The Immortal Highlander

Page 13

The sketch didn’t begin to do it justice, though it captured the unmistakable essence of it. Sighted in medieval times and sketched at a place in the Highlands called Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea (where it had allegedly killed a young Gypsy woman), it was all muscle and arrogant sexuality, clad in a kilt, standing at a forge near a copse of Rowan trees, before a magnificent, medieval castle that loomed in the background. Strong hand wielding a smith’s hammer, its arm was flexed in midswing. Its hair was flying about its face in a dark tangle that fell to its waist. Its lips were curved in a mocking smile.
She’d seen that smile tonight. And a worse one still. One far more . . . predatory. If possible.
Her gaze fixed on the heavily inked and underscored admonition beneath the sketch:
AVOID CONTACT AT ALL COST
“Oh, Gram,” she whispered, a sudden, hot burn of tears stinging her eyes, “you were right.”
She had to leave. Now.
Twenty-two frenetic minutes later, Gabby had changed into jeans and a tank top and was ready to go, running on pure adrenaline, in lieu of much-needed sleep. She couldn’t leave the precious books behind—she didn’t know if or when she’d be able to return, and they simply had to be preserved, by God, she would have children to pass them down to one day—so she’d packed them.
While she’d been at it, she’d been unable to resist tossing in a few other items she simply couldn’t bear to leave: a soft cashmere afghan Gram had completed shortly before she died; a photo album; a much-loved locket; jeans, a few shirts, panties, bras, and shoes.
She’d firmly turned off her tears, a leaky faucet for which she simply couldn’t afford a plumbing bill right now. Later, in some other city, in some other house, she would grieve the loss of her childhood home and virtually all her possessions. Later she would try to figure out if she dared resume her own name and finish law school at another college. Later she would take stock of all she’d so foolishly thrown away in one night with a single look. Later she might admit that her mother had been right about her all along: She was a fairy-abduction waiting to happen.
Now she stood at the back door with two suitcases and a backpack crammed full.
Though the banks would open soon, she didn’t dare waste any more time. She would stop somewhere in the late afternoon, in whatever state she’d managed to get to by that point, liquidate the special account, and find a safe place where she could lose herself and become someone else.
She took one last look around the kitchen she’d learned to bake cookies in, the kitchen in which she’d cried over her first boyfriend (and her latest—the bastard), the cozy room in which she and Gram had shared so many long talks, so many hopes and dreams.
Damn you, Adam Black, she thought bitterly. Damn you for making me leave.
The sharp clarity of anger helped blast away some of the fear fogging her mind. Squaring her shoulders, she slung the backpack over her shoulder and picked up her suitcases.
She was smart. She was strong. She was determined. She would outrun it. She would have her chance at a normal life: a career, a husband, and babies. So what if it meant changing her name and starting all over? She would succeed.
Chin up, resolve firm, she opened the door.
Powerful body filling the doorway, it stood there, lips curved in a dangerous smile.
“Hello, Gabrielle,” Adam Black said.
4
Adam arrived at 735 Monroe Street prepared for the woman to be a bit skittish.
After all, she’d run from him earlier, obviously intimidated by his overwhelming masculinity and epic sexuality. Women often had that reaction to him, especially when he was stripping off his pants. Or kilt, depending on the century.
He was also prepared, however, for her inhibitions to drop swiftly, as did all women’s when they got a good, close-up look at him.
After that, many simply launched themselves at him in a full-frontal assault of sexual frenzy. He’d been entertaining himself with just that possibility, his entire body tight with lust, while tracking her down with the information he’d obtained in the room called “Human Resources” at Little & Staller.
But nothing in his vast repertoire of experience had prepared him for Gabrielle O’Callaghan.
The bloodthirsty little hellion didn’t react like any woman he’d ever encountered. She took one horrified look at him, drew back her arm, hauled off, and smashed him in the face with some kind of satchel she was holding.
Then slammed the door and locked it.
Leaving him on the doorstep, bleeding. Bleeding, by Danu, blood trickling from his lip!
Well, he’d just gotten confirmation that she was indeed fully immune to the féth fiada, or she’d not have been able to bust his lip. It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined learning it.