Heart of the Highland Wolf
Page 3She glanced over her shoulder but couldn’t see anything except fog and trees. “We could wander for miles and never find anyone. We should sit down and stay quiet. They’ll pass us by.”
“No. For one thing, it’s getting dark. And for another, I have to get to Harold’s meeting. And finally,” Maria whispered back, “whoever is out there has been tracking us pretty damn well all along. Ever since the Scotsman shouted near the car, calling out to us.”
“Was it the same voice as the man who talked to you on the phone?”
“I can’t tell. The phone crackled and sputtered when the man called me in L.A., lousy reception. This guy’s voice was loud and clear.”
And dark and worried and sexy, Julia thought. Not at all like someone who was out to get them. The wolf again came to the forefront of Julia’s thoughts. “The wolf has to be one of our kind.”
Maria asked quietly, “What if he was with the guy that hit us? What if they worked in collusion?”
Maria and her conspiracy theories.
“Highly unlikely,” Julia said, in an attempt at reassuring. But that didn’t stop her own small, niggling worry.
She began to look for any signs of a wolf in the area, skulking around in the fog and rain.
The sudden rain shower slowed to a drizzle just as a flicker of light in the distance caught Julia’s eye. “Over there,” she whispered, her hopes elevating, and the two changed direction. “A building.”
Distant hearty male singing drifted to them from the direction of the muted light.
“We must look adorable,” Maria muttered, glancing down. Their clothes were soaked, but at least Maria was wearing her jacket, and even though she was wet, the fabric didn’t cling to her the way Julia’s did.
“Road,” Julia said. “Dead ahead.”
“A pub, maybe,” Maria excitedly said, her voice still hushed as she dragged Julia across the deserted road, the music cheering them on. “We’ll be safe there and can borrow a phone and call Harold.”
Welcoming brass porch lanterns glowed through the fog, illuminating the front of Scott’s Pub. The new mixing with the old, ancient stone walls surrounded double glass doors, back-lit from the warm wash of lighting inside. Above the pub, six dark windows overlooked the parking lot, and a sign read: ROOMS FOR LEASE. A corner of the building wrapped around and rose three stories, but it looked ghostly vacant. A sign carved into the stone said, HIGHLAND INN.
Behind the building, trees and hills loomed tall, dwarfing the place. Outside, three cars, a pickup, and a van were parked, and unless tons of people had ridden in the five vehicles, Julia assumed liquor had loosened the singers’ tongues to a good-hearted bellow. In her romantic writer’s imagination, she envisioned the place filled with braw, kilted Highland warriors who would save them from harm if those following them meant to hurt them.
Maria grabbed the door and opened it, then pulled Julia inside and shut the door. The aroma of juicy burgers grilling made Julia’s stomach growl.
She needed food and water. And a towel, a shower, and clean clothes. The place seemed like their salvation.
To keep from tracking in mud, they eased off their muddy heels and left them out of the way on the granite floor against the entryway wall. Then they padded in stocking feet into a more dimly lit room, complete with paneled bar, several tables, a dartboard on one wall, and the painting of deer on another. The singing had continued, and the men’s brogue was so thick that Julia didn’t understand a word of it.
A man dressed in a black polo shirt and steel-gray slacks poured drinks from behind the bar, and two others dressed the same way sang along with those sitting at the tables. Julia was disappointed not to see any kilted warriors in Scott’s Pub. The six men were wearing trousers and shirts—everyday variety, nothing noteworthy for her manuscript. But they looked like a hearty lot, smiling and singing and swinging their mugs of ale.
Until a pretty blonde woman—petite and midthirties, wearing jeans and a tank top, and serving another tray of drinks to one of the tables—turned to look at Maria and Julia. The waitress’s smiling mouth instantly dropped open. She nearly spilled a man’s ale in his lap, and he quickly grabbed her hand to steady it.
“Sarah, lass…” But he and the other men quit singing one by one and turned to see what had startled her so.
***
“The women probably went inside Scott’s Pub, as quiet as the place suddenly got,” Ian said to his brother as they reached the road, rainwater running down their faces, their clothes soaked.Torn between reaching the women before they found the pub and hanging back to allow them time to locate it, Ian had figured the women would feel safer with others about. He could still determine if they were all right without appearing to be a threat. He truly had no need to do other than that.
“Aye. Bring the car, and we’ll have a whisky.” Ian jogged across the road as Duncan headed back to where Ian had parked the car. They still had to reach Argent before that producer arrived, but they had plenty of time.
Ian pulled the door open, stalked inside, and saw the two drenched women seated at a table. His quarry.
They were even more appealing than he could have guessed.
One was darker-skinned, had dark hair and eyes, and looked Spanish. The other was a natural redhead with deep red-orange curls resting on her shoulders, her skin translucent ivory, and green catlike eyes that made her appear Scottish. The Spanish woman was dressed in a black suit, jacket and slacks, wet and spattered in mud. She was all curves, but the fabric didn’t reveal all of her attributes like the redhead’s did.
His gaze fastened on the redhead as if she might vanish in the blink of an eye. An aqua-blue, sleeveless silk shirt clung to pert breasts, her rigid nipples pressed against the fabric, her arms covered in chill bumps. He took a hell of a lot longer look than was good manners, then saw that her matching blue trousers were just as wet, just as clinging, showing a good deal of toned leg. Seeing her nearly nude body made his tighten in response.
Annoyed with himself for having such an intense reaction, he paused to consider what to do next.
Both women were sipping water and looking dismayed. The redhead saw him, her eyes widening. As if prompted, the other looked back at him, too, her eyes suddenly wary. He wondered if they were lupus garous. The air was still, and unless he drew really close, they wouldn’t notice his scent because of the aroma of burgers grilling nearby. In truth, he couldn’t even smell their scents in here.
“Laird MacNeill,” several men said, raising mugs of ale or whisky glasses in greeting.
He acknowledged them each by name, all locals from the area, none of them lupus garous.
He wanted to ask the women who they were, where they were from, what they were doing here, and what had happened to them on the road, but their concerned expressions gave him the impression they feared him. He was afraid they’d bolt if he drew any nearer.
The redhead’s gaze swept over him from his face downward, and he realized what a mess he was, his jaw sporting a stubble of beard, his trousers muddy. And without a rain jacket, his damp, white cotton shirt and khaki trousers stuck to him, much the way the redhead’s clothes clung to her. He probably did appear a wee bit threatening.
The men glanced at the women and back at Ian. More than one raised a brow, but no one spoke. Did they think he and the women had been caught in the same wreck? Most likely it looked that way.
“What happened?” he asked the waitress as she returned to his table with a couple of drinks, subtly motioning to the two women with his head as they leaned close to each other and whispered.
Sarah looked like she wanted to ask the same of him. “Americans, had an accident in the fog. Lost their carry-on luggage, money, passports, cell phones, laptops, everything that was with them,” she responded in a hushed voice. “They only had a few U.S. dollars to get anything to drink or eat, but we couldn’t take the money. I gave them some water. Scott said to give them a meal, but they refused, saying they weren’t hungry. Which I don’t believe. The redhead’s stomach was grumbling.
“Then the dark-haired woman used my cell phone and called someone named Howard, said they needed to file an accident report and she didn’t want to miss the first meeting at Argent Castle.” Sara raised her brows as if saying it was now Ian’s turn to fill her in on the rest of the details.
But Ian’s thoughts had focused on the scheduled meeting later today with the film producer.
Both women were sipping their water, looking at each other, quiet. They were with the film production crew? His mouth hardening, he said, “And?”
“I got the distinct impression Howard isn’t coming to pick them up.” Sarah waved her hand at a couple of the tables filled with men. “Everyone offered to drive the women to their cottage, but MacNamara warned them their wives wouldn’t like it.”
Ian grunted. That was for sure. “Do you know where they’re headed?”
Sarah smiled. She was an American, having traveled here three years ago with a couple of girlfriends on the vacation of a lifetime—as they had called it. Sarah had fallen in love with Scott, married him, and never gone back. She tucked a gold curl behind her ear and raised her brows.
“They’re staying at Baird Cottage. They wanted to know how far it was from here.” Then she turned her attention to the women and smiled.
They gave her tense smiles back, as if they were trying to make a show of it, but they still looked apprehensive.
Ian took a short draught of whisky and caught the redhead’s eye. She challenged him right back, her gaze intense. Without his consent, his mouth quirked into a bit of a smile. A blush extended from her face all the way down her naked neck as she looked away. His gaze drew lower to her breasts again. Hell, if he’d had a dry shirt, he’d have offered it to her. He noted the other men were looking her way, too. That really irked him. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">