whatever part of him became available first,
she sensed the uselessness. He wrapped his arms around her and held her still.
"Dinna be so quick to run." His breath fanned against her cheek, heating
her senses, her anger. "Ye must have been fair desperate to gain my advice.
I've ne'er seen Colin and Neil bested before. But ye took unfair advantage of
their fear for their manhoods. 'Twasn't needed. I would have asked my brothers
to speak wi' me later." He drew his finger along the line of her clenched
jaw.
"Your brothers?” Jerking her head from his touch, she
looked frantically around for help. She’d kill for the sight of a golden
arch or even a New York cabby offering her a friendly finger signal because she’d
cut him off. “Those two are your brothers?”
"Aye. We were born together, still we dinna resemble each other overmuch."
"Born together...? Oh, triplets." Hard to believe. The other two were
lumbering bears, while this man...this man was a dark jungle predator.
Where was she? Had she taken a wrong turn in Central Park and landed in Oz?
"Even though we were born together, I came first. They dinna want to accept
me as the eldest."
"Hey, I feel for them. Who came out first is important." Horse pooky.
She had really important things to worry about.
She drew in a deep breath to hold her panic in check. He hadn't hurt her, and
already his faded red plaid was growing sort of familiar. No. She couldn’t
let anything in this nowhere land get familiar.
She shivered as the mist's damp fingers touched her with an unspoken promise that
nothing in her life would ever be the same again.
Some women might still think they were dreaming. Not her. She recognized dreams.
She'd certainly had enough nightmares after the collapse of her marriage. This
wasn't a dream.
Then what? Amnesia? Could she have lost her memory, wandered to a different place?
Stop shaking. You're New York tough. New Yorkers are survivors. This
time when she pushed at him, he let her go. Scrambling away from the man on the
ground, she reached her purse and yanked out her cell phone.
Breathlessly, she pushed 911 then waited until a male voice answered.
"Please, I need help." Her teeth chattered. Cold or fear? Probably
both. "My name is Kathy Bartlett and I—”
The voice interrupted.
"No, I'm not hurt. I don't know about the imminent danger part. I'm—“
Interruption.
"Where am I? Somewhere in Braveheart, I think."
The voice wasn't amused.
"Okay, okay, I'm..." She turned to the man who still sat leaning against
the rock. "Where am I?"
He wasn't smiling. A frown creased his forehead as he stared at her phone. "Ye're
betwixt Cromarty and Dornoch Firths."
"Firth? What the heck is a firth? Firth doesn’t sound
like a New York name.” He didn’t sound like a New York man. She fought
to control the nauseous fear trembling in the pit of her stomach and faithfully
repeated what he’d said.
"What do you mean there're no streets with those names? Sure there are. I
bet you could find dozens of Cromarty and Dornoch Streets. I bet there're two
named after Dominic Cromarty and Christine Dornoch."
The voice had no sense of humor.
"Fine, so I'm not hurt, so I'm not in imminent danger, but...
Why do I have to call my local authorities?” She glared at the man on the
ground, then glared at her cell phone.
"Emergencies? You think this isn't an emergency? You’d
better...” Damn! He’d hung up. Carefully, she returned the phone to
her purse, afraid she’d drop it from her shaking fingers. Save the power
until you figure out who to call.
She was in deep doo-doo, but she’d calmly and logically reason things out.
Hah! She was so scared that any minute the fright fairy would swoop down and crown
her Queen of Queasy Stomachs.
She turned back to the man, then gasped when she found he now stood beside her.
Sitting, he'd looked formidable. Standing, he was downright intimidating. Towering
above her with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun, if there'd been a
sun, and dressed in clothing that looked way too authentic for Kathy's taste,
he practically oozed raw primitive power.
She wanted to step back. Step back, turn and run for her life. But where?
And she didn't doubt he'd catch her before she'd taken five steps. Clenching her
shaking hands into fists, she glared at him. "Don't touch me or I'll—”
"Or ye'll what, lass?" He smiled. "Cover my manhood wi' a potion
that will deny the pleasure of a woman's body to me forever?" He walked over
and picked up her can of mousse. Handling it carefully, he returned it to her.
Without comment, she put it in her purse.
"Be ye a witch?" He didn't smile when he asked.
An incredible explanation was jumping up and down just outside the door to her
thoughts, shouting to get her attention. She couldn’t make it go away, but
she didn’t have to answer the door.
Just stick with the facts. Two hulking giants run screaming from
mousse attack. General landscape in no way resembles Times Square on New Year’s
Eve. Conclusion. Primitive area inhabited by big scary primitive men. Hmm.
Think. If she was in a primitive area, then she'd better squash this witch
thing. Being burned at the stake was not on her list of fun things to
do on a Saturday night. No, she definitely couldn't be a witch. "I'm...I'm
a princess. That's right, I'm a princess, and I'm lost."
"A princess?" He looked puzzled.
She relaxed slightly. He didn't seem so threatening when he was puzzled. "Yes,
I'm...the hair princess."
"Hare?" A smile once again tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Ye
rule a kingdom of rabbits?"
If she wasn't so confused, so terrified, she might have laughed,
but who could laugh with their teeth chattering and their mind racing for an explanation.
Any explanation. “No, hair.” She reached up and fingered a strand
of his incredible hair, then jerked her hand back at the instant connection. “I’m
Kathy, the Princess of Hair.” A coma? Did people hallucinate when they were
in a coma? “And I need to get back to New York.”
He frowned. "I've ne'er heard of this New York."
Oh, God, please. "The United States?"
He shook his head, and her gaze involuntarily followed the way his hair shifted
like heavy silk across his shoulders. "I dinna know these places. Who is
the king of yer land?"
The explanation, so fantastic, so impossible, was now pounding on the door, tapping
at windows. “Uh...Clairol. My father, King Clairol, rules our kingdom.”
He exhaled sharply, and his breath misted against her cheek—warm, compelling.
"Yer father would do well to keep his daughter safe beside him. 'Tis a dangerous
land ye've come to."
New York or wherever, men's attitudes didn't change. She took a mini-break from
mental handwringing to strike a blow for women everywhere. "Women can take
care of themselves. I can take care of myself.” Right.
His gaze turned thoughtful, assessing. "Aye. I've seen proof of that. Henry
would find ye amusing."
"Henry?" She glanced around her again. Hills, grass, a small grove of
trees, the smell of the sea. No, she'd never been here before.
"Surely even in yer kingdom ye've heard of King Henry."
The explanation gave up on polite knocking and tapping. With a roar of frustration,
it kicked down her door, then stood with hands on hips, confronting her with its
horrific possibility, its realness. “What...year is it?” Strange,
but her lips felt frozen, unwilling to form the question.
"The year of our Lord, fifteen hundred forty-two." His answer seemed
distracted, his gaze suddenly fixed on something behind her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would keep her mind, her soul, from
shattering into a million mini-shards of panic. No! How? Why? No, she
wouldn’t accept his words. Time travel was impossible.
Please let her open her eyes and find herself back on the side of the highway,
smelling the wonderful smells of home—exhaust fumes and factory pollution.
She'd never, never, never complain again about overbooking, clients who wanted
green hair like the Grinch, or sexy cars that broke down.
She opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. Feeling suddenly disconnected from the
strangeness around her—probably a defense mechanism by her mind to keep
its sanity—she turned to see what her companion found so interesting.
A large cat sat watching them. Mostly white, it had red on its head and tail.
Auburn. Denise Lane, third Thursday of every month. Kathy had told her all women
deserved to be redheads at least once in their lives.
The man moved up beside her, and they watched silently as the cat stood, then
hobbled toward them.
"That cat only has three legs." She was switching into automatic poor-kitty
mode when the man put his hand on her arm. She drew in her breath at the contact.
"'Tis Malin. Ye must pretend ye dinna notice. He willna accept yer pity."
He bent down and ran his hand the length of the cat's back. The cat sat down regally
at the man's side, disdaining to glance her way.
"Malin?"
"Aye. The name means wee strong warrior. 'Tis a fitting name."
Kathy lifted her gaze to the man's face. There was dark intensity in his stare
and an unnamed emotion that seemed to ripple between them, pulling her into its
undertow even as she fought it.
Nope, she wouldn’t get sidetracked, because she had really important
issues to think about like... Even though I really, really don't believe in
time travel, well, if I have time traveled—and of course I don't believe
I have—please, someone send me home.
“Run this King Henry and 1542 stuff past me again. Slowly.” She wet
her lips nervously as he watched her with unwavering gray eyes. “Oh, and
have you spoken with your shrink lately, maybe missed your medication?”
If only it were that simple. But what about the two kilted brothers she'd
terrified with a can of mousse? What about their Scottish burr, and what about
the primitive untouched land around her? What about if you have a screaming
fit of hysterics?
It was as though she hadn't spoken. Without comment, he grabbed her hand, scooped
up her bag of toys, purse, and backpack, then started dragging her away.
Bag of toys, purse, backpack. Something important. Remember. “Whoa. You
can’t just pull me along behind you. That’s...kidnapping, a criminal
offense. Besides, I don’t go off with strange men.” She jerked ineffectually
at his grasp.
Pausing, he looked back at her. “If ye're truly lost, then all men would
be strange to ye.”
True. "Yeah, but some men are stranger than others."
He finally seemed to relax. The beginning of a smile crinkled the corners of his
eyes and turned up the corners of that incredible mouth. "Ye dinna understand,
lass. Ye have no choice in the matter. Ye're coming wi' me." He shrugged,
and even through the plaid thrown across his shoulders, she could see the ripple
of muscles. "Besides, where else would ye go?"
Stark raving mad? No, she thought she’d already taken that trip.
He must've taken her silence for assent, because he resumed dragging her away.
"Wait. You forgot Malin. Aren't you going to carry him?" She glanced
at the cat, who stared malevolently back at her. Definitely not carry-on luggage.
"Malin is a warrior. Ye dinna carry a warrior. He would be insulted."
The man continued walking.
God forbid she insult Malin. "Peter. We can't leave Peter here."
Peter. Now she realized what had bothered her when he’d picked up her other
things. She’d been holding the bag, backpack, and purse when it happened.
She hadn’t been holding Peter. So why was Peter here? Why not her sexy red
car with the balloon payment due in two months? Two months. Which reminded her,
if she didn’t show up in court on February 14, her slimy cheating ex-husband
would win his stupid mental anguish case.
Once again the man paused. He cast her a long-suffering look. "Peter?"
"He's one of my toys. I have to get him." She pointed.
He narrowed his gaze on the shiny metal hourglass waiting placidly beside a large
bush. "'Tis passing strange."
Inexplicably, she felt the need to defend Peter. "You have no room to talk,
buster."
He led her back to the toy, and when he would've picked Peter up, she rushed to
grab her toy first. Clutching the shiny body, she smoothed her fingers over his
two amber lights. She felt a rush of affection for the metal misfit, and yes,
a sense of comfort in holding him. He was one of her last contacts with a life
that seemed to be fading even as she stood clasping him.
Fear drove her into speech. So long as she could talk, she might stave off the
bout of frenzied tears gathering at the back of her throat. "Who...who are
you, and how did you do that thing with the honeysuckle and brass bed?"
"Ian Ross." He started walking again, obviously assuming she'd follow
him. “And I did naught but urge ye to find the things ye treasured so ye
might weave them into yer desire.”
He assumed wrong. “That wasn’t my desire.”
She sensed his smile. “Ye dinna wish it to be yer desire.”
“Okay, forget the desire thing. Who are you really?”
For what she sensed was the last time, he paused and turned toward her. Moving
close, he invaded her space, and Kathy felt like she'd wandered into a sensual
magnetic field. He slid his fingers along her jaw, down the side of her neck,
then lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his.
Searing heat and a need so strong it made every inch of her body clench held
her rooted to the spot even as her mind screamed for her to run. Close. So close his eyes seemed silver rather than gray, his lashes dark smudges against
his beard-shadowed skin. So close she inhaled the scent of mist, hot male, and
danger.
She stumbled away from him. There was something about his closeness that—
"If Ian Ross be not enough for ye, mayhap ye need know what others call me."
He followed her retreat until she was backed against a large boulder.
His size, pure maleness, and her unexplained reaction to him left her breathing
hard, her breaths emerging as white puffs into the cold mist.
Grasping her chin, he gently raised her head till she was forced to meet his dark
gaze. "Know me, Kathy, Princess of Hair." His smile ignited a flame
that burned away her chill, that sent liquid fire through every vein.
"I am the Pleasure Master."
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