Denary

By V. P. Trick

When the A-team discovers another body close to home, Chris does the unthinkable to protect the love of his life. He won’t have her caught in the crossfire of decade-old revenge. But when she figures out all that’s at stake, the damn woman retaliates in kind.
Following Christopher’s betrayal, Patricia disappears, but with the team under attack, her fight-or-flight reflex turns from a yoga retreat to a full-frontal confrontation. Christopher can keep his guns; words, hackers, theft, sex, cell app, she gathers her unique arsenal to protect her friends, the infuriating man included, from further harm.
For once, will Christopher and Patricia trust each other to handle the murders’ investigation together?

“Who is he?”
“I do not know, M’aingeal.” Nor do I care. My thoughts stay focused on her, on keeping her safe. “Come now.” I try stirring her gently towards the back entrance of the stables. She remains stubbornly still.
“The tomahawk contradicts any accident hypothesis.”
“Indians use tomahawks; Scots wield Lochaber axes.”
“The handle is too short for it to be an axe, Kester.”
“The handle is broken, Patrea. Notice its splintered tip?” Her stare doesn’t stray from the soles of the stiff’s shoes. Is she pretending the corpse merely sleeps?
“Any idea who might have out him here? And don’t you dare declare that he tripped on his weapon!”
“I’ll not tell you anything, lass. Go back to the keep with Tam.” I glance at Tam who has just joined us out, “Make sure the men return to the dormitory, then bring her to our quarters. She’s to remain inside. The air is turning chilly this night. Inform Filib I’ve need of him. Do not tell the others anything. That goes for you too, ma loove.”
“Yes, Kester Sir!” She salutes before stomping away. For once, I’m thankful she’s not fully recovered for she would have argued and insisted on staying.

If only for once, the real Patricia was as docile as her alter-ego character, Patrea, Chris reflects. “Welcome home, Love of mine.”
“How dare you!”
“This isn’t our first fight, Pussycat. And I intend to make sure it’s not our last.”
“You’re so... so... so damn...”
At a lost for words, Angel of mine? I could suggest a few. Crazy. Protective. Scared. She lowers her head and inhales deeply. Looks up at the garden. I watch the play of emotions on her face. She gulps in another audible breath before closing her eyes. When she opens them and turns her glare back to me, the ice queen returns.
“Ingrid. Thomas. Taskill. Abigail. Elizabeth. How lovely to see you all. I take it you’re all well, oui? And what brought you happy campers to the war zone on this rainy day?”
“Sit,” I cut before my family starts vying for her attention. “All of you.”
My cousins settle on the couch side by side. Ingrid hugs Patricia before dropping her ass onto one of the armchairs. The queen remains standing, arms crossed and an arched brow to provoke me. For added effect, she taps her foot impatiently without uttering a word. The guys fan out, Des and Ham at the dining table, Lonz in the other armchair, MacCarmick against the mezzanine stairs’ guardrail.
“We have a situation,” I declare.

**The sequel to Kester and Patrea’s story, as well as Chris and Patricia’s, started in Ennead!**

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. P. Trick
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463844083

V. P. Trick

Career, family, metro-boulot-dodo and all that, until retirement. A middle life crisis later (a very early middle crisis), what if earth changed axis? Writing began and I’m hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

Book preview

Prologue

Another airport.

I’m mad. So. Fucking. Mad.

I learned curse words from you, Big guy.

I’m so angry, I haven’t written in days. Weeks. I’m slowly going crazy.

Fucking mad. Utterly sad.

When did we start this ride to hell?

It did not begin with my bruised lips. The fight over ownership of the townhouses? The twins invading the twin house, how fitting? Abigail’s arrival? My refusal to lend her my hotel suite? With me emotionally retreating from Christopher and his family? With him growing increasingly dispassionate? The corpses piling up? No, wait. I’m not supposed to worry about that, am I? For he’s the big badass detective while I’m merely a silly fiction writer. Just fucking grand!

When I reflect back on our trip to Scotland–was it only two months ago?–we were possibly already done for. Christopher had to bring me to his motherland for him to see finally how we suited. Not.

Part I: Patricia and Men

Patricia

I’m waiting for my flight out when it dawns on me what Christopher is doing. The disappointment is crushing. Even after all this time, even with three measly Scottish stiffs, he doesn’t think I’m up to it. Well, fine. See if I care.

Passengers on flight 724 at the destination of Roma now boarding, a voice calls through the airport sound system.

I follow in a docile fashion my co-flyers to my doom or Italy, depending on wherever we land first. As per my usual, I’m tipsy enough not to give (too much of) a damn.

Hours later, my drunken buzz has somewhat subsided. Close to me, a woman wheezes sleepily. Across the aisle, a man snores not so softly. Under my feet, the ocean. Above my head, the stars. The plane whines and clicks and hums while I stare wide-eyed at the small screen in front of me. Damn, that action flick is lame, but I need to bury myself in a film, a book, a drink, a man, anything or anyone to forget the last weeks. I rehash the same sordid details over and over.

Our trip to Scotland to visit the Big guy’s ancestral land.

The impromptu stop at his forefathers’ keep.

The dead guy propped against the old barn-turned-garage.

Christopher’s unusual nonchalance towards the deceased.

The MacLaren family au grand complet.

Plus the neighbour-slash-Scottish policeman, Ewan MacTavish.

The second victim found in a circle of stones higher north.

Our return to a third vic at the A-team’s bar.

After that one, Christopher grew a permanent cop face and went silent radio all around.

I’m chagrined to admit I didn’t notice it right away, too wrapped up I was in my problems. My writer’s block since my Patrea-Kester story sits at the top of the list. A close second comes the MacLaren cousins who have disembarked en masse at our doorstep: the twins Thomas and Taskill, their sister Abigail, and last but not least, cousin Elizabeth, that announced herself on their heels because yet another man toy broke up with her.

That one last fight to end all fights had started innocently enough.

Where were you? I had asked. Day or night, I hate waiting for Christopher. I have an overactive imagination, and he’s a cop. The stories I make up never end well.

Working.

Thanks, Big guy. I figured that part out all by myself. Since you didn’t call. I might not have become so testy had I not spend the evening acting as referee between the three siblings. The two boys (when thirty-year-old men behave like spoiled brats, they deserved to be referred to as boys) are sharing the house next door. Abigail sleeps in our guest room (since I refused to lend my hotel suite, but that is another previous, yet unresolved, fight).

Two weeks ago, Mandy had called Christopher to announce he was going on a field trip with his sociology class. What exactly he was doing on this academic expedition, I have no idea. Maybe he intended to observe the social behaviour of some rural town. Perhaps right now, he’s smoking pot and earning college credit for it. Lately, I don’t care much, or so I keep telling myself. One boy less I have to worry about.

You might try to free an evening or two to spend time with your cousins, I scolded Christopher that night. So I won’t have to babysit, I add silently.

I didn’t invite them over.

Neither did I. I’m not good at family, remember? And I don’t think Mandy’s any better. Mandy is legally Christopher’s responsibility, my condition for us moving in together. I’m pretending very hard to ignore that, so far, no one is on the winning end of that deal. The boys came over to whine. I sent everyone out until midnight. These days, everyone gets on my nerves.

Why didn’t you go with them?

What? The first evening we spend alone for weeks, and that was all he had to say? So yes, I may have lost it after that.

And then he did.

Next thing I knew, he backhanded me.

I can still hear the sound his slap made. Taste the blood in my mouth. See his shuttered eyes. Cop face.

This is not working out, was his statement.

Not, I’m sorry, Fuck, I don’t know what got over me, not even an, Oh shit.

Just a fucking, This is not working out.

You hit the nail right on the head on that one, Big jerk.

I stormed out. Good thing I refused to lend my suite to Abigail, isn’t it?

I motion the sleepy flight attendant. Can I have another glass, please? So what if the sun is coming up over the clouds? I need a drink. Oblivion. See if I care, jerk.

We, that is me and my fellow survivors, land at ten fifty-five local time. Apparently, I was not meant to crash and burn on this flight, however much I wished for it. What’s the first thing I do after getting out of the plane? No, I don’t need to retrieve my luggage for I don’t have any. After all, this is the epitome of an impromptu trip and, anyway, what better place is there to shop than Italy? Hence, my first stops are the airport boutiques: sultry lacy lingerie, killer black, a sexy skirt, killer black leather, a too-clingy top, fire engine red, impossibly high fuck-me heel boots–I sense a theme–and a bottle of citrusy, made in Italy perfume, muskier than what I usually wear but I’m turning over a new leaf. I keep the blush-pink jeans jacket I wore for the trip and dump the rest of my travelling clothes in the garbage bin next to the airport bar. I’m not ready to let go of my alcoholic haze yet.

When I order a glass of red wine, the waiter’s face doesn’t betray the faintest hint of disapproval. I love Italy. When I order another, the waiter still doesn’t raise an eyebrow. Have I mentioned I love Italy?

Figuring out Christopher’s motives doesn’t lessen the blow, no pun intended. The disappointment weighs me down. But during the flight, a new emotion has blossomed. Anger. You should have cheated on me, Big jerk. I might have forgiven you then.

I haven’t been with another man in the biblical sense since the first moment I laid eyes on the Big guy. I’ve come close two or three times, but each time, I solely wanted to prove to myself I was over him. Which obviously I wasn’t since I never… hum, consummated the act.

This time around, my reason will prove different. I aim to show him something. Somethings actually, emphasizes on the s. I fish a pen out of my messenger bag, grab the napkin under my third glass of wine (what, I have a plane to catch and a bastard ex to forget!), and set out to write those somethings. Not that I intend to give that list to Christopher.

I am over you. A big fat lie but I will pretend to be until my dying breath.

I will move on. I came here, didn’t I? The fact that I have already decided to turn around is a moot point.

I’m not scared of you. Even now.

I’m not scared of some psycho from your past either. Was this how our lives were going to play out? Better to make a clean break now. His overprotectiveness was bound to kill our couple sooner or later, right? But it won’t kill me. Neither will the jerk who’s after him.

I’m not afraid of dying. The living part, now that’s another matter.

I love you to death. Unfortunately. But I love him enough to let him go. Knowing somewhere in the world, he lives on without me suffice. Who am I kidding anyway? I’m lousy at real life.

I can survive anything. Proof positive: I have survived a lot.

I won’t write about it. Nothing to say. Too complicated. Where to start anyway? And I only write fiction. Hum, right.

I’m so angry that I could–My pen stills over the napkin when they call my flight. I crumple the napkin and shove it in my pocket. There. Problem solved.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be making our descent soon. Please prepare for landing.

Oh, how am I prepared. Let me count the ways. I want to punch Christopher. I want to kill him. I want revenge. And I know precisely how to get it. I could have screwed Italian gods but how would he have heard about it? Hum? Exactly. I need a local boy, someone I trust. I only sleep with men I trust. I’m not going to change that because of some big jerk I’m, correction, some big jerk I was in love with decided to hit me as a way of sending me packing. You know what, Big jerk? As a show of good will, I’ll even pick someone you trust.

The guy at customs studies my (fake) passport for the longest time. My dead ex, Joshua, bless his theft-forger soul, might have been the best hacker of his time, but no matter how often I do this, I still get nervous when anyone looks too long at any one ID from my collection.

The customs officer hits a couple of keys on his keyboard. If my calculation’s right, you were in Roma for a total of four hours.

Oh, that. I relax visibly and fake a tremulous sigh for Customs guy’s benefit. I was going on vacation, but when I landed, I received a call from my sister. That’s the thing about imaginary siblings. They can call you at the most opportune moment. You see, my mother fell terribly sick. Invented mothers are just as accommodating. I thought… I mean, she was doing so very much better. A dramatic sigh on my part. A frown from Customs. I always wanted to visit Roma. It seems incredibly romantic. I bought this outfit at the airport. I trust my average cleavage forward. But then she got worse, and when my sister called and said… Well, I boarded the first flight back. I have two hours of bus ride to go, but I just had to come home. Least she died, and I wasn’t by her deathbed. I turn wide watery eyes to Customs and stop talking. Even drunk, I am quite a gifted actress, but I don’t need to fake my tears right now.

Another airport. Another glass of wine, another napkin, another list.

Hamilton.

Steve.

Ewan MacTavish.

A psychiatrist might see something in that enumeration. While I hate cops, I still picked three detectives for the deed. Hamilton, a rougher officer on Christopher’s team I refer to by his last name only as a way to keep him at a distant perhaps? Steve, I think of on a first-name basis, because he’s less dangerous? Ewan MacTavish because he’s Christopher MacLaren’s Scottish counterpart?

For some, a slap across the face may appear like the lightest of the punches, but for me, it’s the blow that ends it all. What would a shrink make of my reaction? Mad. Sad. Disappointed. Of all the jerks I’ve dated, Christopher was the one I least expected would hit me.

I think about adding Christopher’s lesbian ex-girlfriend July’s name to the list but would she confess to him afterward? For it is crucial that my one-time fling kissed and told. Worse, would the Big guy consider my tryst with a woman as cheating? Somehow I suspect the message won’t come across effectively unless I put a cock between my legs.

I have already decided what position I want. Bend over, taken from the back, eyes closed tight. If I don’t watch the face, the body, I can get myself off with images in my head.

Thankfully, I’m not a shrink nor do I know any personally.

Hamilton

"I’m not dead yet," Chris warned me again just today.

The boss’s words are still ringing in my ears when the Puss sits her sweet ass on a stool at my right at the bar. Ain’t she supposed to be travelling somewhere in Europe? I mask my surprise at her showing up here by drowning half of my beer. On my left, DesForges smirks. Fucking asshole.

Where the hell did Patricia pick up that top anyway? Her tits fill no more than a medium hand size–her sentiment, not mine. I love her cleavage–but tonight, they’re overspilling her racy see-through bra. Fucking yummy. It doesn’t take more than a nanosecond for the bartender to amble over to her. I’ve caught plenty of fire burning in those big blue eyes of hers. Right now, a damn inferno rages in the dark pools. Unfathomable. I’ve been picking up some fucking fancy words in the last year or two.

What? She glares at me before gulping down her glass of red, the entire content! We’re sitting in a shithole, but the Babe still orders red wine. I take a second to breathe and look her up and down with subtlety. Roger skillfully. I’m drooling on her exposed thighs. And the boots, man! Des slaps me on the back of the head. Fucking friend.

What happened to your bottom lip? Was the boss a little too rough on you, Dollface?

She doesn’t bat an eyelash when she answers with, Most definitely. Don’t worry, though. I’ll get the Big guy back for it. With the Puss, not only what she says is important, but also, and maybe more essential is how she says it.

My dick tells me this situation sticks before my brain starts working again. Barely. What are you doing here, Pussycat?

Well. For one thing, I’m not here to make a pass at you.

Where the fuck did that come from? As if you would ever cheat on the big guy. Images flood my mind. Close-ups of her, a very naked and pliant her–I’ll let you keep the boots and bra, Puss–cheating on the boss with me almost make me miss the rest of her scolding.

It would be too complicated, Hamilton. You guys work together. More than that, you two are friends. She issues one of her dramatic sighs, and I sigh along. Fuck, I want that woman, but honour, another fucking annoying word, along with friendship and the dreaded L-word, have me spellbound. Only after the boss dies, Pussycat.

Why are you here? A doll alone in this bar is never a good thing.

In a long swallow, she polishes off the second glass of wine the barkeep put in front of her (she didn’t have to ask, the jerk shows impeccable taste), licks her lips and shakes her head. She’s up to something. As I said, I wanted to let you know you were my first choice. You definitely were, Joseph, but I will not use you for it.

Use me? Anytime you want, Puss. I blink away the thought before inquiring, Use me for what? Watch the fucking detective at work. Move over Sherlock Holmes.

Revenge, she mutters. And off she goes.

Hey, wait up!

DesForges, she yells back. Control your mate.

When I extirpate myself from Des’s grip, I can’t see the Puss anywhere. Think we should warn Chris?

Your call, Ham. She came here to talk to you. Even called you Joseph and all.

Fucking right she did. And every damn time she uses my name, Joseph, a fucking tornado sweeps down.

I dial.

Patricia

Patricia! What are you doing here? Glancing up and down the street, Steve pulls me inside. You OK? Is something wrong?

Besides my ex acting like a colossal jerk? Nope, everything’s groovy. I’m fine. How are you?

I’m alright. Steve narrows his eyes and looks me up and down. The man is no green rookie. We once visited a stripper club together, so he knows some of my quirks. What are you doing here? How did you get my address? Some quirks but not all. What happened to your lip?

My tongue peaks out to lick the small cut on my bottom lip. I should paint an oversized image of my mouth. I could title the piece Souvenir From an Ex. I have a question. Do you think–

Patricia, damn it. You came here simply to ask me a question? Dress like that? What’s wrong with my Italian outfit? Men, really. Don’t you have a phone?

Of course, I do. But it’s a… hum, very delicate request. I wanted to talk to you face to face so to speak. So here goes.

Face to face! Does MacLaren know you’re here? Never on your life. Literally. I thought you were in Europe.

That makes it official: Officer Christopher James MacLaren is a lying bastard. Steve, damn it, stop interrupting! What’s with those annoying detectives and their inquisition? Can’t a girl show up unannounced in a slutty (yet subdue and classy) outfit without getting the third degree? Think you’ll want to work for the team on a more permanent basis? Steve is a loaner from another district. During a case, Christopher traded in favours to bring him into his fold. (Overprotectiveness at its finest there again since I was involved in said investigation albeit in my humble opinion, in somewhat in a roundabout fashion.)

One of the reasons I like Steve is because he’s smart enough to know when he needs to cut to the chase. Yes, I want to join Chris’s team permanently.

Bummer.

Why?

You were my runner-up.

What the hell are you talking about? He inhales a calming breath–I watch his nostrils flare–before smiling down at me. Or, more accurately, he grins like a Cheshire cat. Oh, ye of little faith in my abilities, you’re in for a surprise, I want to warn him.

How about a glass of wine? I just bought a bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo that earned excellent reviews. He snakes an arm around my shoulders, effectively trapping me, and guides me to his living room. Three seconds later, he has me sitting on his couch. The thing is draped in black leather; it doesn’t clash with my Italian revenge costume. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.

As I said, Steve is smart. He learned of my quirks and weaknesses alike, and Italian red wine tops that list. As for my showing up at his place, like a hound dog, the cop in him equates it to me handing over a knife dripping with blood. He knows I did the crime and he’ll stall me until he figures out where I hid the body.

Mind if I use the bathroom? I call to the kitchen. The front door is locked. Specialty latch I noted, from which I caught Steve pulling out the key when he was handling me. Down the right, girl.

I already knew that. Along with Hamilton’s phone position, Steve’s address, MacTavish’s hotel name and room number, my hacker friend Mario emailed me the schematic of Steve’s house. A woman can never be too prepared.

Mercifully, tonight feels unseasonably warm. I noticed the open bathroom window when I toured the premises before knocking on Steve’s front door. I hope the wine is corked, pops through my mind first as I escape via the narrow lucarne. Second-floor window, piece of cake. Thank you vines and hydrangea bushes.

These guys need to improve on their reaction time if they want to keep up with me, comes right after. Not that I’m complaining. My plan tables on the fact that Steve and Ewan MacTavish having both newly joined the team, they’ll hence remain out of the inner circle of communication.

Revenge is better served cold, is my third (and recurrent) thought. An encouragement as I head out to my final destination of the night. Italian boots make a fine statement but are a hazard for us cat burglar. If not for my inappropriate footwear, I might have skipped all the way to Ewan’s.

Ewan

Patricia! What are you doing here? Glancing up and down the hotel corridor, I pull her inside on reflex. Never leave the innocents exposed out in the open. Once I’ve flipped the deadbolt, I turn back to study her. You OK? Is something wrong? I look her over. Forget about innocent, the lass’s outfit is a killer. Where the hell are you going dressed like that?

Why is everyone so shocked by my clothes? I’m a grown woman. I can wear whatever the heck I want!

She’s right. She’s indeed fully grown. The longest legs. Curvy hips. Narrow waist. Perky tits showcased in a stretchy camisole. Expenses of soft skin flash above her top and below her skirt. Crazy hair. Hypnotic blue-steel eyes. Sorry. It’s just that you look… Incredibly fuckable. You look… nice. Nice? I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. I open them back to smile sweetly at her. That small cut on her bottom lip, as if she bit herself, gives her a slightly pouty mouth. Very nice, I repeat. A forty-five-year-old man acting like a fucking jerk ain’t appropriate. MacLaren’s gonna kill me.

She smiles back and blushes a little. Thank you. Her grin grows before she licks her lips. Fuck MacLaren’s wrath, dying for this woman will be worth my (painful) last breath. Got anything to drink, Scotsman?

Sure, M’aingeal. The nickname comes out of my mouth without conscious thought. I forgot who first called her that at the MacLarens’s keep (one of the twins perhaps?), but it suits her well. She appears quite the vengeful angel tonight. Scotch alright for you?

She grimaces slightly. Why not?

She glances around while I pour her a glass. Her eyes settle on me as she sits down on one of the two armchairs in the room.

Why haven’t you rented a studio or a motel apartment instead of this palace?

The room comes fully equipped in a luxurious setting: a king-sized bed, flat-screen television, Wi-Fi, small fridge, and two comfy armchairs. Plus an impressive view of the capital, space enough to fit fifty people, a bathroom with both independent bath and shower (as in one of each, separated). In addition to those amenities, the hotel also offers a gym, a pool, a lounge, a bar, and includes free breakfast served in the lounge every morning. Not that I eat, or swim, or relax at the hotel often. MacLaren is proving worse than me in regard to work, and that is saying a lot.

I hadn’t foreseen I’d be staying this long. I stop myself before giving out too much. I came here to get Intel on MacCarmick’s corpse. The stiff Mac’s bar-owner friends found near their dumpsters. With MacLaren, we figured we’d need a couple of days, two weeks maximum to close that case. I landed two months ago.

Well, it sure is nice of Scotland’s law enforcement technocrats to splurge like that for your comfort.

Sure is, I say, handing her her glass. No way I’m gonna tell her I asked for a leave of absence for the job. I wanted to stay on the case with MacLaren–I enjoy hunting jerks who fuck with me–hence the hotel room’s on me. I relish the chase and my comfort in equal part.

Lips pursed, she drinks a dainty sip. I’ve learned a few things about Patricia since her visit overseas, one of them is she’s not a big fan of us Scots national beverage.

Good? I tease.

It’s Scotch. How good can it be?

Right, M’aingeal, I laugh. So tell me. What ails you so much that you’re willing to torture your taste buds thus?

You intend to head back to Scotland, right?

Uh, yes. Eventually. As soon as we catch the bastard trying to off MacLaren’s teammates. What are you doing here, Patricia?

You guys are a bunch of suspicious jerks. You know that, right? Whatever happened to the time when gentlemen appreciated finding an attractive woman on their front steps? She turns her seat to face the window. I was gazing at the view myself before she came knocking. Her struggle with the massive armchair pulls her chair closer to mine.

Tell me why you’re here. Her boyfriend, my old mate now a district chief detective in one of the country’s biggest cities, Christopher James MacLaren wanted her out of the way. James said you were travelling overseas. Why do I get the nagging impression the guy doesn’t have a clue she’s here?

I was. I mean I am. Almost. I will be. Soon. I think. Sorry, I’m blabbering a bit. It must be the Scotch. She drowns another careful sip. Hum. Ah. Well. Ever heard the expression kill two birds with one stone?

Am I a bird or a stone?

Why are all of Christopher’s friends sharp? She drowns a vengeful swallow. Coughs. Her eyes tear up. She waves me away when I lean closer. I’m fine. Her voice comes out in a whisper. I might be becoming allergic to Scotch.

Do not blaspheme, wench. She laughs at that and coughs some more. Scotch is like water. You can’t be allergic to water, right?

Aquagenic urticaria. I must have winced for she simultaneously shakes her head and rolls her eyes, her subtle way of hinting at how utterly ignorant I should feel. The woman speaks volume without saying a word. Allergy to water is called aquagenic urticaria, Ewan. About forty people worldwide suffer from that terrible affliction. They break out in very painful hives when in contact with water.

Really? How the fuck do you know that? That woman tells the oddest facts about the strangest things. Sexy.

I read a news clip about it once while researching a book.

Research, hey? James explained about those, lass. Researched any fine Scotch lately?

Too much, she retorts sharply. Were we to analyze the stats, I suspect Scotch allergy would prove at least a thousand times more frequent. And more deadly.

My nagging impression ups ten notches. Want us to get you something at the bar downstairs? No way am I letting her out of my sight. Not until I find out what the fuck she’s up to. Or I can order you some wine from room service.

Scotch’s fine, Ewan. Truly. She stares at my mouth for a beat before blinking away. What the fuck? Scotch’s tastes better in someone else’s mouth, she muses softly without looking at me.

The thought of how fine this single malt Scotch would taste on her lips is so hot I discreetly readjust the front of my pants.

She stares at the view and sips. I stare at her profile and find it difficult to swallow. What is it about that lass that gets to me? Sure, she’s pretty. And smart. And nice. Plenty of sweet, intelligent, sexy women inhabit Scotland. Granted, as of yet, I hadn’t encountered that many as sharp as she. Or as gorgeous. But it’s more than that.

I recall a couple of weeks ago when I first arrived. We were at some bar, me, Patricia, James, and officers from his team, Hamilton, DesForges. Reid and Charles were still with us at that time. We were enjoying a drink, Monday beer night is a tradition with that group, Ham informed me. James’s men were jerking around and there she sat, daydreaming over the rim of her glass, a distracted half-smile on her lips. Her eyes looked glazed by, I believed, a touch too much wine, but at one point, James had wrapped his hand on the back of her neck. Hush, Princess, he’d soothed. Come back. Talk to me.

She had blinked once and smiled. Sorry. I was…

I know, Angel. You were merely planning your next research. Thinking too much again.

Pff. And with that, she was back with us.

From the jokes and comments she made later that evening, she clearly had heard every single word that anyone had uttered.

I replayed James’s warning from back in Scotland over the holidays. The guy had, "explained things to me, as he put it mildly. Don’t let her looks fool you. Sometimes, she’s so damn stunning, even her crazy disguises can’t hide her, but you can bet your ass you’ll overlook her when she wants you to."

Is she wearing a disguise tonight? No way could anyone ignore her in that outfit. Unless that’s her goal, that I would notice her? I always see her.

"Don’t ever forget that she’s quick, too fucking smart for her own good if you ask me. Never hint in the slightest way that you need a hand with your case. If she likes you–and I think she will like you, unfortunately–she’ll want to help. Her involvement becomes hell. Always."

Is that why she comes visiting? James won’t tell her about our investigation, but maybe someone on the team had let something slip? Then again, I can’t imagine any of them babbling to her; they all seemed so protective of her.

"She’s incredibly dreamy, can retreat to her little writer’s world in the middle of a conversation. Be warned, though, the damn woman will not only hear but get every fucking word said even then. Watch your mouth, and try to keep up, MacTavish."

Is she playing me?

She’s sitting so close to me, a flick of my wrist, and my hand would land on her knee. Her bare knee. She appears deep in introspection, unaware of me; yet, I can practically hear the thoughts swimming in her head, invading the room, crowding us.

She sighs heavily before saying, without detaching her eyes from the view, Ewan, you can consider yourself as one of the birds. Elizabeth will pose as the second bird because, when the dust settles, I will come back to live in this town, and I’d rather not have another MacLaren cousin living in it.

How very cryptic. And the stone?

Patricia

I’m not exactly lying to him, am I? I said he could consider himself one of the birds, not that he was one. Rhetoric. I am misleading to him. I’ll keep on doing it, but I won’t use him.

Christopher and I… we’re not together anymore. I feel Ewan tense next to me. I’ll spare you the details, but that’s why I’m flying to Europe.

What happened?

Not much. I don’t understand why, but confiding to Ewan that Christopher hit me