by L. L. Muir
“It’s Brad,” he snarled.
St. Clair didn’t usually hire someone emotional, but he’d screwed up when he’d taken Bart on. And provoking the nasty man was the only amusement she’d had for two months. The guy obviously wouldn’t last.
Only the boss was allowed to be emotional, although he usually reserved it for when his pet psychiatrist was listening. Her stepfather loved to get all choked up over Harper’s supposed slither into the world of drugs, or sex, or crime, or the latest, insanity.
If not for St. Clair, the quack would have no patients, so he usually took the murderer’s word for everything. Never once had she been tested for drugs. She was still a virgin, though she wasn’t about to let someone prove it. And the doctor never asked to see any police report for the mindless crimes she’d supposedly committed.
Harper wondered sometimes, after she was taken from the quack’s office, if St. Clair and Bart had a good laugh. Unfortunately, Dr. Quack bought every word, and the way his eyes sparkled, he must have hoped it was all true too.
Someone to fix. Someone to treat. Someone no one cared about, no matter how St. Clair went on and on about taking good care of his dead wife’s only child.
Only heir, that was.
And if Dr. Quack could smell the money on St. Clair, he could certainly smell it on her. Maybe all those times he’d leaned close he’d been hoping for a whiff of fresh currency—and here she’d thought he’d only been trying to look down her shirt.
At least she’d gotten in a good head-butt. She’d been planning it for weeks and finally got the chance. Her timing had been perfect. The look on his face, priceless. And the guy’s nose had bled so badly he and Bart had been distracted just enough…
She’d gotten away then, to her grandmother’s neighborhood. Oh, grandmother was gone, but there were plenty of people still around who’d been fond of the old woman and had been happy to put Harper up for a while. She’d hired her own body guard then, just before St. Clair had discovered where she was staying. She thought she’d been so safe, going home with Milton watching her back.
She wished she’d never done it, of course. Milton had been great. She’d been able to sleep through the night and feel normal again. But Milton hadn’t lasted. It wasn’t that he was bribed to leave, either. The guy was loyal to a fault, and he was willing and able to wait until Harper got her money before he expected to be paid.
It was that generosity and devotion that got him killed.
So St. Clair made his point. He was God of Harper’s little world and could destroy anyone in it. She’d understood perfectly, and fled again. But she wasn’t stupid enough to go to people she knew this time. Yeah, she’d been extremely clever.
But apparently, not clever enough…
CHAPTER THREE
Lachlan had no trouble tracking the lass. She had a fair lead on him, but he had something as well—everyone’s attention. The Highlands must have been far away indeed for folks to be so taken with his plaid. Back home, few men wore a kilt when touring Culloden, excepting the pipers, of course, and the memorial parties, but these city folk acted as if they’d never seen a proper bit of plaid before. Had they no tellies?
With such rapt attention, all Lachlan had to do was shout for what he sought. “Young woman in a hurry. Black coat with no sleeves.” He simply followed the pointing fingers.
‘Twas the truth, the lass made enough turns to lose a hunter.
Finally, he spotted her at the base of a great building foolishly made of glass. A trio of villains dragged her toward a long dark van parked at the curb. The scene was not unlike some of the more violent stories he’d watched over the shoulder of the security guards, though he’d discovered those things were but play acting. He’d been relieved to find such things didn’t truly happen, at least not often, else what had mankind come to?
But he doubted this was the filming of a movie.
She was putting up a struggle, smart lass. If she could but keep from the bowels of the van until he could reach her, he could easily save her from the villains’ clutches and have his heroic deed accomplished in truth.
He hoped Soni was watching from a nearby perch, that she might sense his success was immanent and would prefer to witness it firsthand.
Hopefully, she wasn’t fully occupied with sending his fellow soldiers as far away from Scotland as she’d sent him. And if he had a chance to warn them, before he moved on, he would. For he doubted many among Culloden’s 79 would appreciate having to leave Bonny Scotia in order to prove themselves. Surely Soni could find many a Scottish lass that needed saving.
Although his fellow ghosts might enjoy, as he had, the feeling of flight…
When or how he’d come to the city, he knew not. That weightless feeling had ended with the feel of soft turf at his back. He’d opened his eyes to find trees above his head, and a tattered man tugging at his boots like the vulturous, two-footed scavengers of a battlefield.
After he’d assured the industrious man he was still alive, and indeed capable of a hearty roar, he’d made his way toward the tallest of buildings in the city, for surely, those ruling over the town would be found there. But ultimately, there had been no need. Plenty of lassies had needed saving without any guidance from some magistrate.
Surely, all of this damsel-saving, near-damsel-saving, and villain-discovery would have drawn the young witch’s attention. Thus, he wanted to get it right this time so he could go home. After nearly three centuries in one place, he expected leaving the moors would bring him joy. But to the contrary, he’d become attached to it. And he was anxious to return to something familiar…like the familiar weight of McHenish across his legs as he lay in the mud.
The only thing comforting about his current surroundings was the long line of tall mountains to the east. At least he thought it was east.
Pitiful. A homesick lad still wet behind the ears.
He sucked air deep into his lungs and stepped into the street. The lass called out to a row of characters that appeared as tattered as the one who had tried to steal his boots. She had their complete attention as if she herself were wearing a kilt. But they didn’t seem inclined to help her as he’d been helped by folks along her route.
“Help me,” she urged. “They’re…anti-American!”
The onlookers only shrunk back. No doubt the villains had guns. She really ought not to provoke them.
Suddenly two young lads snuck out the giant slabs of glass that served as doors and ran at the men struggling to get her to the van. They jumped on the backs of two villains and began pinching at their eyes and yanking on their hair from behind.
Lachlan was so surprised by their courage he stopped in the center of the intersection. The honk of a car got him moving again. The bonnie lass looked up and saw him, but instead of cheering at the sight of him, she stopped fighting all together, as if he’d stolen all hope. Did she think him in league with the others?
Surely not. He’d already saved her life once, his fault notwithstanding. How could she think he was a threat?
The third man finally had to release her to help remove the little warriors from the backs of his cohorts, and she got free completely. Instead of running toward Lachlan, however, she ran in the opposite direction, farther east.
One of the blackhearts called out to her. “Come back or I’ll kill the boy!” He held the smaller one against him with his hand grasping the child’s chin. With a quick movement, he could easily break the laddie’s neck.
The woman stopped running, but her feet kept moving as she stomped out her frustration on the pavement. She soon settled, but held her ground.
“Everybody hear that?” She looked about her, but the cowardly witnesses were escaping like water out a hole in the bottom of a cup. Her would-be rescuers were now hostages and were glaring at each other as if the other were to blame for their present predicament.
A stand off then. The perfect time for a Highland warrior to step in a save the day, and use his substantial
acting skills learned on every small screen to cross Culloden soil.
CHAPTER FOUR
Men suck.
If Harper would have cried out for help in a mall, you could bet those goons would have been pepper-sprayed, tasered, and beaten within an inch of their lives with giant, heavy shopping bags. Then, if they’d threatened to hurt a child, they’d have been revived and beaten again before the cops would be allowed to save them. If they could be saved.
But no. Heaven forbid a man should be expected to defend anyone he wasn’t required to.
If Harper ever got free, she was going to pay a little visit to the wrong side of the tracks and give those bums a piece of her mind. But she’d never get that chance. Even standing there, twenty feet away from anyone, she was caught.
She’d seen the boys on the stairs, watching as she’d been forcibly escorted out of the library. Bart had held her arm up behind her to get her to cooperate, but she’d gotten it free as he’d pushed her through the big entrance doors. She was sure she’d be able to get away then.
Turns out, she’d needed rescuing.
The bums ignored her outright, then scattered. How stupid she was to imagine that most men living on the street was an old war vet! Too many commercials, maybe. But she hadn’t been defeated until the stupid Scot joined the party. Her stomach had fallen into her shoes. St. Clair had been so many steps ahead of her, it wasn’t funny. All her fighting had been for nothing.
When her little heroes had come, she’d taken off because she was sure that no one was stupid enough to hurt a child with people looking on. But she’d been wrong about that too. And she sure wasn’t going to let Bart hurt them. And he would—if he was able to get them away from the Trax platform with all those waiting passengers—passengers who would have been witnesses if the van wasn’t blocking their view.
She was certain Bart had been the one to kill Milton. And if he could kill a gentle giant like that, he would certainly hurt a kid if it served his purpose.
She started back slowly, hoping they’d let the boys go a second or two before they expected to get their hands on her again. But Bart turned the younger one over to one of the others and was careful not to let him get free.
Then something weird happened.
Bart seemed surprised when the Scotsman stepped close behind him. He straightened like the big dude was poking a gun in his back. Then slowly, he raised his hands.
“Tell yer friends to release the laddies,” the Scot said.
“Mind your own business,” Bart said through his teeth.
The Scot glanced at her and winked before turning a frown on the others. “This is my business. Scotland Yard.”
Is he joking?
Bart turned slightly. “Look, Sherlock, get the hell out of here now, and you won’t get hurt.”
The Scotsman laughed.
Bart jumped forward and turned, but he paid for it. He contorted in pain and tried to reach his back.
The Scot hadn’t really moved, but he was holding a wicked looking knife and the tip might have had a little blood on it.
Bart growled like a pissed mountain lion while he dug out his gun. “Take him!”
The other two hesitated, looking from Bart to the Scot, then at the little boys. Harper was forgotten. The goons finally pushed the boys away from them and went after the Scot. But putting their hands in their jackets for their guns was their mistake.
The big man shoved them together, hugged them as one, pinning their arms to their sides. Then he rushed them, hopping and sliding, through the open door of the van. Bart aimed his weapon at the big man’s back, but the Scot turned before he got a shot off and twisted Bart’s arm until the gun dropped to the ground. Bart tried to put some distance between them, but three seconds later, he went flying into the van to land on top of his buddies.
Harper would have applauded if she could have moved.
When the Scot slid the van door, he didn’t wait for the others to pull in their legs, and the three cried out when they realized they might lose more than a little flesh. Metal clamped loudly on metal when the door slammed into place. An empty black loafer thumped into the gutter.
The boys disappeared through the heavy glass doors. Maybe their mother would be a little more careful about dropping them off with no supervision. Maybe they’d be the ones to make sure she didn’t. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t tell her a thing. Harper just hoped they were smart enough to hide. In another minute or two, Bart would be on the warpath and he might check the library first.
“Move!” The big Scot’s voice hit her like a sonic boom as he ran toward her.
She turned and fled, miraculously, without wetting her pants. The stitch in her side was gone, but even if it hadn’t been, her feet would have taken wing. The guy was so terrifying it didn’t matter if he was with St. Clair or not. The fact that he was chasing her was enough to keep her airborne.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dang it! She was running east again. She’d never be able to get out of town if she kept heading toward the mountains!
She reached the corner of the library block and turned south. Paths shot off to the right that would plunge her back into the library campus, and eventually into the library. From just about anywhere in the glass building, Bart could stand and watch where she went.
Whose idea was a glass building anyway?!
She stopped. No more running blind. She wasn’t about to ride herself into the ground again just to end up face to face with Bart and his goons. If she could take second to think, she might come up with a good plan.
She turned back to the Scot just as he barreled into her.
Her body went flying at the sidewalk but stopped just short of the concrete. She was suspended, held by one of the man’s arms around her back. His other arm was planted on the ground like the support beam of a bridge—an impressive one-armed push up.
He lowered her to the ground and growled. “Are ye daft?” He asked the question as if it weren’t insulting at all, like he thought she might even admit it. Something as harmless as, “Do you like catchup with your fries?”
“We don’t have time for this crap,” she said breathlessly. “We have to run!” What she really didn’t have time for was to appreciate how nice it felt to have someone so strong and male hovering above her, looking down into her eyes with real concern. Any distraction could be the death of her, and his kind of distraction was the most dangerous kind. He was mesmerizing in a way that had nothing to do with his kilt or his bare knees. It was kind of…unearthly…like he had some mystical power to lead her into oncoming traffic without her caring…
“Yes. We must run. So why did ye stop doing just that?” He stood and pulled her to her feet. His kilt swung back into its rightful position.
Okay. So maybe it was his knees.
She shook her head to break the spell. “I stopped because… I should have turned left.” She gestured toward the corner.
He grabbed her upper arm and started dragging her north. She was airborne again, and she was anything but cool. But since they were making great time, she pushed aside her pride and concentrated on keeping her feet under her.
They crossed the street and looked back at where the van still sat near the library entrance. Bart and his boys were on their feet again, but their heads were down like they were searching. None of them looked her way.
“Did you get his gun?” she asked her escort without slowing. His grip on her arm was still firm, but it didn’t hurt, even though he was lifting her a bit.
“No.” His scowl said he wasn’t pleased about it.
They walked for a few blocks in silence, turning at just about every corner as she’d done before. When she couldn’t bear the quiet anymore, she decided it was about time she thanked him for saving her.
When she opened her mouth to speak, however, he pulled her to the left, toward an old office building. Thankfully, the door was unlocked even though the place might seriously have been abandoned. They walked q
uickly but calmly to the elevator ten yards down the hall. Every second the main door stayed closed behind them gave her hope.
If no one noticed us coming inside, we might be safe for a while.
We. It was so weird, worrying about someone else again. She didn’t need to stay safe anymore. They did.
The elevator opened and one guy got off. He did a double take on the kilt, then looked at her.
“Photo shoot,” she said with a smile.
“Ah.” The guy nodded knowingly and grinned as he walked away.
Inside the elevator, she pushed the 8 button, the top floor. Was that stupid? If Bart came looking, would he assume they’d gone as high as possible?
She had to calm down. Her imagination was going to trigger a heart attack. After all, the Scot hadn’t been sent by her stepfather—she’d only imagined he had. And maybe it was just her bad luck that she’d run into Bart at the library. He could have been tipped off after the Trax incident. So maybe St. Clair wasn’t a dozen steps ahead of her.
The elevator opened onto an empty hallway. There was a sign on a door that advertised eyelash extensions. Another with a for rent sign. Harper tried that one, but it was locked. Further down, there were two doors standing open. The offices inside looked like someone had recently moved out and not bothered to clean up. The big Scot nudged her inside the second of those and closed it behind him.
They sighed in unison, then laughed lightly. A silent gasp escaped her at the sight of his dimpled smile, but she didn’t think he noticed.
He gestured toward a cheap metal-based chair and sat on an end table that didn’t look too sturdy. She just hoped he sat really still because a guy like that wouldn’t worry about keeping his knees together if he went toppling over.
For a minute, they just breathed, like they hadn’t had a chance to catch their breath in the elevator.
“Why the kilt?” She gestured in the general direction of his sporran and averted her eyes.
“I’m Scottish,” he said, like that was reason enough.
