An Enchanted Spring
Mists of Time - Book Two
Nancy Scanlon
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2016 by Nancy Scanlon
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition May 2016
ISBN: 978-1-62681-726-5
Also by Nancy Scanlon
The Mists of Time series
The Winter Laird
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Connect with Diversion Books
For Sean, C., and E.
Chapter 1
Colin O’Rourke watched his cousin-in-law, many times removed, absently roll a pencil between his fingers. They were closer than brothers, and had been for the better part of eight years. Over that time, Colin had observed, helpless, as Aidan MacWilliam’s countenance slowly changed from easygoing to aloof. But most worrisome was this latest visit.
Colin’s voice was quiet. “It may be time to accept that your future lies here.”
The pencil froze midroll, and Aidan’s sharp green eyes pierced Colin’s dark brown ones. “I will never accept that. I will get back, or I’ll die trying.”
Colin wisely held his tongue. Despite his refusal to accept that he’d been brought forward in time for good, Aidan had become immensely successful. He had more money than he knew what to do with and an extended family who understood clan loyalties.
But Colin knew that wasn’t enough for a fifteenth-century Irish warrior. Aidan needed something to live for, something to spark his interest in life again. “Aidan, what’s left to try? You’ve exhausted all possibilities.”
Aidan angrily flicked the pencil onto the desk and stood. “I know there’s a time gate somewhere. All manner of strange folk traipse through O’Malley’s garden—they’re coming from somewhere, without the aid of anyone. So there’s something out there that will get me back.” His tone turned surly. “I simply haven’t found it yet.”
Colin held back a frown and changed the subject. “Well, if you need a distraction, I could use your aid.”
Aidan reluctantly sat back down. “Aye?”
It was becoming harder to simply sit by and watch someone he loved creep ever closer to a dark precipice that was neither acknowledged nor denied. Colin knew that if Aidan didn’t find a way home soon, he might tumble headfirst into that abyss and never return.
“I’m expanding Celtic Connections into the UK and Ireland.”
Aidan nodded. “The LA office doing well, then?”
Colin’s elite matchmaking service had had such success in Boston, he had opened two other offices in Toronto and Los Angeles. Both were fully booked with an impressive clientele list.
“Sure is. But with so many offices, I need a new department for publicity and public relations. European expansion isn’t something I’m ready to make public yet, and I need someone to handle the department setup.”
Aidan shrugged. “Sorry, mate. I don’t know anyone in that field.”
“I realize that. What I need is for you to do some recon.”
Aidan sat forward slightly though his face remained impassive. “Recon,” he echoed.
“Yes.” Colin watched him carefully. “The sword you brought with you, when you arrived in this time—it’s on the auction block.”
“What?”
Colin nodded. “One of our clients is facilitating the auction, which has loads of medieval artifacts up for grabs. Your sword is one of them.” He flipped open a binder to a marked page, then handed it to Aidan. “Looks like the owner died suddenly, and he left all his relics to his son. Luckily for us, the son has zero interest in medieval history, but he seems awfully interested in the money it could fetch.”
The curses that flew from Aidan’s mouth were inventive, and Colin barked out a laugh. “The auction is in a few days, in New York City. Which is exactly where the person I’m looking to hire is located. This would kill two birds with one stone. You’d get your sword, and I’d get my PR person. So—you in?”
Aidan nodded curtly. “You know it. I’ve been tracking down that damn sword for years.”
“Well, here’s your chance to get it back,” Colin replied. And, he added silently, I’m talking about much more than the sword…
• • •
To: Emmaline MacDermott
Emmaline Perkins stared in apprehension at the large envelope on her desk. The red CONFIDENTIAL stamp seemed to stare back at her, challenging her to break the seal. But that wasn’t what held her back.
It was addressed to Emmaline MacDermott.
Even now, seven months later, Emma shuddered at what would’ve been her surname, had fate not intervened.
She took a closer look and noticed the seal was already broken. That explained why her bullying, brownnosing coworker had so gleefully dropped the envelope into her lap earlier. Heidi Swanson was only gleeful when someone was about to fall hard on her face.
Emma was on her way to the top at Price Publicity. Her A-list client roster grew weekly, and her boss had hinted that she was up for a promotion. Her hard work and dedication to being the best publicist possible wasn’t going unnoticed by the movers and shakers of New York City. Her job was to calm down, smooth over, and cover up any situation before people found out there was something to find out.
Heidi hated her for it.
Her talents weren’t limited to her professional life, either. She was quite successful in ensuring no one knew anything about her cheating ex-fiancé, or his threats against her.
She gave her head a small shake to dislodge the bubble of fear, and her sleek, dark blond ponytail swung gently against her neck. She reminded herself that she was sitting in her office, perfectly safe. Benjamin MacDermott was currently hanging out in a ten-by-ten cell on an aggravated assault conviction. The attack on a bouncer in a nightclub was just one of many things she hadn’t been aware he was capable of…and she knew not to underestimate him anymore. Despite the fact that he’d been behind bars for five months, a shiver of dread raced up her spine whenever she saw, heard, or even thought his name.
And now, she thought with a shiver, here it is, staring me in the face. She looked at the envelope again and blew out a slow, shaky breath.
To: Emmaline MacDermott.
Whoever sent this envelope to her was playing a sick joke, to be sure.
Emma peeked inside the folder, and she had to swallow the bile back. Her heart sank. She grabbed the envelope and headed for the nearest conference room, her phone to her
ear, giving the appearance of leaving to take an important client call. She carefully closed the door and drew the blinds, then dumped the contents onto the polished wood table.
She drew a sharp breath.
Her ex-fiancé, dressed in some very inventive bondage gear, was tied to a bed. A red-haired woman, dressed in a similar getup, was midstrike with a whip and a ferocious look on her gorgeous features.
In a detached way, Emma thought the woman rather looked like something out of a movie. Perfectly placed, midmotion shot…Emma understood how the woman was such a huge star.
Emma would know, of course, since the woman in the pictures was her biggest and most demanding client, Jenny Kincaid. The same Jenny Kincaid who had a romantic comedy releasing this week. A romantic comedy, it seemed prudent to add, that costarred Jenny’s husband of ten years.
Not Emma’s ex.
Emma squinted at his face and couldn’t suppress another shudder. Emma had long suspected Ben of cheating, but she always rationalized that she had no real proof. They were so far into the wedding plans. They’d been together for so long. They had been college sweethearts.
Her list of excuses seemed endless.
But almost seven months ago, Emma had arrived at the office only to realize she’d left some important papers behind. She texted Ben, hoping he hadn’t left for work, but it was close to ten in the morning and he didn’t respond, so she headed back to their apartment. She opened the door to see Ben and Jenny engaged in some very…experimental positions.
What ensued was a mess. Jenny didn’t even bat an eye. In fact, she asked Ben if they could meet at her hotel later, to finish the job, to which he agreed, and Jenny gave Emma a sickening girlfriend-to-girlfriend smile before reminding her of client confidentiality.
Emma was too shocked to respond. But, when she finally was able to react (and Ben had put some clothing on), Emma threw him out of the apartment. He accepted it with minimal fuss.
Or so she thought.
A couple of weeks later, Ben was waiting for her when she got home.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, stepping into the apartment.
“I can’t get my deposits for the wedding back.”
His voice was so controlled. Emma felt a frisson of fear race down her spine, but this was Ben. She’d known him forever. He wouldn’t hurt her. Physically, anyway.
“Consider it payment for breaking my heart. Get out.” She held the door open and gestured at him to leave.
He casually walked toward her, then slammed the door shut and pinned her against it, making her cry out in surprise.
“I don’t think you heard me, Emmaline. I. Can’t. Get. My. Money. Back.” His eyes, once so warm and loving, were brittle and hard.
“You’re hurting me!” she squeaked, trying to twist from his grasp. He held firm.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Emmaline. I need that money. It’s mine. And I owe some very big people—very important people—a lot of cash. Now, because you were so”—he slammed her against the door—“damn”—he slammed her again—“stingy”—another crash against the door—“with your bank accounts, I can’t pay them back. And they’ll kill me, Emmaline.”
Emma couldn’t breathe. This was Ben! He was an insurance agent, for crying out loud! Who could be trying to kill him?
He released her suddenly, then stepped back. “You’re going to give me the money. I want twenty thousand by Thursday.”
She gasped. “Ben, I don’t have—”
He was back on her in an instant, crushing her. “You have a very nice life insurance payout,” he sneered, his lips inches from hers. “Remember? I set it up myself. And I know I’m still your beneficiary, Emma.” His eyes turned to ice. “I’ll use it if I have to.”
Emma felt the threat all the way to her soul, and she choked back a sob. This was not the Ben she’d known, the Ben she’d loved for so long.
This was a monster.
She nodded, unable to form words, and he pushed her to the floor, where she fell in a heap. He opened the door and stepped over her, then turned and looked down at her in disgust. In a low voice, he added, “You’ve made things very difficult, Emmaline. If you run, I will find you. And it will be deemed an accident. I’ll make sure the payout happens quickly and efficiently.” He smiled coldly. “You’ll have a lovely funeral. Not that anyone would show up. I’m all you ever had.”
He pulled the door shut, and Emma lost her stomach.
Emma was shocked back to the present when someone knocked on the conference room door. “I have this booked for a client meeting!” a voice called apologetically.
Emma swallowed hard and stuffed the incriminating images back into the envelope. She would get them to the shredder immediately.
Ben had been sentenced to a year and some months in jail, and Emma had hoped when he came out she’d have a plan.
A glance at the unexpected envelope in her shaky hand had her wondering if she might want to start planning.
• • •
At some point, her wineglass emptied itself.
Emma gave it a small frown. It had been doing that all night, but she refused to be bothered by it. She just refilled it from the bottle that was sitting obediently next to her on the small table on her tiny little terrace, in her tiny little corner of New York City.
She squinted at the bottle before she put it down. It was mostly empty—when did that happen? She must’ve swigged—er, sipped—more than she thought. She couldn’t bring herself to care, though. After the day she’d had, coupled with not taking a night off in forever, she deserved some down time.
Her clients’ social lives had replaced her own years ago. She put every ounce of herself into being a great publicist. She could smooth over any situation her clients found themselves in. Her years of dedication (okay, not taking a vacation or a full weekend in the entire seven years she’d been at Price Publicity) gave her contacts all over the city—reporters, journalists, magazine editors, restaurant owners—but her biggest successes came from social media. Her coworkers always turned to her for the best ways to spin something in 140 characters or less, inventive hashtags to offset negative press, and clever Facebook statuses that made light of serious situations. And she also possessed a good ear for warning bells, which helped her notice the bad vibes before a disaster struck.
However, as she sat on her little terrace, looking out over the crowded street below, she wished she were anywhere else, for the first time since she had arrived in the city years ago. It was a never-ending barrage of busy lives, all colliding in a few square miles. And her job never let her go—“regular business hours” was code only for one’s physical presence within the Price building, because the clientele at Price Publicity tended to make rather serious mistakes at all hours of the night.
She took another swig of wine as her phone rang.
“’Lo?” she answered, peering into the wineglass.
“Emma—we have a crisis.”
Emma took another swallow of her wine before answering her boss. Her tongue felt a little fuzzy. “Josh, I’m not working tonight.”
“Are you drunk?” he asked. Emma could almost see his brow furrow, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom the prim and proper Emma Perkins getting drunk. By herself.
On a Wednesday night.
“Nooo,” Emma snorted.
“Oh my God. You are drunk.”
“Why are you calling me, Josh?”
“Because you need to be in the office tomorrow morning at seven. I was checking my email—”
“You really do work too much,” Emma interrupted.
“So says the pot to the kettle,” Josh snickered. “Listen, a hi-pri came into our inboxes almost an hour ago. We’ve all been waiting for your response.”
Emma’s fuzzy brain tried to snap to attention at the mention of a high-priority email, but it just wasn’t working right. “From who?” The only client who would warrant a high-priority email was the one in the incrim
inating photos.
She took another large sip to block out the memory.
Josh’s voice was serious. “Mr. Price.”
Emma stood up quickly, choking on her wine. Putting a hand over her eyes to stop the spinning, she managed, “Mr. Price, as in, Mr. Price, the CEO?”
“That’s the one.”
She swallowed hard. Mr. Price gave everyone a BlackBerry so he wouldn’t have to call them—in his opinion, every employee at his firm was on call for him all day, every day, through email. He reserved the phone for his clients.
Josh continued, “Emma, stop drinking and get yourself together. Mr. Price wants to see us in his office at seven tomorrow morning. There’s a potential new client—he’s so wealthy he eats money for breakfast. And he’s demanded you and only you, and he’s refusing to deal with anyone else…even Mr. Price.”
“Oh, God,” Emma groaned.
“Exactly.”
Mr. Price loathed when clients refused to deal with him directly. Especially the exceptionally wealthy ones. And if they requested someone outside the top tier of management, Price wanted detailed, in-person reports three times per week for the length of the contract. If she didn’t deliver results in the form of a contract extension, there would be hell to pay.
Who was she kidding? Her life was already a living hell; it wasn’t like it could get much worse.
“Okay, respond to that email for me? I’ll be there. Tell him I’m with a client right now or something.”
“Done,” Josh replied, the tap-tap-tap of a keyboard audible over the line. “I’ll meet you outside the office at six thirty.”
“Okay,” Emma said with a sigh, ruefully pouring the contents of her wineglass into the plastic potted palm on the terrace. “I hope I’m not hung over tomorrow.”
“Tonight, take two aspirin and drink an entire glass of water before you go to bed,” Josh instructed. “I need you alert, Perkins. In the morning, you’re going to drink a small glass of orange juice. No coffee.”
An Enchanted Spring: Mists of Fate - Book Two Page 1
