The Immortal Highlander

“Sc-Sc-Sc—” she sputtered, but he was gone again. Scotland? The Highlands? What on earth for? Damn it, what was he planning? And why hadn’t he told her? How dare he just drag her all over the world without letting her in on their plans. Key phrase there being “their plans.” It was her life too.

She stood for a moment, befuddled and pissed off, then with a brisk shake of her head decided to focus on the task at hand. Later she would confront him and insist on full disclosure. Right now she just wanted more clothing on. Fast. Those few moments of being in his arms while they’d both been so nearly nude had been a test of self-discipline she’d very nearly failed. Every ounce of her body had ached to melt into those strong arms. To run her tongue down that hard, muscled chest and over those sexy rippled abs. To maybe even slip her hand beneath his towel and find out if he really was as huge—oooh—she had to stop thinking like that!

She glanced around, trying to absorb the fact that she was in Macy’s after hours, undetectable, with apparent carte blanche. Distantly, embarrassingly distantly, her conscience squawked. She silenced it by reasoning that if later she felt guilty, she could always send an anonymous donation, and headed off to explore all the fashions she’d never been able to afford.

In the end, however, she eschewed high-price couture and settled for things that made sense. The slinky designer dress with the sexy spiked heels that made her sigh so wistfully would only be perceived by him as an invitation, and, really, who knew how many more lakes she might be dunked in?

So into her satchel went instead a dozen panties; three bras; jeans; sweats to sleep in; shirts, socks, sweaters; cosmetics and assorted toiletries; two belts; and—her only concession to temptation—a gorgeous fleece-lined suede jacket that seemed very Highland-ish to her.

But apart from that single expensive item, she stayed away from the high-dollar racks. Luxury was all well and good for a Fae prince, but what would she do with a pair of six-hundred-dollar Gucci boots? She’d be afraid to walk in them. Probably trip and break an ankle or something, and wasn’t there some old fairy tale about stolen shoes that punished the thief? She knew better than most people that fairy tales had a twisted way of coming true.

She slipped into jeans and laced up tennis shoes. A sturdy pair of hiking boots went into the satchel.

She was done before he was. Figured. And when he returned, he was wearing dark, tattooed Armani jeans, with a sheer white silk tee and six-hundred-dollar Gucci boots.

Which also figured.

14

A week ago dinner would have been leftover pizza of indeterminate age fished from her barren fridge at home, by herself, while brooding about her nonexistent love life.

Tonight it was dinner from Bacchanalia in a sumptuous suite via invisible carryout, with a dinner companion who was the stuff of fairy tales. Literally.

Sitting across the elegant dining table from a tall, dark, Armani-clad fairy prince, Gabby stuffed herself on buttery lobster, pasta, and salad, followed by chocolate cheesecake and strawberries with champagne. Heavenly. Normally she’d have counted calories (she probably would have still eaten it all, but at least she’d have counted), but since she had no way of knowing how short her life might be at this particular juncture, she wasn’t about to deprive herself in whatever remained of it.

She was just about to open her mouth to demand to know, in detail, what his plans were when he said softly:

“Why are you still a virgin, ka-lyrra?”

She blinked, an instinctive “it’s none of your business” springing to the tip of her tongue, but just as swiftly bit it back. Perhaps if she answered some of his questions he’d be more responsive to hers. Besides, he was part of the reason her love life sucked, and it would feel good to get it off her chest. It wasn’t as if she could complain to her girlfriends about the misery of being a Sidhe-seer. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have a big fat handicap.”

His dark brows drew together in a frown and his gaze swept her. “I see none. What kind of handicap?”

She pushed her chair back, tucking her feet up beneath her. “Duh. I see fairies.”

“Ah. How is that a handicap?”

“I want a normal life. I want an average, everyday, full life. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. A husband, a job I’m passionate about, and children. I want the dream, Happily-Ever-After and all.”

“So, how does your seeing those of my race hinder that?”

She gave a gusty little sigh. “I’ve had two serious relationships in my life. Each time it got to the point that I was ready to get intimate, all I could think was that if I got pregnant, my child would most likely see fairies too. Which I’m okay with, I can live with that. The problem is, could the man in my life? Do I tell him I see a world he can’t see? And that I’ll have to protect our children from it? And that he’s powerless to help? Or do I withhold that information and deal with it, if and when it becomes an issue, and hope it never does?” She smiled faintly, bitterly. “I told my last boyfriend the truth. I decided it was the only honorable thing to do, and that if he really loved me, he’d be able to handle it. Do you know what happened?”