Andie pressed her hands over her heart, afraid for a moment that it would break in two from the sorrow permeating the room.
Pushing herself out of the chair, she bolted out the door and down the hall to the foyer. She sucked in deep breaths as she made a grab for her purse, then yanked open the front door, all but stumbling through the threshold onto the porch.
She hurried down the steps and moved quickly away from the house. The yard was dark, the air damp. Slowing, she turned to face the mansion.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she pulled in deep breaths of cool night air, trying to settle her nerves, get a grip on her emotions.
What in the hell had just happened? She must have fallen asleep and had a dream, but it was the most vivid nightmare…so real…as though she were another woman in a different body living a hundred years ago…
She laughed and tried to ignore the shaky sound of her own voice in the lonely dark. It was simply her overactive imagination again. Thank God she never had to go back inside that house. It was just too spooky.
Reaching inside her purse for her cell phone, she punched Dylan’s number. As she waited for him to answer, she fixed her eyes on the house, all hard lines and shadows against a deep amethyst sky. A dim light glowed through the foyer windows—the library lights were still on, but she’d be damned if she’d go back inside and turn them off.
“Jericho.” His voice sounded sleepy, as though she’d just wakened him.
“I need a lift,” she said, without preamble. “I’ll be waiting at the end of the drive. No skanky remarks and don’t give me any shit tonight. Understood?”
“Understood,” he said. “On my way in five.” One thing about Jericho; he knew when not to mess with her.
As she slid the phone back inside her purse, movement behind an upstairs window caught her eye, and she froze. Her brain worked to find a logical explanation.
Maybe the window was slightly open and a breeze had fluttered the curtain for an instant.
Maybe headlights from a passing car had shifted the shadows, making it appear someone was inside the house.
Maybe…
Jacob…dearest love…forgive me…Jacob…forgive…
A hundred explanations raced through her mind, but all she could think of was how much her chest hurt and how she wanted to curl in on herself and cry and cry…but had absolutely no idea why.
As Logan walked toward the entrance to the Cliff House, he let his mind conjure up an image of Andrea Devon. Though he was right on time, she’d have gotten there ahead of him; she wasn’t the type to keep a man waiting, though he imagined many would be willing to hang about in eager anticipation.
She’d’ve taken pains to look fetching tonight, enticing. Despite her aloof manner, the sparkle in her eye when she spoke to him could nae be denied. Maybe it was the game that excited her—a new man, a new challenge—or maybe she found him in particular more interesting that she’d care to admit.
Her perfume would be light and applied with an even lighter hand. A little makeup and no more. Her dress would hug her body, cut low with just a tasteful hint of cleavage. Jewelry would be minimal; gobs of gems on her would be gilding the lily, and she knew it. Simplicity, taste, elegance. Class, all the way. Every inch the kind of woman he liked.
And completely off-limits.
In frustration, he blew out a long breath. If he did what was good for him, he’d slide back into the Lexus and get the hell out of there right now. If he did what was good for her, he’d disappear from her life and never look back.
But anticipation of the evening ahead heated his blood, so he avoided examining too closely what was good for him. As for her, well, hell, one dinner could nae hurt. He’d enjoy her company, kiss her if he could, touch her if she’d let him—which he doubted—then he’d vanish.
It had been too long a time since he’d let a woman near enough that it bothered him knowing he had to shove her away. When it came time to show Andie Devon the door, he had a feeling it would hurt him more than it hurt her, and would, maybe forever.
Och, best not to think about that. He was a free man and intended to stay that way. And if the loneliness crept in sometimes in the dark of the night when all was silent except for the torturous murmurs inside his head, then he’d do what he always did and seek out a willing—and temporary—woman to ease his suffering and keep the whispers at bay.
It would have been best if he’d canceled tonight and stayed away from her from now on, but damn, he had to see her—had to. She’d done something to him, woven some kind of spell over him, awoken in him something long dormant that raged to be acknowledged. Aye, he’d known many women, but none like her. Ever.
But for her own protection, for her own good, it would be one dinner only, one brief evening, then done. Besides, by the time he was through with her tonight, she’d never want to see him again.
He let a sardonic grin curve his lips. Unless she had an iron stomach and the will to match, by the end of the evening, she’d pay to be rid of him.
Turning his thoughts to the mansion, he recalled the silhouette of the old house, its gabled roof, turrets, porches, ornate trim. The place was haunted; he knew that now. Felt it. The spirits who called it home waited for him, but he’d deny them just like he’d denied all the others.
That was a world he’d sworn he’d never inhabit again. And since he’d been nineteen, he’d kept that vow and would until he’d breathed his last.
His mind turned once more to his grandmother and the sound of her voice on the phone. Instead of the ire and reproach he’d expected, her words had been kind, her demeanor one of love and loss and loneliness.
Once more, he admonished himself for contacting her. What good could possibly come of it? Hell, how could he give her what she wanted, needed? In denying himself, he’d surely denied her, blameless as she was and in just as much pain as he. But where could he find the joy, the tenderness, the happiness he’d destroyed so utterly fifteen years ago? Resurrected from the ashes of a burnt-out wreck?
He could not. It was too much to ask. He would go back to his solitary life and not call Gran again. Nae, he would not.
With a harsh laugh at his own idiocy, he ended his emotional postmortem and turned his attention back to Andie Devon.
Though she denied the existence of ghaists, she must have seen or sensed something in the house. Her scream had been real; the first one, anyway.
But no matter. After dinner tonight, she’d never want to sup with him again. She’d feel such revulsion, she’d probably run from the restaurant in horror and be gone from his life forever.
As much as it pained him to push her away, he had to do it. For the sake of his sanity, and her very life.
“It’s for eight o’clock. Under Devon. Please check again.”
Andie scowled at the maître d’, who scowled back. “One moment, Madam,” he said with a stiff, self-righteous politeness.
“I canceled it.” The deep masculine—and unmistakably familiar—brogue came from behind her. She whirled to stare into sparkling rainwater eyes.
“You what?”
“I don’t believe there’s anythin’ wrong with yer hearing, lass. I canceled the reservation.”
She was that close to being speechless. “Do you know how hard it is to get a reservation—”
“Does nae matter. Truth of it is, I did nae want to eat here.”
“Well I did!” Hell, on her salary, she could never afford to eat at this place, but with the SFPD footing the bill…well, damn!
He smiled down at her in obvious triumph. “The fact that this is a fine eating establishment aside, it has no sense of adventure. And I figured you for the type of woman who likes to live on the edge, try new things.”
Behind her, the maître d’ cleared his throat.
“Thank you for your efforts, my good man,” Logan said, reaching around her to press a folded bill into the maître d’s palm. Satisfied, the man turned away.
Easing
his fingers around her arm, Logan turned her toward the door.
“Not that this isn’t a nice enough place, but when I take a lady to supper, I prefer to choose the restaurant.”
“Oh, really.” She glared up at him as he trotted her down the steps and into the brightly lit parking lot. As he handed the valet his ticket, she shook Logan off—not because his grip was too tight but because she liked it too much.
Tilting her head, she gave her escort-slash-suspect the once-over. He was wearing a dark suit, perfectly tailored to his perfect physique.
“What’s this?” she chided. “No kilt?”
Not that he needed one. He looked handsome enough as it was without adding any Scottish Highland warrior accoutrement.
He grinned. “Sorry to disappoint. Left m’tartan at the caber toss.”
She pursed her lips. “Just how far can you toss your caber?”
“Far as necessary, to get the job done.” He winked.
Damn, she wished he’d stop doing that. “I’ve always wondered something. Just how long is your average caber?”
He leaned toward her ear. “Nothing average about it, lass,” he whispered. “A good six meters, I’d say.”
Rolling her eyes as though she were about to faint, she murmured, “You must be one popular fellow in Scotland.”
“Aye,” he said. “But tossing it’s nothing. You ought to see the one-eighty it does in the air afore it hits the ground.”
“Oh, now you’re just bragging,” she said dryly, earnestly suppressing a smile. “What colors are in the Sinclair plaid?”
His car arrived, and he opened her door for her. As she slid into the plush seat, he said, “Depends on whether yer talkin’ modern or traditional, formal or hunting, summer or winter. Mostly, it’s red with green and blue, and either brown or white weave running through it, sometimes both.”
He closed her door, then walked around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. Turning the key in the ignition, without looking at her, he said softly, “You look beautiful.”
Hell, she’d better! She’d spent two hours getting ready for this dinner in the hopes of setting the hook so deep she could keep him on the line as long as she needed to. The dress was too tight, the neckline too low, the heels too high for her comfort, but her own sense of personal style or taste weren’t allowed into the equation. She’d dressed to snare a con man who had a taste for leggy blondes, and judging from the appreciative look in his eyes, her calculated agony was paying off.
“Thank you,” she murmured, snapping her restraints into place. “Where exactly is it you think my sense of adventure needs to go for dinner tonight?”
“’Tis a surprise. I was fortunate enough to locate an eatery that serves traditional Caledonian delicacies.”
“Caledonian?”
He shot her a quick glance. “’Tis what the Romans used to call Scotland. Ever had Scottish food?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Can’t say I know much about it.”
His smile seemed a little mysterious as he guided the Lexus around a corner. “Well then, prepare to be amazed. You have no idea how you’ve been missin’ oot.”
Twenty minutes later, he parked near the waterfront at a small restaurant called The Highland Inn. Only ten tables graced the place, all of which were covered with cloths in various red, black, blue, green, and purple plaids. On the walls hung gorgeous framed photographs of ruined castles, bagpipers in full regalia, and steers that looked like Texas longhorns wearing brown shag carpets.
As Andie took her seat, Sinclair pointed to one of the photographs. “That’s Hamish, a rather famous hell in coo.”
She blinked at Hamish, then at Sinclair, then back at Hamish. “What’s a hell in coo?”
“Highland. Cow,” he enunciated slowly, then gestured once more at the photo. “Hamish means James, but there’s no J in the Gaelic alphabet. The coos used to be black and the meat quite tasty, but Queen Victoria, on a trip through the Hielans, decided she did nae like black coos, so she ordered them interbred with other types of cattle to lighten their color. Now they’re brown, right enough, but the meat’s been ruined.”
“Well, it’s good to be queen. So no steak for dinner tonight, I guess.”
“Ah,” he said, a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “Something much better.”
She did not want to like this man. She was here to do a job. Her career was on the line, and she needed to get information out of him, but he was so charming and affable, she was having trouble remembering that.
Swallowing, Andie straightened her shoulders, and strengthened her resolve not to let his easy smile and even easier sexuality distract her.
Though the place was packed and noisy with diners laughing and chatting, and good smells emanated from the kitchen, she suddenly felt overdressed for the simplicity and clientele of the place. No biggie, though. It’s not like it was a real date. After all, it didn’t matter how she was dressed when her only agenda was to get information out of the suspect.
He raised his hand, gesturing to someone behind her. “I can order wine if you like,” he said, “but the traditional thing to drink with haggis is whisky.” He seemed to study her for a moment, as though he expected some kind of reaction.
“Then whisky it is,” she said, unfolding her blue-and-white-plaid napkin, placing it in her lap. Go along to get along was this evening’s motto. No rocking the boat. Besides, she knew how to hold her liquor; maybe he didn’t. Maybe she could get him blotto and worm a few secrets out of him. “Haggis,” she mused. “Is that some variation on a Heilan coo?”
He raised a brow. “You’ve never heard of haggis, then?”
With a quick shrug, she said, “I’ve heard the term. I always pictured some kind of fluffy goat or something. Exactly what kind of animal is a haggis?”
Just then, a dark-haired waitress deposited a bottle of Scotch whisky and two glasses on the table, then scurried away. As Sinclair poured several ounces of the golden liquid for her, their waitress appeared again with two plates, which she set in front of them.
“There ye be,” she said with a smile, then wiped her hands on her yellow-and-green-plaid apron. “Haggis with neeps and tatties. Enjoy.”
As the woman scurried away, Andie gazed down at her plate, feeling her expression morph from gosh-that-smells-good to Jesus-Christ-what-in-the-hell-is-that?
That looked like somebody had decided to play balloon animals with Paul Bunyan’s lower GI tract. Brown and glossy, the gigantic U-shaped tube sat amid what appeared to be two mounds of mashed vegetable matter. A bit of parsley peeked from around the side of the thing like a weed decorating a decaying Yule log. A bone-handled knife protruded from the center of the bloated object as though the cook had tried to pinion it to the plate in case it tried to get up and bounce away.
Across the table, Sinclair said heartily, “We can nae eat without first giving the haggis its due.”
She swallowed. “Its due?”
What, like a human sacrifice?
“Aye. A salute to the haggis, to thank it for nourishing our bodies.” He raised his whisky glass. “Robbie Burns said it best: Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak yer place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace As lang’s my airm.” He downed his whisky with one gulp. “There’s more to the poem, but we don’t want the haggis to get cold, now, do we?”
She shook her head, eyed her whisky—suddenly understanding without question its necessity—lifted her glass, and tossed back the contents. Gripping the knife, she sliced the haggis open, then stared down in horror. What appeared to be mud scrapple oozed out. “What’s in haggis?” she whispered.
“Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish,” he said. His eyes were serious, but there was something about his demeanor that alerted her that he’d intended to shock her. The question was, why? “It’s made with sheep’s pluck.”
She swallowed again, certain her complexion had
paled to the color of that wilted parsley. “Do I want to know what sheep’s pluck is?”
“Heart, liver, and lungs,” he announced, taking a large bite of his own haggis. “It’s minced together with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, then mixed with stock, and boiled in the sheep’s stomach. Has a sort of nutty texture, really. Very savory. Try it.”
“That’s a sheep’s stomach?”
He shook his head. “No. They’re hard to get in the States. That’s a pig’s intestines, I’ll wager. And I’ll bet there’s no sheep’s lung in there. Americans seem to have some rule about that, so the lungs have most likely been substituted with a gizzard.”
“Most likely,” she breathed, not taking her eyes off the abomination in front of her. With one finger, she shoved her whisky glass toward him, and he refilled it. Knocking back another gulp, she set the empty glass down and stared at the enemy on her plate. “Nutty and savory, huh?”
“Aye. Just like me.”
She would have laughed, but was too focused on getting that first bite to her mouth. “What are neeps and tatties? Sounds sexual somehow.”
He grinned, shoved another forkful into his mouth. “Rutabagas and mashed potatoes.”
She felt her shoulders relax. Ah. Normal food. Root vegetables.
Like a surgeon probing for a tumor, she dipped her fork into the sludge, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and shoved the bite into her mouth.
“Oh!” Opening her eyes, she blinked, looked across the table at Sinclair, and blinked again. “It’s not awful.”
For the tiniest second, Sinclair’s eyes flashed with something that looked like dismay. He lowered his gaze to his plate, and when he looked up again, he was smiling. “Glad you approve.”
Actually, she had to admit that the haggis—for all its bizarre ingredients and basic ugliness—wasn’t half-bad; it wasn’t half-good, either, but that was beside the point. Haggis must either be an acquired taste or eaten out of sheer desperation. But with the delicious buttered neeps and tatties—not to mention the occasional dram of whisky—all in all, the meal was very…not bad.
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