by Diana Duncan
A pause while he consumed another muffin. “I’m not sure.”
“You understand American slang without a problem. I don’t think you just fell off the boat from Scotland today.”
“Figuratively, nay.” A megawatt smile transformed his face from indomitable warrior to mischievous rogue. “Literally, perhaps I did.”
A melting, swoopy sensation tickled her insides. Sort of like eating a hot fudge sundae while riding a roller coaster. Rowan’s sexy grin hadn’t simply derailed her train of thought. It had blown up the subway.
Delaney picked at a crispy golden filet. Stay on track. “Um…no wreckage washed ashore. Were you aboard a boat?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Well, you didn’t backstroke across the Pacific. What’s your job…where do you work?”
“Depends how you define ‘work.’”
She grimaced. “This conversation is beginning to sound like a Senate hearing.”
“Can’t tell you what I don’t know, can I?” Rowan dispatched the lone survivor of the dozen muffins, not counting the one she’d taken but not eaten. He prowled to the stove, ladled generous scoops of the marionberry cobbler onto his empty plate and returned.
“Mmm…” His sensual moan rippled up her spine. If he was attempting to distract her, he was doing a bang-up job. “Bloody brilliant dessert. You’ve very clever hands, haven’t you, lass?”
“Cut the bull. What do you remember?”
He sighed. “My short-term memory is…compromised. ‘Tis like peering into a hazy mirror. Only random clear places appear.”
“All right, tell me everything you can see.”
“I don’t believe that’d be wise.” He frowned. “Because I’m fair certain someone tried to kill me.”
Queasy, she abandoned her fork. His admission wasn’t the shock it should have been. Deep down, she’d already sensed that darkness stalked him.
Delaney rubbed the vague ache nagging the back of her neck. And Rowan realized she knew, or he wouldn’t have come clean. She’d met this man mere hours ago, yet they shared a scary subliminal connection. Shared strange, unsettling feelings. “We’d better notify the police.”
“I’d rather not. Until my recall improves, I haven’t any answers.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ve found the authorities can be…less than helpful in certain circumstances.”
Tell me about it. Especially when you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer their questions. MacLachlan might be on the wrong side of the law. Or not. But she’d learned the hard way “innocent until proven guilty” was an ideal not upheld by everyone in law enforcement.
“You’re deep in alligators, pal.”
He smirked. “Up to my bollocks.”
“You seem pretty nonchalant about it.”
“I remember enough to know this isn’t my first trip to the bog.” He shrugged. “And won’t be the last.”
Maybe he was an undercover Fed. Or yet another casualty of corrupt Judge Zinter, who owned a house nearby. Delaney squelched the urge for details. Sometimes, ignorance was bliss. She didn’t want to further endanger Rowan, or herself, by mucking around in his business. She really didn’t want the authorities or Zinter to know she was in town.
She’d keep her gun close and MacLachlan at a distance until the storm passed, then they’d go their separate ways. “I empathize with you, honestly. But I can’t get dragged in. I have my own gators to wrestle.”
“That you do.” He studied her face. “What’s your profession?”
No harm in telling him. It was public knowledge, and a lie might make him curious enough to dig deeper. “I’m a victims’ advocate for the Portland District Attorney’s office, and working on my law degree.”
At least she had been. Until she’d flushed her hard-won career down the toilet last winter by spearheading an unsanctioned investigation into her brother’s case.
“Why did you come to this lonely place, Delaney?” Once again, jeweled green spilled into his irises. Warm waves of inquiry lapped against her skin. This time, the gentle probing was far more subtle. “What do you seek here?”
Pain squeezed her temples. She fought dizziness as Rowan’s essence drifted inside her mind. Sly, silver mist brushed her thoughts. Examined her feelings.
No! Her wordless scream quivered in the air between them. Get away from me!
Rowan jolted. Severed the contact.
His mental hit-and-run left her head throbbing. “Stop touching me against my will!” Her fingers crumpled her napkin. “Stop invading my private—” Humiliatingly close to tears, she inhaled a shaky breath. “Whatever the hell you’re doing, it’s too personal, and I don’t like it!”
Sadness weighted his big frame as his concerned gaze locked with hers—gray again. “What is it you think I’m doing to you?”
She was losing it. Turning into a genuine fruitcake. With nuts. A person’s eyes did not change color. Thought reading and mind control were not possible. Avoiding his scrutiny, she rearranged her napkin beside her plate. Maybe she should have listened to Connor and seen a therapist to deal with the past.
But she didn’t trust anyone with her body or her mind. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Delaney Morgan.”
Rowan pushed back his chair. “Be wary where you tread, lass. The most beautiful reptiles are often the most poisonous.” He rose and strode to the front door, wrenched the handle…and walked out.
The thick oak panel swung shut on his ominous warning.
A dozen paralyzed seconds ticked past before Delaney leapt up to run outside after him.
“Rowan?” Blackness closed over her as she sprinted off the porch, frigid rain drilling icy needles through her sweater. Her pulse hammered. How had he just…disappeared? He was on foot—her GTO was still parked in the muddy driveway. “Are you insane?” she shouted into the wet, wild night. “You’re not wearing a coat. Or shoes. Come back here!”
Impenetrable shadows cloaked the forest. The wind shrieked maniacally in her ears. “MacLachlan? Where are you?”
Delaney stood in the dark until she was soaked to the skin. Until the wind shredded her hoarse cries and whirled them into silence.
Waiting for an answer that never came.
Wracked by shivers, teeth chattering, she staggered into the cabin. Wrapping the throw from the sofa around herself, she huddled on the warm hearth. The storm outside was minor compared to her emotional tempest.
Relief clashed with fear. She was glad he’d left. Glad she didn’t have to get sucked into the mysterious MacLachlan’s problems. Very happy she didn’t have to battle the tempting chemistry between them, or fight the disturbing infiltration of his mind into hers.
She wanted more complications in her life like King Kong wanted a bikini wax.
But another part of her longed to know the entire story. To help the man who’d been beaten and left for dead on her doorstep. Who had tried to kill him? And why?
Not man nor beast had stirred in the nasty weather during Delaney’s first recon of Judge Marta Zinter’s coastal hideaway earlier that morning…including the motley group of unidentifiable-from-a-distance new arrivals. Delaney had given up and planned to stay indoors the rest of the day. Ride out the storm curled in the green overstuffed chair beside the fireplace with a stack of legal precedents pertinent to Connor’s situation and a pot of steaming espresso.
Instead, she’d been overwhelmed by the intense desire to go out again and walk the beach. Urgency she hadn’t been able to fight had pulled her to the edge of the storm-tossed sea. To Rowan.
Delaney stared into the fire, seeing molten silver eyes fringed by thick black lashes. She couldn’t shake the sense that she’d passed some kind of test. She’d fulfilled her duty and rescued Rowan MacLachlan.
But a bizarre, uncomfortable feeling lingered. The feeling that somehow, he had been sent to help her.
* * *
Awareness stole over Delaney, and she
awakened to pearly gray dawn. The same color as Rowan’s eyes.
Some of the time.
Clutching the patchwork quilt to her chest, she sat up in the wide, antique iron bed. Sleep had vanquished her beastly headache, but her temples still felt tender. Delaney’s glance flew to the massive dresser she’d shoved in front of the bedroom door before tucking herself in. Alone. Again.
It had crossed her mind that a man who’d seemed genuinely concerned about her cut finger and possibly burned hand wasn’t likely to return and strangle her in her sleep.
But there were uglier things than death.
So she’d bolted the doors, double-checked the window locks and improvised a barricade. And slept with a loaded Glock under her pillow.
Paranoid, much?
Rain sputtered on the roof as Delaney clambered from beneath the covers. She belted her comfy coral robe over her green thermal shirt and paisley flannel PJ pants. Paused and listened.
Silence.
She bulldozed the dresser aside. Gun in hand, she tiptoed to the main room. The clean entry rug rested on the gleaming pine floor in front of the door. Blankets lay folded on the green and brown plaid sofa, magazines neatly stacked on the driftwood coffee table. The dinner dishes had been washed and put away, kitchen table wiped clean.
Everything looked exactly the same as she’d left it last night before swallowing three ibuprofen and scarfing down the entire pan of marionberry cobbler. Triple à la mode. A prescription-strength dose of carbs and lactose. Ben and Jerry should post a warning on the carton about interaction with stressed imaginations.
Sagging against the wall, Delaney fingered the charm at her neck. She loved the ocean, always found solace and inspiration at the cabin. Not to mention convenient proximity to the suspects she was surveilling. She’d planned to stay until Monday, but abruptly decided to drive home to Portland. Mother Nature wasn’t cooperating with her agenda, and she really needed a triple-shot raspberry mocha and a heart-to-heart with her best friend.
Vanessa had generously taken miserable misfit Delaney under her wing back when they’d first started college. Though Delaney didn’t trust easily, Van understood about closet skeletons. Her friend had never left her hanging.
If anyone wouldn’t judge her about kinky relationship issues, it was Vanessa.
While The Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” played in her head, Delaney showered and then towel-dried her hair. She dressed in a fitted short denim skirt and added black tights, black scrunchy ankle boots and a fine-knit persimmon sweater before shrugging on her jacket. She picked up her oversize purse, a moss green leather hobo bag she’d snagged at a thrift store. Purse slung over one shoulder and carrying her overnight tote, she strolled into the gloomy morning still humming the refrain.
Rain dripped from the bruised sky, and mist shrouded towering evergreens and icy mountaintops. The ocean’s restless roar accompanied her humming as she turned and slid her key into the deadbolt. Delaney’s voice hitched. Died.
There was blood on her door.
The porch overhang sheltered the entrance, preventing the rain from washing away the eerie lines of scarlet slashes and knotted Celtic symbols that streaked the wood.
She yanked out her key, faltered back a step. Had Rowan left the blood-stained hieroglyphics? Was he a lunatic after all, playing with her head? Was he hidden in the tangled underbrush, watching…waiting for the perfect moment to attack and finish her off?
Her frantic gaze spun around the clearing as she scrabbled in her purse for the gun. She heard nothing but the lashing sea and her own rasping breaths. Saw nothing but deserted woods.
What are you waiting for, Delaney? Book the hell outta here.
Gun gripped in one hand, keys, bag and purse in the other, she sprinted to the driveway.
She skidded to a halt in the muck, her breath caught in her throat. A very, very large crow perched on the hood of her red GTO. Watching her.
No, not a crow. The enormous black bird was way too big…it had to be a raven. Encountering wildlife in the forest was common, in fact, a raven had been circling the beach when she’d found her charm. But the wild kingdom had never ventured this close to the cabin.
She swallowed the panic crawling up her throat. When had her life turned into a Hitchcock film?
Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a bird. A freakishly huge bird with a killer beak and razor talons. Standing between her and escape.
She wet dry lips. “Shoo! Go find yourself a juicy worm…or twenty.”
The raven cocked its head, wise obsidian eyes taking her measure. Delaney half expected the hooked gray beak to open and croak, “Nevermore.”
That tears it. I will not surrender what’s left of my mind!
She swung her heavy bag in the air. “Scram!”
Her fowl-weather friend thrust out a four-foot span of gleaming ebony wings, screamed out a hoarse cry and soared into the clouds.
Delaney’s trembling fingers rattled the Glock into an uneasy balance on the roof in order to unlock the car door. Shooting the raven hadn’t even occurred to her. Not that she would kill an innocent animal. Not that she could, with her entire body shaking worse than an unbalanced washing machine on spin cycle.
After three tries at slotting the wobbling key into the too-small hole, she finally made it. Grabbing the gun, she scrambled inside. She hit her lock, revved up the engine and then tore out of the driveway, tires spitting mud.
God bless four-hundred horsepower. The ‘68 Bobcat fastback actually belonged to Connor. He’d let her help him rebuild it from scratch over the years, souping it up with extra features and power steering. Connor had refused to sign over the vehicle when he and Delaney had sold most of their possessions in a desperate gamble they’d eventually lost.
In the end, the house always wins.
The rear-wheel drive drifted around a slippery curve too fast and she corrected the skid. No, that had been her mother’s defeatist philosophy. Delaney preferred her adopted state’s motto: “Alis Volat Propiis.” She flies with her own wings.
As rain sheeted the windshield, she belatedly switched on lights and wipers. Connor had insisted she needed fast, reliable transportation. The muscle car had earned her a glove compartment stuffed with speeding tickets. And might’ve just saved her life.
Delaney rocketed onto the turnoff that intersected with Highway 101, then checked her mirrors. An empty black ribbon of wet asphalt trailed behind her. Cell service should kick in any minute. Maybe she should file a police report.
And admit she’d invited a strange naked Scotsman into the isolated cabin? That she’d offered him a shower, cooked him dinner…and then he’d gone all Silence of the Lambs on her?
She could just hear the cops: What did you expect? You asked for trouble. Do you have any proof?
She glanced at the gun in her lap. They hadn’t believed her before. Why would they suddenly start?
Delaney looked in the rearview mirror once more as she fumbled the weapon into her purse. No, she’d go home. Go back to what now passed for “normal” in her insane existence.
Even though she strongly suspected that after last night, her life would never again be the same.
Chapter 3
Delaney pulled into the first coffee shop she saw and splurged on the raspberry mocha fix she craved like crack…with extra whip. Her empty stomach grumbled, but she couldn’t justify spending her last five bucks on a pastry. Instead, she scrounged the emergency stash behind her seat. Munching Cheetos and singing along with her usual ‘80’s radio station, she sped back to Portland.
She checked the dashboard clock as she hit city limits—almost ten a.m. She’d pared the hour and a half trip to fifty-five minutes. The peaceful, overcast autumn drive accompanied by hot coffee, salty snacks, and her favorite music had settled her nerves. Her pragmatic nature had convinced her the encounter with Rowan had been just another adventure she’d someday embellish for wide-eyed grandchildren.
It was over. She’
d never see him again. And the odd hollowness inside her was merely because she’d run out of Cheetos.
When Vanessa’s voicemail picked up Delaney’s call, Delaney disconnected without leaving a message. Van wasn’t a morning person. Not only did she work a day job as a charity event-planner, she also enjoyed helping at their friend Archer’s nightclub until almost dawn. Oh well, after she heard about bare-naked Braveheart, she’d forgive Delaney for the early rousting.
Delaney turned down the street to Van’s condo. She slammed on the brake, tires shrieking to a stop.
Vanessa was outside at the curb.
Although Van carried a few extra pounds on her five-foot seven frame, she’d inherited exquisite bone structure, smoky amber eyes, and impeccable style from a French fashionista mother. Her makeup was always flattering, her clothing immaculate, her dark silky hair styled. But this morning, she wore a wrinkled brown cocktail dress and leopard Christian Louboutin stilettos marred by scuff-marks. Long raven strands snaked from a disheveled chignon, and mascara streaked her tear-stained cheeks.
Leaving the engine running, Delaney shoved open the door and rushed to her best friend. “What’s going on? Why do you have that?”
Vanessa stared down at the baseball bat gripped in her hand as if she’d never seen it before. She and Delaney played on a team with Archer’s club employees, but practice wasn’t scheduled for today. “I’m texting Chad.”
“Uh…most people use a cell phone.”
“Yeah, they do.” Van cocked the bat and smashed the right headlight of the black Porsche parked at the curb in front of her condo. Wham!
Delaney winced as glass tinkled to the pavement. “Van! What the—”
Wham! Vanessa pulverized the left headlight. “But most people’s boyfriends don’t horizontal mambo with ‘hos.”
“Hookers? Holy crap, what happened?”
“I caught Chad and his ‘escorts’ when I got home from the club two hours early this morning. From the looks of them, they dirty-danced all night.” Wham! Vanessa sent the driver’s side mirror sailing across the street. “In our bed.”
