Beyond the Highland Myst(709)

His words had brought the Highlands brilliantly to life in her mind’s eye, and the constant purr of his deep rich burr had soothed. She knew he’d been trying to keep her from going nuts while killing time in a room with a dead body, and it had worked.

As the shock of yet another attempt on her life and Cian’s swift dispatch of the would-be assassin faded, Jessi faced the cold, hard facts.

Fact: The woman had intended to kill her. Fact: One of them had to go. Fact: Jessi was glad it hadn’t been her.

Problem: In a short time, she’d be slinking out of a room that had blood splattered all over it, leaving a dead body in it. Even if they somehow managed to get the body out of the room—and she couldn’t see how they could possibly sneak it from the hotel without being seen—there was no way they could get rid of all the blood.

Fact: She was now a fugitive.

That was the fact that could make her nuts. PhD, life, future—all of it gone to hell.

What was she going to do now?

She had a sudden, horrible vision of herself at some point in the not-so-distant future, calling her mom from a strange, frightening foreign country where the beetles and roaches were the size of small rats, trying to assure Lilly St. James that she really hadn’t done whatever the police were saying she’d done.

On top of it all, she didn’t even have clothes to sneak out of the hotel in. Though she’d been able to get some of the blood out of her jeans, her sweater was a lost cause. Though her panties had been salvageable, her bra was not.

She could hardly walk out into downtown Chicago in the blanket she was wearing. One might be able to pull that kind of thing off in New York City, but not in Shy-town.

As brilliant golden light blazed from those mysterious runes on the frame, and the sensation of spatial distortion grated across her already frayed nerve endings, she tugged the blanket more securely around her.

She began to push herself up from where she’d been sitting, cross-legged, on the bed, as far back against the wall as possible, so she could pretend the lump on the floor wasn’t there. Suddenly, he was standing beside her.

Before she could so much as squeak a protest, he cupped her shoulders, dragged her against his body, and kissed her hard, fast, and deep, before dropping her back onto the bed.

He looked at her a moment, then he plucked her back up and did it again.

This time he drew her into his arms, one arm around her waist, the other hand palming the back of her head, and kissed her so deeply and passionately that she could have sworn she was throwing off steam, sizzling like an iron on the High Mist/Steam setting.

She clung to him, taking all he was giving. Sinking into his body, absorbing the steel and heat of the man.

When he released her this time, she plopped back down on the bed, kissed breathless.

She felt infinitely better than she had moments ago, as if some of his formidable strength had seeped into her through their kiss. God knew the man had strength enough to spare.

He stared down at her, his whisky gaze narrowed with desire and something else, something she simply couldn’t quite define; an emotion that eluded her. It almost seemed like regret, but that made no sense to her. What could he possibly be regretting?

When he lifted his hand and traced the backs of his knuckles up her cheek, slipping his fingers into the short dark curls at her temple, she dismissed the odd thought from her mind. He threaded his fingers through her hair slowly, as if savoring the silky texture of each curl.

It gave her a tiny chill, the lightness of his touch.

The man was a walking dichotomy. Those powerful neck-snapping, knife-throwing hands that did murder without pause were equally capable of tenderness and delicacy.

“Lock the door behind me when I leave, lass. I will be but a short time. Doona open it for anyone but me. Will you obey me?”

She opened her mouth to ask why, and what he was going to do, and just how he thought they were going to get out of the mess they were in, but he pressed the tip of his finger to her lips.

“Time is truly of the essence,” he said softly. “I never ken how long I’ll have. ’Tis action that will serve us best here, not words. Will you obey me for the now, Jessica?”

She blew out a pent breath and nodded.

“Good lass.”

She stuck her tongue out and mimed panting like a dog, grasping for any shred of levity she could find.

He gave her a faint, approving smile. “Keep your laughter, Jessica. ’Tis a saving grace.”

Her thoughts exactly.

He turned, scooped up the comforter with its bloody burden, and stalked from the room, closing the door behind him.

“Lock it,” came the soft, low command from the other side.

Jessi slid the bolt and flipped the latch. Only then did his footfalls fade down the hall.