Kilty Pack One

by Amy Vansant

  “Nothin’ is aff tae keep me fae ye noo,” he whispered, working his way toward her ear.

  She shuddered as his teeth brushed her neck.

  “Shouldn’t I be mad that you didn’t recognize me in your dreams?” she asked.

  She felt his head shake as he kissed where her neck met her shoulder. “Och, na.”

  Impressions from the few stolen moments they’d had together in Tennessee flashed in her memory. She ached to re-enact them. Here. On the hospital bed. On the hospital floor.

  Wherever.

  There was definitely something sexy about a man taking a bullet for you.

  Broch’s hands slid to her hips and he pulled her toward him to nibble her neck with even greater urgency.

  A soft, involuntary moan left her lips and her legs nearly buckled. She put a hand on the side of his head to still him.

  “We can’t do this here. They’ll be back to get you any second.”

  He pulled back and stared into her eyes. “Ah kin promise whit ah hae in mind fer ye will tak’ mair than a second,” he said.

  She swallowed.

  Oh my.

  There was a rustle outside their curtained area and Broch grasped her, hugging her against the uninjured side of his body, holding her until she melted into the crook of his arm.

  “Ye’ll be here when ah come back?” he asked, kissing the top of her head.

  She looked up at him. “I could arrange that.”

  His mouth hooked into a smile. The curtains parted and a nurse entered with a wheelchair.

  “Time to go.” She motioned for him to hop off the examining table and sit.

  Catriona pecked Broch on the cheek and moved out of his way. As he sat in the wheelchair, she pointed at her face.

  “Before you go, take a good look at me,” she said.

  His brow knit. “Eh?”

  “So you don’t forget who I am or confuse me with anyone else.”

  He laughed as the nurse wheeled him away.

  “Not again,” she heard him call from the hallway.

  Her own grin still lingering, Catriona moved to the waiting room to find Sean.

  “Look at you,” Sean said, watching her approach.

  She scowled. “What?”

  “You look dreamy. Looks like you two worked out your issues?”

  She tittered at his use of the word dreamy. “Shut it. I thought you didn’t want to know anything?”

  He nodded. “Good point. I was just testing you.”

  Catriona chuckled. “Well, for what it is worth, you could say there was a misunderstanding, but we’ve worked it out, yes.”

  “At least your love life is better than Owen and Asher’s,” Sean muttered, raising his magazine.

  She looked at him. “Owen and Asher? You’re saying they were involved?”

  Sean dropped his reading back into his lap. “Seems like it. I just got off the phone with my buddy at the station.”

  Catrina gaped. “Ah...So that’s why Asher was moaning that he’d left her behind. When Broch and I showed up she guessed we knew something and realized Owen had taken Toby and run—without so much as warning her.”

  “Asher told the police everything that happened was Owen’s idea and that he left her holding the bag.”

  “Did they find Owen?”

  “Grabbed him and Toby at the airport. They were on their way out of the country.”

  “Oh boy. So I guess he was involved? He kidnapped his own kid? Why?”

  “Not according to him. He admits to a dalliance with Asher. But says, unbeknownst to him, Asher kidnapped Toby to frame Fiona and get her out of his life. Ironically, the whole ordeal brought him back to his wife. When Asher found out he and Amber had reunited, she killed Amber in a jealous rage and told Owen she’d tell the world he was responsible if he didn’t stay with her.”

  “If what Owen says is true and he’s innocent, why did he run?”

  “Said he was scared—of Asher, of people thinking he was complicit—everything.”

  “He didn’t sound scared when I talked to him on the phone.”

  Sean tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “And that brings us to Asher’s side of the story.”

  “Oh boy. Here we go.”

  “She says the kidnapping and framing Fiona was Owen’s idea and she was too lovesick not to do what he asked. She enlisted her brother to do the dirty work.”

  “Why would he want to frame Fiona for anything?”

  “Asher says Fiona had some weird control over him. He was desperate to break from her but too scared to do it. Maybe she had something on him?”

  Catriona considered this. “Broch said Owen broke up with Fiona. That doesn’t sound like a man terrified of her.”

  “No, but who knows? If Fiona was interested in Broch, she might have lied about the breakup with Owen to seem more accessible.”

  Catriona growled. “Mm. Bitch.”

  Sean chuckled.

  “What about Amber? Did Asher admit to killing Amber for love?”

  Sean nodded. “Oddly enough, she did. Said when she rid Owen of Fiona only to find him back in the arms of Amber, she snapped.”

  Catriona grimaced. “If Asher admitted to stabbing Amber, then I’m buying her side of the story on all accounts. Why admit to murder and lie about anything else?”

  Sean pointed at her. “Bingo. My thought as well. I’ve recommended Parasol Pictures end their contract with Owen Crane.”

  Catriona shook her head and shuffled through a pile of old magazines. “Why do we help these people? They’re all awful.”

  Sean laughed and patted her knee.

  Catriona’s phone pinged and she glanced at it. It was a text from an unknown number.

  Pick me up.

  Someone apparently thought she was a taxi service. She ignored it.

  The phone pinged again.

  Getting out of prison now. Pick me up. We have things to talk about. Privately.

  She texted back. Who is this?

  Her answer appeared.

  Fiona.

  Catriona looked at Sean. “Hey, did your cop buddy mention Broch’s urine test?”

  “Hm? Oh. I forgot to tell you. It was positive.”

  “So Fiona really roofied him?”

  “According to her, not on purpose. They questioned her about it and she said she’d been gifted that bottle of Scotch by a creepy first date years ago. She thinks the bottle was laced and she was the intended victim.”

  “I don’t suppose she remembers this creepy date’s name?”

  “Nope.”

  Catriona grimaced. “Uh-huh. How convenient. What should we do?”

  Sean shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Pressing charges would be a mess. I don’t relish the idea of introducing Broch, who has no social security number or documentation of any kind, to the court system. It’s bad enough he’s here.”

  Catriona sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  Sean returned to his magazine and her phone pinged again.

  Fiona.

  Come. Now. Alone.

  Catriona stood. “You okay waiting on him? I have to run a quick errand. I’ll be back.”

  Sean nodded. “Anything I should know about?”

  She shook her head. “No. The usual crap. Borrow your keys? I’ll be back before they’re done with him.”

  He fished in his pocket and tossed his keys to her.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Catriona left the hospital and drove to the jail, her mind whirring with reasons why Fiona Duffy might request her for a post-lockup chauffeur. Fiona wasn’t under contract with Parasol and while the woman’s presence had unduly affected her relationship with Broch, she’d only met her at Owen’s house the one time. She’d watched her hauled away in handcuffs the night Broch found Toby. That was it.

  I’m no one to Fiona. Why would she call me?

  As she approached the prison, she spotted Fiona standing outsid
e. She pulled up and the actress hopped into Sean’s truck as casually as if they’d been friends for years.

  “Thanks. I appreciate this,” she said.

  Catriona stared at her, unsure of how to proceed.

  Fiona looked at her. “You know where I live, right?”

  Catriona put the truck in drive. “Sure. I watched them arrest you there, remember?”

  Fiona chuckled. “You haven’t changed. You still don’t know how to handle me.”

  Catriona glanced at her. “I don’t know you.”

  Fiona’s expression danced with amusement. “Oh, yes you do. You and me and Brochan go way back. Tell me, do you remember anything about how you got here?”

  Catriona scowled. She didn’t like whatever game Fiona was playing, but her training told her to say as little as possible and allow the woman to reveal herself.

  “How I got where?” she asked.

  “Hollywood. How old were you?”

  “I was born here, why?”

  Fiona gasped. “Born here? You remember being a little girl here?”

  “Of course—” Catriona stopped short.

  Oh no.

  Suddenly, Catriona had a terrible feeling she knew exactly what Fiona meant.

  She hung her head and grunted.

  “What is it? Did you remember something?” asked Fiona.

  “No. I realized something. You’re one of them.” She glanced at her passenger for confirmation.

  Fiona arched an eyebrow. “One of them?”

  “I won’t elaborate. You know what I mean...or you don’t.”

  Fiona smiled. “Oh, I know what you mean. You just worded it incorrectly. You meant to say, ‘you’re one of us.’”

  Catriona felt her stomach twist in knots. There it was again, coming from an independent source. The accusation that she, too, had traveled through time.

  Maybe Fiona was right. Maybe she was one of them.

  “Who was it who killed you?” asked Fiona.

  Catriona’s head swiveled so fast she nearly drove off the road. “What?”

  “Who killed you? If you were born here, it means you started from scratch. It means instead of jumping, body intact, you left your body behind.” She clucked her tongue. “Fascinating.”

  Fiona reached out and touched Catriona’s arm as if checking to see if she was real. Catriona flinched away.

  The actress smiled. “No wonder you don’t remember me.”

  “Who are you?”

  Fiona looked around the truck’s cabin. “This is nice for a truck. I didn’t picture it being so luxurious inside.”

  “Don’t try and change the subject.”

  “I already have.”

  Catriona set her jaw. “Fine. You want to change the subject? How about this. Why did you drug Broch?”

  Fiona laughed. “I told the police it was an accident.”

  “We both know that isn’t true. And he didn’t accidentally end up in your bed.”

  “No. That he did on his own. Willingly. I told you. We’re old friends.”

  Catriona glared at Fiona, who sat stroking her own throat as if deep in thought, her long nails scratching across her skin. Feeling Catriona’s gawk, she turned.

  “Have you seen that beautiful wound on his side?”

  Released from the mesmerizing motion of Fiona’s fingers, Catriona returned her attention to the road, refusing to answer.

  Undaunted, Fiona continued. “You have seen it. I can tell. Does he remember where it came from? I couldn’t get a straight answer out of him. Not healing well, is it?”

  Catriona drove in silence, her face flushed and anger rising. They were nearing Fiona’s house, she could see it in the distance. She needed answers.

  “You said we had to talk. So talk,” said Catriona.

  Fiona sighed. “I might have changed my mind. I don’t think you’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “You were always naive. You and your need to see the best in everyone. To help everyone.”

  Catriona pulled over and put the truck in park. She turned to confront Fiona.

  “Why do you keep talking like we know each other?”

  Fiona grabbed her bag of belongings, opened the door and swung her long legs to the ground. She shut the door and began to walk the path to her house.

  Furious, Catriona rolled down the passenger side window. “Stop. Who are you?” she called.

  Fiona turned and tilted her head, as if addressing a child. “Don’t feel bad, Cat. You were still young when she died. When he tried to kill me.”

  “When who—”

  Catriona felt the blood drain from her cheeks as a memory flashed before her eyes. Her head fell and she stared at the empty passenger seat.

  A tall man. A frightened woman. A defiant girl.

  Fiona smiled. “Oh. Look at that. You remember. How was it after I was gone? I have a feeling Father didn’t handle things well.”

  “He called me by your name,” said Catriona, her words barely above a whisper.

  “What’s that?”

  Catriona’s eyes lifted back to Fiona, her voice stronger. “He called me by your name.”

  Fiona laughed. “Did he? Ouch. I am sorry. You know I was his favorite, of course. You took after mother.”

  Catriona’s mind was reeling.

  Fiona returned to the truck. “Don’t feel bad that you forgot us. You’re supposed to. Father remembers everything. That’s why he’s mad.” She sniffed, a wistful smile rising to her lips. “I’m afraid I’m a lot like him.”

  Fiona placed a hand on the door and leaned into the window. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “He’ll find us now, you know. Now that we’re together. Together, we’re like a lighthouse on his darkened sea.”

  Fiona winked before spinning on her heel and heading for home.

  Catriona sat speechless for a beat and then called out again. “Wait.”

  “Later, Sis.” Fiona said, raising a hand to wave without turning.

  “Wait,” repeated Catriona, quietly.

  She watched Fiona disappear into the house.

  THE END

  Thank you for taking time to read Kilty Conscience! If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a review on Amazon or GoodReads or wherever you like to roam. Word of mouth helps poor starving authors so much!

  For questions or delightful chit-chat: Amy@AmyVansant.com

  Kilty Mind

  Kilty Romantic Suspense: Book Three

  Amy Vansant

  ©2018 by Amy Vansant. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by any means, without the permission of the author. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-9781720025283

  Library of Congress: 2018908982

  Vansant Creations, LLC / Amy Vansant

  Annapolis, MD

  http://www.AmyVansant.com

  Copy editing by Carolyn Steele.

  Proofreading by Effrosyni Moschoudi & Connie Leap

  Cover by Steven Novak

  Chapter One

  Two weeks ago.

  She could feel him near.

  Seething.

  The pungent fragrance of his fury tickled her nostrils like the aroma of warm, fresh-baked bread on a Paris summer morning.

  This is an angry one.

  He’d leap into action with the slightest provocation. A nudge. She’d sit beside him. Say hello. If he proved the chatty type, maybe slip him an idea or two.

  Be inspiring. That’s my motto.

  Making an abrupt shift to the right, she crossed the main thoroughfare of The Grove, Los Angeles’ high-end outdoor shopping mall, dodging both people and swinging shopping bags.

  She perched on the bench beside him.

  Hello beautiful.

  In fact, the man was short and balding with a dark swirl of c
omb-over attempting to hide an impressive collection of moles on his skull. One might describe him as toady.

  Not Fiona. Like a sculptor, she saw the work of art inside the lump of clay.

  She knew quite a bit about this particular lump.

  Mole-headed producer Gregory Pitkin had recently suffered a series of flops and his wife had packed up the kids and moved to Brentwood. The rumor mill said Mrs. Pitkin had taken a lover. One with a few less spots on the cranium and some length of bone.

  Most importantly, Fiona knew Gregory Pitkin lived in the fifteen-oh-one penthouse of the new Shalimar condominiums overlooking Parasol Pictures’ lot.

  She wanted that penthouse.

  Fiona opened her purse and retrieved a compact. Powdering her nose, she made a kissy-face in the mirror to check her lipstick.

  “You don’t deserve this,” she said, loud enough for him to hear no matter on what planet his mind might be wandering. She ran her tongue across her teeth and snapped the compact shut.

  “Huh?” he said, as if waking from a dream.

  She put a hand on his knee and stared into his eyes.

  “You don’t deserve this, Gregory Pitkin. Any of it.”

  He swallowed. Spine straightening, he pushed aside the broken, shoulder-hunched look of a man beaten. He took a deep breath and tilted back his head, staring into the heavens as if ready to accept divine intervention.

  She could hear the gears in his mind whirring.

  Divine intervention, indeed.

  Without looking at her, he stood and strode off.

  A man of purpose.

  A man reborn.

  A man with a mission.

  Fiona smiled.

  You’re welcome.

  She stood and walked by two children, each grasping ice cream cones and gobbling with frenzied determination. With a toss of her head, she caught the attention of the older boy, her eyes flicking toward the younger’s treat.

  The older boy’s gaze followed hers as if pulled on a string. His lips puckered tight, brow lowering until the space between his eyes transformed into an adorable crinkled knob of young flesh.

  He slapped the cone from his brother’s hand.