Introduction
“...the mysterious man known only as Ryft worked at Rob Roy MacGregor’s side, serving as his preternatural shadow; a swift hand of justice so inescapable that the MacGregor’s enemies grew to fear him greater than any other man in the Highlands. The loathing that Thorn Campbell, leader of a mercenary clan known as the Rùn, had for the paladin grew so malevolent that the land itself roiled beneath the relentless tread of his obsession.
Unable to assassinate his enemy, Thorn challenged Ryft to final combat in the fields of Glen Orchy.
His provocation proved a ruse.
Even as the men prepared to meet, word came to Ryft that his beloved wife Isobel and infant son had been burned to death in their home by Thorn’s men.
The Highland people still tell the tale of the fearsome battle that ensued between the two mortal enemies, and of how a mysterious fog engulfed the men as they clashed, until only the sounds of swords biting metal and flesh echoed across the field of conflict.
When the fog lifted, the men were gone, two swords the only remnants of the reckoning. Ryft’s weapon stood buried to the hilt in the Highland soil, Thorn’s lay flat beside it, forsaken.
Some say Ryft’s love for his wife had been so great that he’d sent Thorn to hell and then gone with him, just to be sure he’d stay.”
--- Ancient Highland folklore
Chapter One
Catriona found the body on Stage Fourteen of Parasol Pictures—lying over a barrel like a dead cowboy draped over a horse bound for home.
She scowled. The figure’s plaid skirt was hiked high enough that she could see the curve of buttocks, even in the dim light of the closed studio. Catriona tried not to stare, but those buttocks drew her attention like a train wreck.
The thighs were hairy.
A pig snort ripped through the room and the body spasmed.
Snoring. Not dead, that’s a plus...
“Hey—Sleeping Beauty.”
She poked at the body with the tip of her boot. It felt unusually solid.
“Wow. What have they been feeding you?”
She assumed she’d stumbled onto some sort of weightlifting hippie-chick, who, by the smell of her, recently backstroked in a tank of Scotch.
Or...No. She reconsidered. The dim light played tricks on her eyesight. It wasn’t a skirt at all—crumpled on that firm gluteus maximus like a wadded plaid tissue.
It was a kilt.
Sleeping Beauty is a man.
She sighed. It wasn’t unusual to find drunks on a Hollywood set. The guy was likely background talent from some highland romance. She didn’t know of any in production, but highlanders had picked up where vampires left off, so it wasn’t hard to imagine another Scottish love story under development. The guy probably wrapped his first day of shooting, felt the need to celebrate with some of the more seasoned cast, and over imbibed. Experienced talent loved making the newbies suffer.
Catriona liked to think rolling drunks off the lot was beneath her, but as Parasol Picture’s studio “fixer,” nothing was officially beneath her. She spent her days scurrying male leads from their leading ladies’ trailers moments before their wives arrived for surprise visits, sneaking stars in and out of rehab, quelling rivalries and rousing sleeping drunks before they destroyed filming schedules.
Corralling spoiled Hollywood elite before they cost the studio money or reputation was rarely as glamorous as it sounded. Shoving drunken background talent into a cab wasn’t the most unseemly thing she’d ever done. Not even close.
She eyed the sleeping man’s tush and raised her hand.
Speaking of background talent—
Crack! She slapped the exposed butt cheek with a satisfying echo and surprised herself by giggling.
That was way too much fun.
“Eh?” The man’s head lifted a few inches, revealing chin stubble that confirmed his sex.
Or a heavy duty supply of testosterone injections.
Clearing her throat, Catriona adopted a disapproving frown. “You know, you can wear underwear beneath a kilt. You don’t have to be quite so authentic.”
The man’s head fell and his breathing grew heavy once more.
She tapped him with her toe again. “Hey. Come on. You can’t sleep here, buddy. Time to go home.”
He flapped his hand in her direction. “Away with ye, woman.”
Catriona scowled. “All right. Cameras are off, Mr. Connery. Time to go home. You can drop the highlander crap.”
She tugged on his kilt and he slid from the barrel and onto his back. Through some miracle, the kilt kept his twigs and berries covered throughout the process.
Perhaps he’d been hired for that very talent.
“Hey—Braveheart. You have to go home.”
“Home? Noo?” His forearm flopped across his face. He sounded more like a braying moose than a man; as if he were saying now and trying to swallow his tongue at the same time.
“Home. Now. You know, where you hang your skirt. You can’t sleep here.”
She kicked his bare thigh as gently as possible and he sat up like a spring-loaded vampire. Startled, she jumped, falling against an adjacent barrel. A mop of scraggly, dark hair bounced from the man’s face, revealing a strong jawline, full lips, and an angry scar that ran from his temple to his cheekbone.
With great effort he opened an eye in her direction, but Catriona felt confident he couldn’t focus. Blue irises swam in his bloodshot eyeballs like fish in a bowl. His pupils did a few laps and then rolled back into his head as he collapsed once more.
Catriona tilted back her head and sighed.
Grabbing his arm, she jerked him back to sitting position, but her best efforts to raise him to his feet only listed him to the left.
Shifting, she clutched him by the front of his loose-fitting white shirt and tugged. She almost had him sitting when the fabric gave way and he flopped back to the ground, his head smacking the cement floor with an angry thud. She winced.
Whoops.
The man’s newly naked pecs looked like flesh-colored dinner plates. Dinner plates with nipples. Casting had outdone themselves finding such a beefcake to swing swords around in the background of the fighting scenes. It made Catriona wonder if he was someone, maybe playing the lead’s brother or best friend?
Nah. She made it a point to know everyone on the lot who was someone. This guy was no one. A fine specimen of nobody. Hotties with gym memberships scurried around the lot like ants on a daily basis. Most couldn’t pull their IQs out of double digits if they pooled their resources.
Still—she put her hand on his left pec and let it slide along the curve.
“Wake up,” she whispered, trying to fool both him and herself that she was trying to rouse him and not copping a cheap feel.
Hm. My my.
She patted his chest with her fingertips—once to say back to business! and then twice, because she appreciated the spring of it.
I really need to start dating again.
Standing, she put her hands on her hips and glared down at him. His mouth had fallen open to better facilitate his snoring.
Now what? The guy was out.
She spotted a dolly and rolled it to him. Shimmying it beneath his legs, she used every last bit of strength to heft his hips onto the platform. Panting, she collapsed beside it, his torso and head still twisted at an unnatural angle on the ground. After a short rest she shoved the rest of him on board. She had to shift him to get his body secured, but his legs, now dragging on the ground like a fish tail, made it difficult to push him.
There is just no reason to make a body this big.
Walking to the opposite end of the dolly, she lifted his feet and split them on either side of her. His skirt began to slip and she dropped his legs.
Oh! Whoa! No. Bad idea.
She set down his legs and adjusted his kilt.
With a huff she rolled him on his side, hoping to curl him into a more compact fetal position. It worked for a moment, but as soon as she tried to roll the dolly, his legs uncurled like a flower opening to the morning sun and again dragged along the ground.
“For the love of Diana Gabaldon—”
With great difficulty she rolled him on his stomach and, grabbing a thin extension cord, tied his ankles together. She folded him at the knees and wrapped the other end of the cord to the front wheelbase, hogtying him to the dolly. When his arms flopped off the sides, she untied the cord from the front, wrapped it around his wrists and then retied it.
“Look here, I caught me a man,” she said, clapping her hands together. She rolled him out of the building, pleased with her ingenuity.
Outside and out of breath, she straightened and stared up at the moon. What to do. She couldn’t dump an unconscious man into a cab; she didn’t know where to send it.
She pushed her trophy several buildings away to the office over which she lived in a third floor apartment, and, after cresting the door entry, rolled him into the elevator. She propelled him down the short hallway to her door and with a shove of her boot, pushed the snoring lump inside her apartment. He glided across the stained cement floor like a ballerina on a skateboard, hogtied and drooling.
Untying his arms and legs, she made some attempt to move him to the sofa before abandoning the idea. After considering her options she left him on his side on the dolly. She feared on his back he’d choke should he become sick during the night, and leaving him face down didn’t seem right. Nobody wanted to wake up with rug impressions all over their face. She’d figured that out the hard way a long time ago.
She shook a finger at him. “Don’t barf on my rug.”
Feeling she’d done all she could, she retired to her bedroom.
A few minutes later, she popped her head out the door and taped a note to it.
Don’t even think about coming in here. There are cameras everywhere, I am a light sleeper and I own several guns.
She read it over and nodded. That ought to do it.
Retreating once more, she locked the door.
She made it half way through brushing her teeth before returning to the living room to scrawl an addendum to her note.
I am a MMA fighter named Tank. I was forced to retire after accidentally killing a man.
She returned to the bedroom, changed into an oversized tee, and then unlocked the door one last time.
PS: It wasn’t really an accident.
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