"Hm. Anyone else work with him on this exhibit? Or on any other projects?"
"You should check with Rose MacThomas. She was another big donor for the exhibit."
I scribble the name down in my notebook and hand him a card.
"Anyone else?"
"I could make a list of everyone involved with the exhibit, but that’s about it. You should talk to Charles Murray. His assistant."
"Right. And where were you two nights ago?"
Grange sputters, his cheeks going a deep shade of red.
"I was at home with my husband. We had dinner around seven. We watched a bit of television and then went to bed around ten."
"I'll need his name and number to corroborate your alibi."
"My alibi?"
"Standard procedure, Mr. Grange."
He rattles off the information, which I take care to write. He’s clearly jarred. He isn't responsible, I stake my badge on it.
My plan to leave the library to track down the assistant is thwarted two seconds after I formulate it.
At the back of the library, sitting at a bank of old computers is the delectable Sorcha Ross.
Her auburn hair tops her head in a messy bun. Her nose is scrunched up in concentration. She's biting on her lip and her cheeks are flushed.
I simply can't take my eyes off her.
She is even more beautiful than I remember. And that is truly saying something. Because I spent a fair amount of time imagining her full lips, her delicate features, and her exquisite curves last night.
And again, this morning.
It's insane how quickly a shower will run out of hot water when the subject of your fantasies is a particular redheaded vixen.
Damn.
I watch as Sorcha undoes her hair. The long waves of auburn flow over her shoulders. She shakes out the strands and with quick, sure movements, she has the mass pinned to her head again.
I have to discreetly rearrange my cock as it begins to harden. Watching her do that was entirely too erotic for a library setting. Really, it's because the Scottish beauty is pure sex appeal.
It's the graceful curve of her neck. The dip of her cleavage. Her luscious lips. I want to taste all of her. Run my lips along her creamy skin and make her blush for me. Only for me.
Feeling like a complete creep for watching her at a distance, I make my way to her.
I have to talk to her anyway. As part of the case.
I need to find out more about the Stanley Campbell—Scotland connection.
I am not approaching her because I am insanely attracted to her.
Nope.
I will not be led to distraction. But damn, I want to bite her lip before kissing the sting away.
Cool it, Fitz.
"Sorcha Ross." I let her name roll off of my tongue. "How are you doing today?"
With a squeak of surprise, she looks up. Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of crimson and I can't contain my smile.
"Oh. Fitzroy. Agent Yarrow. Hello."
"You can call me Fitz."
She can? Fuck. What am I doing?
Then Sorcha stands and I completely forget everything I have ever known.
My name. My job. Everything.
Her legs, velvety and smooth, are completely on display. Her green summer dress hits the middle of her thighs, evoking all sorts of naughty things.
I want to wrap my arms around her waist and carry her off to do wicked things to her.
"Fitz." She says my name, testing it out on her tongue.
It's the first and only time I've ever had a full erection in a library. And I can't even bring myself to care. All I want is Sorcha to say my name again.
Over and over again.
Preferably while she's naked and lying under me.
"Sorcha." My voice sounds like it’s grated over sandpaper. I blame the lust I can barely contain.
"It's nice to see you again." Her voice is breathy. Her blush creeps down to her breasts. I want to track the reddening skin with my tongue.
"It is. You look lovely today."
Sorcha looks down and shrugs.
"It's always cold back home. I don't usually get to dress like this."
I want to tell her that she should always dress like that. But in reality, what I really want is to hike up that short-as-sin hem and see if she's wearing underwear.
I send a prayer to the Goddess that she isn't.
"That's a real shame." And I mean that, to the bottom of my very soul.
"Should you be complimenting me?" Sorcha's blushing cheeks go three shades darker. "I just mean..."
I can't help but laugh. It just rolls out of me. Not only because Sorcha is right, but also because she decided to call me out on it, even if she is clearly shy.
"You're entirely right. I apologize." I do a quick bow and wink at her, feigning to be a gentleman.
Her laugh is husky, and she rolls her eyes. The mix is sexy and playful.
"What brings you here today?" I look down to the computer screen, but Sorcha has already turned it off.
I would have appreciated a glimpse into her life, even if it's just the technological side.
"Just checking on a few things for my work."
"What is it you do?" I can't help the question. I really do need to know more about her. I won't even pretend this is about the case.
"I do some bookkeeping and things like that for a few small companies."
"Brains and beauty," I hear myself say.
"A girl has got to eat." She shrugs.
The dismissive gesture tells me that Sorcha isn't used to compliments. That's just wrong. A woman like her should be praised, cherished, worshiped.
Speaking of food, I'd love to ask her out. Take her to a nice dinner, get to know her more. Maybe take her back to my cabin.
Like every other male naiad, it’s easy for me to get completely enamored by a woman. This is different. This has never happened to me. There’s just something about Sorcha.
She exudes a quiet kind of confidence. She tries to play the demure role, but it doesn't suit her.
I can see a fire inside her. And I'd very much like to be warmed by it.
"Has your investigation brought you here?"
Sorcha's question pulls me back to the reality of my investigation. Fuck. I had questions to ask her. Not the pleasant kind. This puts a wrench in my romantic plans.
"Yes, the deceased worked here."
Sorcha's perfect mouth drops with surprise. My instincts assure me that her reaction is a genuine one.
"You didn't know that?"
"Of course not! How could I? As I told you, I didn't know the man."
"Right, you did say that." I clear my throat against the words I do not want to say. The agent in me pushes them out painfully. "Did you know that Stanley Campbell was a collector of artifacts from the earliest Scottish settlements of the region, all the way through to the nineteenth century?"
Sorcha shifts uncomfortably, shaking her head.
"I didn't know that. The fact that he has a slight connection to Scotland... that doesn't look good for me, does it?"
"It is odd that he would die during the first day of your holiday. Near your cabin."
"And I found him."
She can't quite hide her shiver. I try to catch her eye to ascertain Sorcha's full reaction to my question. Her green eyes are watery with the beginnings of tears.
"I'm sorry to upset you," I say, wishing I had a tissue to offer her.
Sorcha sniffles and shakes her head.
"It's fine. What I mean is, I understand why you have to ask these questions. It's only fair, really."
"I have more to ask. Would you prefer to do it back at your cabin?" I can't believe I offer her this possibility.
I didn't do it for the stressed-out librarian, but I'll do it for the lovely Sorcha. I can't explain why I can't keep myself professional and in check where she is concerned. If this doesn't let up, I may have to call Larsen down to help me with this simple c
ase.
I'm clearly thinking with the wrong head. This is no way to conduct an investigation. Especially not since it's my one shot to prove myself to Sabrina the Sea Serpent.
I'll go to the cabin. I'll ask my questions. I'll be the perfect gentleman and the consummate professional.
I won't put my career goals on the line for a woman I barely know. That's some straight-up naiad shit. It's a side of myself I have to keep on lock down for now.
"I would prefer to continue this at the cabin, yes," Sorcha answers. "I'd rather not be upset in public."
"Yes, I can understand that. How about I come by later on today? Shall we say, six?"
"Thank you for being so kind to me, Agent Yarrow."
I can't help but smile at her. My naiad nature wants to drag her into the lake and frolic with her. Those instincts go directly against my mission right now. I still don't have all of my answers. The connection between the victim and Sorcha is unsettling. I can't forget that.
Shit.
I just called the dead guy a victim. I need to reassess some things in this case.
7
-Sorcha-
Get me the hell out of here.
I repeat that to my legs as I hasten out of the library.
It's not often that I wish I could have my kelpie speed in my human form. But this is definitely one of those instances. I need to get away from Fitz.
Agent Yarrow.
Does he have to be so gorgeous? And really, why must he insist on being kind and considerate? If he was a prick, it would be so much easier for me to lie to him.
It takes all of my self-control not to throw myself at his mercy. I had to stop myself - multiple times - from blurting out all of my secrets.
From the theft of my bridle to the murder of Stanley Campbell. All of it.
I blame his hazel eyes and the way they sparkle with compassion. I blame those dimples. Is it normal to want to tongue a dimple? It can't be.
Yet the urge is there, burning inside me.
Something has to be wrong with me. The man is an agent, questioning my involvement in a death, and I am lusting after him.
It must be because I haven't slept with a man in over a hundred years. That has to be it. But I know that's a lie. Simply put, I am completely attracted to Agent Fitzroy Yarrow. I want to kiss his lips, run my hand on his muscled body and do all kinds of wicked things with him. Delicious things. Things I have not yet experienced.
It was idiotic to let him come to the cabin tonight.
My stomach lurches at the thought of being in a small, private space with him. I'll have to steel myself against him.
I can't lose sight of my goal. I have to find my bridle and turn myself in.
I'll tell Fitz about all of the things that I've done. That will make it impossible for him to ever want me.
Good.
I don't deserve happiness. I don't deserve the love of a good man.
I'll get my punishment. My just reward. My comeuppance.
With a shake of my head, I clear away all fantasies of living a good, free life.
The best place to start would be Stanley Campbell, my victim. Fitz mentioned the man has - had - a connection to Scotland.
A cold dread creeps across my skin. Perhaps this man is the link to where my bridle disappeared when most of the MacGregor clan, those I last knew who held my bridal hostage, left Scotland.
I duck behind one of the large stone pillars. I have to make my way back to the library. Now that I actually have a lead, my research might prove fruitful. I just can't run into Fitz again.
My nerves - and my hormones - need a bit of time to calm down.
I watch Fitz leave the library and head toward the back of the building. As soon as he is out of sight, I make my way back to the line of antiquated computers.
This time, I scrunch down in the chair, hoping to be invisible to any sexy agents that may pass by. With a few clicks, I type my victim's name into a search engine.
Whoa.
This man was richer than the gods. His obsession with his Scottish heritage started at a really young age, fueled by family lore. Or so the countless articles about him claim.
As I read about this man's life, I can't help but cry.
Big fat tears roll down my cheeks, and no matter how many times I wipe my face, new ones take their place.
I snuffed out a life. The guilt is suffocating. I choke on a sob and swallow whimpers.
The only thing I can do to bring this man justice is to find my bridle and then turn myself in. It's not much, but it's all I can do.
I take a few steadying breaths before continuing on my quest for information. This leads me to the museum's website. The advertisement for a new special exhibit gives me apprehensive shivers.
Scottish settlements and folklore.
Kelpies are folklore. At least, that's what humans think.
Stanley Campbell is listed as the curator and purveyor of the most important pieces.
His work might have put him in direct path with my bridle. Does this mean he had it? No. He wouldn't have ordered his own death.
No amount of searching produces a list of artifacts to be displayed. There's no way for me to see if any bridles are part of the exhibit.
I can't wait for the exhibit to start to see if my bridle is there. I have to get it back now. Who knows if another murder will be ordered?
Feeling distressed, I close the web page, needing distance from the rising tide of panic.
With my hands firmly planted on my chest, I take big gulps of air to ease the pressure building inside. I have some information, but not enough. I have to stay calm and learn everything I can.
There's only so much you can do with a run of the mill search engine. What I'm looking for is more specific. Thankfully, the city's archives are in the library's basement. Perhaps that will clarify a few things about the MacGregor clan’s lineage once they migrated to America.
The archives, which sound grandiose, is actually an underwhelming room. The small space is made claustrophobic by the innumerable filing cabinets. The large metal rectangles run alongside the walls and are arranged in a dizzying maze in the center of the room.
Gathering the tiny embers of confidence I have, I make my way to the cabinet labeled with the letter M. My hand closes around the cold metal of the first drawer on which is inscribed Mac. I take a deep breath, knowing I will surely see the death certificates of people I knew.
They might not have been good people, but it's still disheartening to see the mortal world moves on without me. As they age and die, I remain the same.
Alone and forsaken because of my breed.
"What can I help you with?"
A man pops out of nowhere and looks at me intently. I jump up, surprised and terrified.
"I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm just not used to having visitors waltz in to open my archive drawers.”
"I'm sorry. I meant no offense. I didn't think anyone worked down here."
His expression falls and I know I've unwittingly said something hurtful.
"I'm looking for information on a specific family. Perhaps you can help," I say, struggling to make up for my previous comment.
There is no front desk or no other indication that someone works within these stacks. The man, who is tall and lanky, looks me up and down. His scrutiny makes me uncomfortable and for the first time today, I wish I had worn trousers instead of a dress.
"From Scotland, are you?"
When I give him a questioning look, he smiles. He might mean it to be friendly, but it's more of a leer.
"Your accent," he explains.
Right. I give him a tight smile.
"I'm here on holiday. Just arrived." As I speak, the man leans in, his tall frame dipping into my personal space. I take a step back, needing the distance. "Some family members of mine emigrated here a long time ago. I was wondering if I could track them down. See how the clan fared on these shores." The lie rolls off of my tongue, but it's
just close enough to the truth.
"Which clan?"
"MacGregor. Specifically from Ross and Cromarty county."
The man gives me an odd look. I can't place it, yet it frightens me. Something about him is vaguely familiar. Before I identify it, his face lights up with a too-bright smile. Odd.
"I'm Charles Murray, archivist here. I'm the one person in this town who could help you track down any family lineage. What did you say your name was?"
"Jenny MacGregor." Again, the lie just pops out. I can't explain why, but I don't trust this man.
"Hm, Jenny. Follow me."
Charles opens the small wooden latch and gestures for me to follow him into the back office. I look around, hoping to spot any other person. No such luck. I'm completely alone with a man who makes my skin crawl.
"Are you sure this is okay?" I ask, as he leads me into a large office, closed off to the public.
"Oh sure. When folks are looking to complete their full genealogy, they come back here. It's where all the magic happens."
Alarm bells sound in my head and a prickle of fear runs at the base of my neck.
"I'm not sure I'll have time to complete the entire family tree. I'm really not in town that long."
Charles's leer is back, twisting his features.
"Won't you be?" he clicks his tongue. "Such a pity."
"How can I complete the search?" I ask, gesturing to a long desk where a microfiche computer is nestled next to a modern desktop.
"You'll have to look up the family name in the database and then I'll bring you whatever you need to peruse."
He leads me to sit at the desktop and prompts me to type in the MacGregor family name. No sooner do I hit the Search button than the wide screen shows me an ancestry diagram.
"We've documented all the information electronically. Unfortunately, transferring all of the microfiches to more modern technology is a long and arduous task."
His words barely register in my mind. I'm too concerned with my ability to breathe, to listen.
The name is immobile on the page, but its sight leaves me both terrified and enthralled. I hold my breath until my lungs burn. I won't even let myself blink. I refuse to give this discovery any of my tears.
The Kelpie's Redemption Page 4
