This book is part of a series, but you don't have to read them in order.

A Paranormal Holiday Romance Series:

Book 1- Christmas With Her Unicorn

Book 2- Easter With Her Bunny

Book 3- Halloween With Her Vampire

CHAPTER ONE

Rashelle

“Rashelle, you’re going, and that’s final.”

I can’t believe I’m being reprimanded like a five-year-old by my boss. Ralph is a bonafide jerk. Does he really expect me to fly to Scotland at a moment's notice? On the day before Thanksgiving? Seriously? It’s blatantly obvious that he couldn’t care less that I have holiday plans.

 “You know how important the Smith’s account is to this firm,” he drones on. “I promised them this matter would be resolved quickly. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that our client’s priorities come first.”

My mind scrambles for an idea of how I can get out of this. Is there some sort of holiday protection law I could use? My mind comes up blank. I’ve never heard of one, and I’m a really good lawyer, so it probably doesn’t exist.

I give him a tight-lipped smile as I set down my steaming hot cocoa in the adorable little turkey mug emblazoned with “Gobble Gobble.” What I want to do is hurl it at him. It’s true that I have a fiery temper to match my red hair, but I’m trying my best to reign it in and act rationally.   

 I’m a workaholic, and I’m normally proud of that. But I haven’t had a day off in forever, and I was really looking forward to spending the holiday with my family. This is so unfair, but I won’t risk jeopardizing the career that I’ve sacrificed everything for by refusing this assignment. Of course, Ralph is sure that I won’t say no. But this is low even for him . . . not to mention unfair. It can’t be a coincidence that the single woman without kids is the one getting her holiday plans canceled.  

“How about I go tomorrow evening after I’ve had my mom’s turkey and stuffing?”

“No.” His autocratic reply is the final verdict. He’s the judge, jury, and executioner of my career, and he knows it.

I almost tell him where he can shove the first-class airline ticket to Edinburgh, but l resign myself to this indignity. I’ve worked hard, and I’m so close to making partner. It’s what my father and I have always wanted. I swallow my sarcastic remarks about the Smith twins. But it’s not at all easy in this instance because they’re miserable humans. I deal with the entitled elite on a daily basis, so that’s really saying something. 

Marsha and Marvin Smith act like spoiled brats. They’re in their sixties . . . way too old to still believe that the world revolves around them. They are the epitome of self-centeredness. I doubt they’ve done an honest day’s work in their entire lives.

Nothing but the best has been fed to them by their moneyed parents, and every bite has been delivered on a silver spoon. Their father died last year, and then their mother skedaddled precipitously overseas to an old castle in Scotland. It’s called Fraser House because, apparently, rich people like to name their estates. I bet she moved there to escape her demanding children. Of course, I know better than to voice any of my snide theories aloud. My sarcastic thoughts are purely for my own enjoyment.

The sharp tips of my manicured nails dig into my palms. When another argument springs to my lips, I bite back my words. I’ve worked far too hard to get my career to this point. I’ve sacrificed a lot. I didn’t allow myself to have a love life or kids of my own because I was so driven. I refuse to ruin it all for a single holiday, even if what he’s asking me to do is unfair.

His final, calculated dig does the trick. “I thought you wanted to make partner this year.” 

Of course, he doesn’t out and out threaten me. He can’t legally say that I won’t make partner if I don’t go to Scotland. He’s too smart to do something like that. But his words read just as clear as the minutes from a court case. If I don’t go, I can kiss my coveted partnership goodbye.

“I’ll leave immediately, sir,” I say, and there’s a brittle edge in my voice that I don’t succeed in hiding.

He nods brusquely, like he knew all along I was going to say yes. And just like that, I’m dismissed. He turns his attention back to his computer, and that’s my cue to leave. I get up and click the door shut, resisting the urge to slam it. I run to my office to grab my briefcase and rush for the exit as fast as I can in my high heels.

“Where are you off to?” Rita asks. She’s the only other female attorney at the firm, and we often band together.

“Ralph is sending me to Scotland to do something for the Smith twins,” I say, holding up the airline tickets before stuffing them in my Gucci purse.

“Now?” she asks, walking with me to the exit.

I push the elevator button and turn to answer her while I wait for it to come.

“He gave me zero warning, and I've barely got enough time to get to the airport, let alone pack.”

“Well, he obviously knew ahead of time to book a flight.”

“Exactly. I think he waited until I finished drafting the Grants’ latest will before calling me into his office.”

“Tricky. Got out of doing it himself.”

“You know, I could almost appreciate his deviousness if it weren’t being directed at me. Could you please let my assistant know what’s up when she gets back from lunch? Tell her to text me if she needs anything.”

“Will do,” Rita says as I step into the elevator.

Snow swirls around me when I step outside.  I would generally slow down to admire it, but I don’t have a minute to spare. I drive aggressively. Airport security will be a nightmare the day before Thanksgiving. Deep in the pit of my stomach is an unvoiced fear that I will get bogged down by this bizarre assignment and fail to make it back in time for Christmas. I’m bummed about missing Thanksgiving dinner, but missing out on my favorite holiday would be a million times worse.

Christmas is one of the only times I allow myself to slow down and have fun. I still make a snowman every year. And the only action my oven ever gets is when I pull out my grandma's gingerbread cookie recipe and bake a batch just the way we used to together. I am not okay with the thought of missing out on my holiday traditions.

I park in front of the high-rise apartment building where I live. Then I whip open the door and toss the keys to the valet.

“Hey, Tim. I’ll be right back,” I say, handing him a tip. “Please, keep it here instead of parking it.” 

I run awkwardly in my fashionable heels.

“They may take my Thanksgiving, but they will never get my Christmas,” I vow.

Hank, the security guard at the front desk, has a puzzled look on his face as he waves hello to me. He probably thinks I’m talking to him. I raise my hand and smile in return as I make a beeline for the elevators. Christmas music eddies around me, even though Thanksgiving isn’t over yet. I find my foot tapping to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and then the song transitions to Frosty the Snowman while my head bobs along.

My mind should be focused on a last-minute packing list, but it's busy compiling an impressive list of insults that I wish I could shout at my boss. Right now, a lot of them include swear words involving male anatomy, but I’m sure I can do better with more time. My favorite at the moment is Frosty the douchebag lawyer, no doubt inspired by the elevator music.

The doors ding when I reach my floor, and my heels click click click like the keys on a typewriter. I don’t even bother to kick off the stupid shoes once I reach my apartment. It’s not like I’ll be here long. I sprint straight for the master closet. Throwing open the doors, I reach up high and tug on the handle of my suitcase. I narrowly avoid getting beamed in the face by the unexpected weight.

“Why the heck is this thing so heavy?” I hiss as I hurl the case onto the bed and rapidly undo the zipper.

I see the jumble of dirty clothes and shoes, solving the mystery of the extra weight. Apparently, I forgot to unpack from my last trip. 

Should I just take it as is? Nah, getting everything laundered in Scotland is more of a hassle.

Unceremoniously, I upend the bag on the bed. I fish out my travel makeup and toiletries kit because I’ll need those. I’m pulling suits and blouses from hangers like a madwoman without even thinking about what I’ll need when my phone rings. It’s my assistant, Sarah. I spend precious minutes talking her through what needs to be done to finish the Grants’ will as I mindlessly throw things in my suitcase. I’m out of time!

“Sarah, sorry, but I’ve gotta run or I’ll miss my flight. Text me if you have any more questions. And have a wonderful Thanksgiving!” I say as I end the call. I’m stressed because I’m down to the wire, but the last thing I want to do is come across like my jerk of a boss! I’m sure I’ve forgotten any number of things, but I have no choice but to zip up my case and race out the door. I make it all the way to the hallway before it dawns on me that I need my passport.

I fumble to open first my door, and then the safe. I shove the dark blue book inside my purse, and then I’m rushing back down the hallway. The elevator seems to take forever, but rationally, I know it’s probably the same as usual. Bless the valet. He’s standing guard with my car. 

“Thanks, Tim,” I say, handing him a fifty after he opens my trunk so that I can throw the bag in.

Suitcase, briefcase, purse . . . check. I’m as ready as I can be, all things considered. I speed to the airport but hesitate as I near the terminal. Should I choose long-term or short-term parking? I opt for the short term because it’s closer, and I have no intention of being gone for more than a few days. I ride the shuttle to the main terminal. Then I check my bags.

“I just may make it,” I congratulate myself. 

That’s when I see the line snaking out of the boundaries of the security checkpoint. I join the throng and let out a sigh. Since I’ll be standing here a while, I grab my phone. I send a quick text to the doorman at my building so that he and other building staff know I’ll be out of town. Then I remember I need to tell my cleaning lady too. Feeling a little magnanimous, I text:

 

Happy Thanksgiving, Sasha. Just wanted to let you know I’m going out of town, so no need to clean until I return. Consider it a paid vacation, and feel free to help yourself to any perishables in the fridge!

 

Besides cleaning, Sasha also shops and does errands for me. She’s fabulous, and I truly appreciate her. I make it a point to treat her the exact opposite of how Ralph treats me.

The line crawls, so I try to multitask. I’m so busy answering emails that I’m surprised to see I’ve made it to the front. I slip off my heels and toss my shoes, purse, and briefcase into a bin and onto the conveyor belt. The security officer asks me to take out any electronics, so I pull out my laptop and add my iPhone to the top of the pile. I step up to the scanner, raise my arms, as the diagram depicts, and sigh wearily. 

“What a day,” I say to the security guard, who ignores me.

I slip back into my shoes. I’m totally grossed out that I’ve been walking barefoot on the nasty floor, but it’s an unavoidable reality of traveling. I make a much-needed stop at the restroom. My mind wanders to my upcoming assignment.

Like it or not, I’m going to Scotland to spy on the Smith twins’ mother, who, if rumors are to be believed, is being swindled by some young lecher. The kids—I always enjoy calling the sixty-year-old Smiths “kids” in my mind—think he’s seducing the old woman so that she’ll change her will and leave him everything. The Smiths don’t like the thought of their inheritance, which includes the castle in Scotland and a portfolio worth billions, going to anyone but them. 

Are they greedy or justified? I can’t stand them, so that’s probably causing an unfair bias on my part. But I'm an excellent lawyer, and that means I will work my butt off for a client, regardless of how I feel about them. It’s all part of the job.

My assignment is to check on Momma Smith–whose actual name is Bronwyn–and get my eyes on her current will to see how much damage has already been done. And, apparently, it’s also my job to show her that this young upstart is just out for her money. The way Ralph was talking, I think I’m supposed to somehow convince her to change said will.

That falls so far outside of my purview as an attorney that I don’t even know how to begin to approach the issue. The dramatic nature of her children’s obsession with their inheritance, masked by their concern over their mother’s welfare, grates at my nerves.

 If the scumbag is seducing Bronwyn for her money, I agree it’s despicable, but at least he’s doing the job himself. Her children had to send an attorney, lest they be inconvenienced by paying a visit to their mother. There’s so much resentment festering inside of me right now that I might need to buy some Tums.

Even more serious than the property issue, Marsha and Marvin have expressed worries that their mother is no longer of sound mind. Marsha’s words replay in my mind. “She hasn’t lived in Scotland since she was a child, for goodness’ sake. She married Father when she was sixteen, moved here to New York, and lived here ever since. Why on earth would she want to live in that backwoods castle in the middle of nowhere instead of here in New York with her loving children? She’s obviously not in her right mind.”

If I were Bronwyn, I would travel as far as it took to escape my “loving” children. But even if the Smith twins are right, it’s simply ridiculous to send me over to fix this mess! I could draft a will from New York. What the old lady needs is a psychiatrist, not an attorney. Or even better, why not sic the police onto the slimy con artist? Who would sink so low as to hit on a woman who’s got to be pushing ninety?

Entirely unbidden, my mind conjures an X-rated scene with a smoking hot man in his twenties and the ancient, wrinkled Bronwyn. Eew! Now that’s a scary movie I have no interest in seeing. I flip a switch in my brain, turning off that particular movie reel. My thoughts snap back to my present circumstances. I check the display monitors, and it looks like my flight’s running behind by a good forty-five minutes. My adrenaline rush begins to fizzle. A quick glance at the time lets me know I have a decent window in which to call my mother.

“I have bad news,” I alert her without a preamble. Then I hurry to fill her in.

“But darling, that’s not fair! It’s Thanksgiving, and you promised you would be here,” she whines. She’s upset, which makes me feel even worse.

“I know, Mom, but I’m not willing to lose my job over a plate of turkey.”

“Thanksgiving is about more than the food. It’s about getting together with family.” 

“Yes, Mother,” I mumble back, feeling like I’m twelve years old again and still living under my parents’ roof. It doesn’t matter that I’m forty years old and successful; she’s still my mom.

“Rashelle, you know why he chose you. It’s because you’re not married or even in a relationship! You’re the only attorney in the firm who doesn’t have kids and family.”

“Wow, thanks, Mom. That makes me feel so much better.”

My tone is masked with sarcasm, but once again, she has managed to cause me emotional angst. Is she just trying to hurt me? It’s as if somehow, I’m a second-class citizen just because I’m forty years old and single.

I’ve been too busy launching my career to make time for a relationship. Understanding the intricacies and complexities of the law has been the love of my life. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have the day off for Thanksgiving, like everyone else at the firm.

“I just want you to be happy, sweetheart.”

And that’s why I can’t stay mad at her. Because even if her words hurt, I know she loves me.

“I know, Mom. Listen, I have to go, please tell everyone else I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

Sigh. I should be at my parents’ house right now, settling into my old bedroom. I would help Mom make pies and have a glass of port with Dad in the study while we play a game of chess. Dad totally respects my workaholic tendencies and always wants updates on how I’m advancing in the firm.

But, instead, I’m making my way through New York’s LaGuardia airport. I stop at a shop on the way to my gate. It’s all decorated for Christmas, which is, after all, my favorite holiday. But I’m low-key annoyed that retailers have started decorating for Christmas before Thanksgiving. Why can’t they just let each holiday have its own time? They are all magical in their own way, and I feel like I am being cheated when they skip over Halloween and Thanksgiving to get to the real money maker.

I guess I should be grateful Ralph is not making me work on Christmas because that would be even worse. I’m going to get this whole mess in Scotland wrapped up quickly so I can be back in town for the round of Christmas parties that will be starting next week. All my friends throw fantastic Holiday get-togethers. My temper starts to rise when I consider missing even one of them.

There are six lovely new cocktail dresses hanging up in my closet that I bought ahead of time so that I would have something different to wear to each event. I might have to wear business suits every day, but I do enjoy fashion. I’m always up for any excuse to shop for designer gowns. I don’t need a man to get pretty for. I do it for me.

I buy a pack of gum for the plane. I actually hate gum. I’m always reminded of a cow chewing its cud when I see people chomping on it. But it keeps me from having ear pressure discomfort. I used to take Dramamine, but it makes me feel even more jetlagged.

I buy some earplugs. Fortunately, I’m flying first class, which has a divider between the seats, so I won’t need to endure chatty strangers. I pick up a romance novel—because something in the way the man on the cover is looking at the woman calls to me. They’re both wearing historical attire, and I can’t decide if I’m more drawn in by her gorgeous dress or his long hair.

The guy standing next to me smirks and looks all judgmental at my choice in reading material. I’m totally embarrassed. What was I thinking? I never read this kind of stuff. I slam it back down without even cracking the cover and head toward checkout.

Next, I buy myself a tea when I spy a little cafe on the way to my terminal. I walk the rest of the way to my gate, where I manage to score an empty seat. I’m thumbing through my calendar on my phone when it hits me. I was in such a rush to pack that I know I forgot some things . . . like underwear. OMG. How could I forget underwear? I smack myself in the forehead and groan. I should have just brought the dirty clothes that had been in my suitcase. I’d had a lot more time to pack for the last trip I’d taken.

Then I remember that most problems can be solved with money, and fortunately, I make a good salary. Oh well, I’ll buy whatever I need in Edinburgh. Who knows why my brain takes the rabbit trails that it does, but somehow, I go from lack of fresh underwear to time-sensitive texts I need to send to various people at the office. I’d better do that here in the terminal while I still have service.

I’m trying my best to work, but the din of noise seems to swell around me with every passing minute, and it’s distracting. I glance at the swarm of travelers scurrying all around me. The frenzy is even worse than usual. All of these people rushing, hurrying, trying to get home in time to be with their loved ones for dinner tomorrow. But not me because my boss is a loser lizard. Hmmmm. I still need to work on my insults. That one isn’t good enough to make the list.

I sip my tea and then crack open the package and put in my new earplugs. Time to get busy replying to emails. Yes, I’m a workaholic, but I plan on making partner within the year, which is pretty unprecedented for my age. 

Actually, it isn’t that forty is all that young for a partner. It really comes down to the fact that I’m female. Statistically speaking, only a third of new partners are female. And it takes the men ten-plus years to make their mark, so it makes it that much harder for us women to compete.

My mother is always harping about me getting old. She’s spent the past decade telling me that if I don’t hurry, I won't be able to have babies. Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, I’m not stupid. I know my biological clock is ticking, Mom. But what exactly am I supposed to do about it? If I take time out to have a kid, I can literally kiss my career goodbye. I’ve worked way too hard to let that happen. Not to mention the fact that there isn’t a single man that I’m remotely interested in.

Now where did that thought come from? I flip through some folders in my briefcase. Probably from my last conversation with her. She brings up the “B” word almost every time we talk. She’s definitely got the baby bug and wants to be a doting grandma. But for that, I would need a man in my life. I have no interest in having a baby by myself. Sperm donor? No thank you.

Sometimes, I wonder if there is something wrong with me. No one makes it to my age without a few lasting relationships.  And no one hits forty with their virginity intact, yet here I am, the quintessential forty-year-old virgin. I love children, but I don’t want to have one alone.

No one has ever lit a spark inside of me. So, after all these years, I can only assume that I’m not meant for romance or babies. It seems that part of me is missing. It would all be a lot easier to stomach if my mom wasn’t constantly blindsiding me on the issue.

I know how much she loves me, but sometimes I wish I wasn’t an only child. It’s like she’s wrapped up all her hopes and dreams in me. If I had a sibling to take some of her attention, it might make my life easier. She can get a little smothering at times, but I know she means well. I pull out the most recent version of Bronwyn Smith’s will that “the kids” had access to and start to review the myriad of clauses. The legalese of beneficiaries and legacies is failing to hold my attention like it typically would.

When I hear a telltale buzz from a text, I immediately stuff the will back in my briefcase and pull out my phone. It’s a well-timed distraction indeed. I see I have a reply from my best friend, Lily.

So what if I shot her a scathing message while I was waiting in the long airport security line? Can you blame me? Lily is a high-powered marketing executive, and we’ve been friends since college. We’re so close that we might as well be sisters.

I smile in delight when I see that, as always, she’s taken my side in the matter. Really, what else are best friends for if not blind loyalty?

 

Quit that job! Ralph the turd doesn’t deserve you! Move out here by me! I miss seeing you, and you can get a better job here!

 

I text back. 

 

We both know that’s not going to happen!

 

But it’s fun to imagine all the same. Lily likes to vent about the male population in general and has zero respect for most men. In her words … they’re all egotistical and self-centered. She definitely has some baggage about the male sex in general, but her feisty spirit has served her quite well since she operates in a predominantly male field. We have that in common.

Lily always has my back, and I’m always amused by her stories of how she continually gets the best of the backstabbing, ladder-climbing men she competes with at her firm. We’ve gone in totally different directions with our careers, as well as where we live. She’s in Los Angeles, and I’m in New York. But we’re just as close as we were in college, even though most of our contact is over the phone.

Before I know it, it’s time to board the plane. I’m relieved that I’m in first class. I settle into my private space, thankful for the divider that separates me from the passenger on the other side. Every seat in first class has access to the aisle. I won’t have to climb over anyone to go to the bathroom during this long, nine-hour flight.

I catch a bit of another conversation from a lady behind me. She’s bragging about her seven-year-old grandson and his prowess on the soccer field. For a split second, I think what it would be like to have a family of my own. The conversation with my mom must have woken up something in me. A small part of me still hopes it can happen, but that will have to wait until after I’ve met my career goals. There’s no time for distractions. I slide my briefcase onto the ledge beside me, open it to retrieve my laptop, and set it on my tray.

I’m relieved to see that the Wi-Fi is working, so I buckle down, determined to get some work done. I figure I have about thirty minutes while the masses fight to get into their seats and find a spot for their carry-on bags. The only thing I will be battling is the terms of Bronwyn Smith’s will. Then tonight, when I’m confident that I’ve learned all I can about my clients, I’ll recline this seat into a flat bed and get some sleep.

“Would you like an hors d’oeuvre or something to drink?” the flight attendant asks.  

“Sounds great,” I reply. “Do you have shrimp cocktail and champagne?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get that for you right now.”

I open the background check that Ralph ran on this “Fareed MacBain” character who is trying to con Bronwyn Smith out of her family’s ancestral estate. Fareed! Seriously? What kind of a made-up name is that? Sounds like something off of a soap opera, not that I had time to watch them to really know.

Less than one screen? That’s it?  This is absolutely the shortest background check I’ve ever seen. I’m even more suspicious of the guy now. It’s got to be a false identity. It’s so short it’s almost non-existent.

I close the file and decide to do a search for some information on con artists to familiarize myself with typical scams someone like this would pull. My yummy snack has magically appeared on the tray to my side. I dip a plump shrimp into the cocktail sauce and take a bite. It’s delicious. I sip my champagne as I sift through a very interesting read on con artist scams.

There is no way this Fareed swindler is going to pull one over on me. I plan to be five steps ahead of him at all times. I’m far from stupid or gullible. With any luck, he’ll tuck tail and run the moment he sees me coming.

CHAPTER TWO

Rashelle

The crisp air is biting as I exit the airport in Edinburgh. When I exhale, my breath puffs out in little clouds around me. It looks like it’s about to snow. Fortunately, I have on my red wool jacket because it was also chilly in New York when I left. Even so, I’m freezing, so I rub my arms to increase the blood flow.

My hotel reservation confirmation included details on where to catch the provided shuttle, so I drag my bag to that spot. I’m not one to leave details to chance. I like all my T’s crossed, and I dot every single I. With a full schedule like mine, I have to be organized.

My plan of action includes a shower and a power nap to revive my jet-lagged brain. Thanks to the fully reclining seat, I managed a few ZZZs on the long flight. But it wasn’t nearly enough rest to make up for the four-hour time difference between Scotland and New York.

After I’m more alert, I’ll snag a rental car and shop for the necessities. I still can’t believe I forgot underwear! Seriously? If I don’t take care of that particular detail soon, I’ll be resorting to rinsing out my panties in the sink and drying them over a shower rod tonight. Once I take care of my shopping needs, I’ll drive out to the estate and begin my “detective” work. 

What if she refuses to see me? It is Thanksgiving Day, after all. Sorry, Ralph, I guess I’ll just have to come home. Too bad that won’t work. Failure is not in Ralph’s dictionary.

I feel uncomfortable about the whole situation, like I’m about to blindside a nice little old lady. The legal term Ex Parte comes to mind. It actually could be stretched to apply here. My arrival is definitely a situation where something is being done at the request of one party without giving prior notice to the other party. This is a big no-no in court cases, yet my boss has no qualms about sending me here as his emissary. I’m going to be the unwanted guest. My mother taught me better manners than this. 

Then again, who knows? Maybe Bronwyn will let me see the will right away. Maybe she’s senile and won’t care that it’s actually none of my business how she chooses to award her sizable estate. The first genuine smile of the day crosses my face as I imagine my instant success and getting to hop right back on a return flight.

I believe in the power of positive thinking, so I remain optimistic. With a little luck, I can wrap this all up quickly and head back to New York in time for leftover turkey sandwiches with my folks. I can almost taste them.

They did serve a Thanksgiving meal on the flight. So far as airplane food goes, it was decent. But canned cranberry sauce just can’t compete with my mom’s recipe with fresh cranberries and oranges. And nothing comes close to my mom’s homemade rolls. And then there are her pies. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I’m off my meal schedule, as if I could forget.

The shuttle is easy to spot, so I make my way over to it. The driver helps me load my wheeled bag, so I only have to manage my briefcase and designer purse. I keep it looped over my shoulder. Sometimes I feel like I live out of that little bag.

I gaze out the window and admire the beautiful architecture of the historic district as we drive toward the hotel. I have to admit, the rugged beauty of this ancient metropolis is drawing me in. Maybe I’ll come back here for a vacation when my life slows down a bit.

We pull up to the hotel, and the driver grabs my suitcase for me. I give him a generous gratuity. I do hope American currency isn’t a problem here because that’s all I have with me. I didn’t exactly have time to stop at a bank. It’s only because I live in New York City that I make a habit of having cash for tips. The driver doffs his hat politely as he heads back to the shuttle. Manners, wow. Not something I’m used to being on the reciprocal end of.

I notice an older gentleman enter the lobby after me. His stark white hair is buzzed neatly, but his beard looks a bit scraggly. He’s dressed in full highland regalia, of all things. Rashelle, you are definitely not in New York anymore. Perhaps I’m being rude, but where I live, you have to be a little aggressive to get what you want, so I pick up my pace in order to beat him to the check-in desk. I’m tired, and I want a hot shower.

“Rashelle Bennett, checking in,” I tell the clerk, who is a gorgeous young man with fiery hair, every bit as bright as mine. Inside or out, Scotland's scenery is gorgeous, and I wish I were here for pleasure instead of business.

“Yer a wee bit early fur check-in, but just cuz yer a bonnie lass, I’ll see what I can doo,” he says with a flirty wink.

There’s an extra ‘o’ sound on the end of ‘do’ as he draws the word out seductively. I’m sure his good looks and demeanor earn him plenty of outrageous tips. And I’m not immune to his charm either. In fact, I perk up a bit from the jet lag enough to return his smile.

“Ooo,” he says thoughtfully after a moment. “Ye canceled yesterday?”

“What? No. My reservation was just made yesterday. And it’s open-ended—no specific check-out date. I have the confirmation number,” I say, reaching for my phone.

“Ach, it says right here that ye canceled late last night.”

“No, that’s obviously an error. Please fix it. I’ve been flying all night, and I need a room.”

“Weel, I canna do that. We’re full up.”

“What?” I panic, totally losing my cool. “Every room?”

“Err, yes,” he admits hesitantly. “Not a wee room left.”

The older gentleman in the kilt and plaid who came in the same time as I did is standing way too close for my comfort zone. “Would you mind backing up a bit?” I say a tad rudely as I turn back to the young Scottish hottie to give him a piece of my mind. “Can you find me a comparable room elsewhere?” I hold back the “please” because I’m having a hard time staying polite by this point.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, suddenly losing the quaint Scottish brogue. He picks up the phone and begins dialing. I can see by the look on his face that his first attempt has failed. He grimaces at me and dials another hotel. 

I’m beginning to fume. My freshly manicured nails tap a rhythm on the polished wooden counter as he places a number of phone calls. After about ten minutes, he admits defeat. “Nothing. There’s not a room in town. All of the other hotels say the same thing. Someone booked every room late last night.”

The older guy reaches out and lightly touches my arm. “Lass,” he begins.

“Excuse you!” I cut him off, jerking away from his unwarranted touch.

“Yer a wee scunner for sure,” he chuckles good-naturedly.

“I beg your pardon?” I ask, confused and irritated. How am I supposed to do my job if I don’t even have somewhere to stay? This is making my underwear situation seem nominal by comparison.

“A rough translation for that is you’re a whiner,” the young man explains.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I turn and face the old guy. “Just what makes you think you have any right to offer criticism of my actions?”

He shrugs with a grin, then hands me a sealed letter. I rip it open and see immediately that it’s from Bronwyn Smith, handwritten on expensive letterhead. I recognize her signature, so I know it’s legit. And it’s scented, of all things. A pleasant waft of roses teases my nose as I read.

The letter informs me that this is her trusted and longtime friend, Gavin MacKenzie, and he’s been sent to collect me. I’m cordially invited to be her guest at Fraser House for the duration of my stay. This is just beyond strange. I didn’t even think she was aware of my coming. I was supposed to be the sneaky surprise.

I quickly consider my options. Was I expected to drive off into the highlands with a complete stranger? I want to make partner, but this seems way too risky. I suppose I could rent a car and travel as long as it takes to reach a hotel with vacancies, but wouldn’t that just put me even further away from my objective? And what if all of those rooms are booked as well?

My first Christmas party is only a week away. That red cocktail dress is calling to me to finish my business and get back. The fear of missing any parties is what decides it. I’m certain that this letter is from Bronwyn Smith; I still need to verify that Mr. Kilt is indeed who he says he is.

“Show me some identification,” I order briskly. 

He reaches toward his crotch, and I gasp as I back up indignantly. Oh, a sporran. I’m embarrassed over where my mind went. Of course those kilts don’t have pockets. He takes out his wallet, then hands me his driver’s license. It’s definitely his picture, and the address is the same as Bronwyn Smith’s. 

I come to a quick decision. This may, in fact, be the easiest way to accomplish my goal of getting my hands on that will. The sooner I can manage that, the sooner I can board a plane back to New York, where I belong. I’ve already lost Thanksgiving, but I’m not giving up my Christmas parties.

“Where’s your security camera?” I ask the young hottie. He looks confused but points up on the wall behind him. I look directly into the camera and state plainly, “My name is Rashelle Bennett, here to do legal business with Bronwyn Smith. I’m leaving with her employee, Gavin Mackenzie. If I do not return, notify the police and my employer, Bates and Barnes Law Firm in New York City.

I turn to the cute clerk and say, “If I turn up missing, you wilI be sure to remember this recording, right?”

He nods yes, and I decisively grab the handle of my suitcase and spin around. I’m halfway to the door when I realize my highland chauffeur is standing at the desk, digging around for something in his sporran. 

“Are you coming?” I ask.

“Well, yer up to high doh!” he says as he pulls out a key fob. 

I’m totally bewildered by whatever it is he’s trying to say. 

“He says you’re upset,” the clerk offers helpfully at my confused look.

“You got that right,” I mutter.

I leave with the old guy who looks like he’s straight off of the Braveheart movie set. Too bad I don’t have a translation guide. What if Bronwyn is just as unintelligible as this Mr. Braveheart? I can only hope that her years in America have softened her accent.

Gavin heads over to the bright red Mini Cooper parked by the front door. I wouldn't have pictured him in this little car in a million years. Then again, it probably belongs to Bronwyn Smith. She’s loaded, so I bet she has a variety of cars that her odd chauffeur drives her around in.

He mumbles something unintelligible as he opens the trunk, or the boot, as they apparently call it here. He squeezes my suitcase and briefcase into the compact space and smiles jovially as he spouts some gibberish that I can’t begin to understand. I opt for a smile instead of conversation as I follow him to the left door. He opens it for me, and I slide in.

It feels so weird that the steering wheel is on the right side of the car. And, of course, he’s driving on the left side of the road. He drives fast out of town and zips over the narrow roads that wind through the hills. I probably should try to catch a nap, but the constant sliding from side to side and up and down keeps me wide awake. At points, the road runs alongside a sheer cliff without guardrails to keep us from toppling over the edge! I’m going to be furious if I end up dying because the old dude in the kilt hits a patch of ice and plunges the car off the mountain.

Because I’m an estate attorney, my will is always current. So, if something happens to me, my parents will have plenty of funds at their disposal to take care of burial expenses. Then they can go on a series of lavish vacations as compensation for my failure to produce any grandchildren.

Even with the accelerated speed, we’ve been driving an hour and a half before we turn off of the country road and up to a gated driveway. I seem to have made the right decision in coming here instead of trying to find lodging elsewhere. It’s very isolated. Gavin rolls down his window and punches in the security code, which opens the gate.

The high-tech system seems out of place back in the otherwise untouched and wild landscape. Were it not for the road, I could almost imagine we had somehow stepped back in time. We roll onto the gravel road, and the gate closes behind us. The estate is surrounded by a vast forest. How many acres are included with the house? I bet that’s listed somewhere in my portfolio on Bronwyn. Whatever the number, I can tell just by looking that it’s massive. It’s like a fairytale, and I’m enjoying the view, even though this is supposed to be a work trip. Would it look totally gauche if I started snapping pictures to show my mom?

We drive for another fifteen minutes, steadily climbing upward in altitude. The trees obscure the view, but at the top of the next rise, the house, which would be better described as a castle, comes into view. It’s perched on the highest point. Of course, a castle would be on high ground because it was a fortress to protect against attacks from invaders.

Gavin drives across a wooden drawbridge, and then parks at the front door of Fraser house. Wow. This is absolutely amazing. I’m still annoyed to be working on Thanksgiving Day, but this is definitely a sight to see. And I’m staying here? Way cooler than a hotel, I admit begrudgingly. If only my parents were here, I could just call it a European vacation and relax.

He opens the boot and carries my suitcase up the steps to the front door. It opens before we reach it. A young woman in a black dress with a white apron steps out to greet us. The old-fashioned maid attire catches me off guard. Do people still make servants wear stuff like that? I thought that was just something in movies.

“Welcome to Fraser House, miss. I’m Daisy,” she says warmly.

“Uh, thank you,” I reply as I join her in the mammoth entryway.

Thanksgiving decorations of pumpkins and dried corn stalks clash bizarrely with medieval armor and weapons to form a very eclectic decor. I wasn’t expecting them to honor an American holiday here in Scotland. I guess all those decades living in New York rubbed off on Bronwyn.

I see that Gavin is turning to leave, and I suddenly feel a little uneasy being left here. He’s the only connection I have to the outside world.

“Thank you, Mr. MacKenzie. I really appreciate you coming to get me. You’ve been great company,” I lie easily.

“Awa’ an bile yer head,” he says good-naturedly.

The young maid, Daisy, interprets. “That’s sorta like sayin’ ‘Forget it,’” she explains.  

“Oh.” I nod as I follow Daisy up the widest staircase I’ve ever seen.

It’s ancient dark wood, and it curves upward to a second-floor landing. I look up and see that the staircase continues on for at least three more stories. Daisy escorts me to a lovely suite of rooms. There is a sitting room with beautiful Queen Anne furniture.

I have my own bathroom, complete with a claw foot tub. I’m definitely going to have to find time to squeeze in a bath with one of those scented bath bombs before I leave. Why didn’t I buy that romance novel at the airport? A good soak sounds heavenly. The bedroom has a canopy bed with frilly yellow bedding. 

Gorgeous landscape oil paintings line every wall. I step closer to admire one. Something about this lovely glen draws me in. I’m captivated by the white horse off to the side. It is so lifelike as it dips its head into the purple heather that I take an involuntary step back. I’m actually terrified of real horses, but even I can appreciate the beauty of this work of art. I don’t recognize the name of the artist, but the painting looks very old.

Daisy interrupts my musing. “Dinner is at eight o’clock sharp in the family dining room, and your presence is requested. Translation . . . expected,” she informs me as she sets my suitcase on an armless sofa at the end of the bed.

“I’ve noticed that you don’t have an accent.” 

“No, I’m not from here. Most of the staff moved with Miss Bronwyn from New York. We all love her dearly. It was quite the adventure when she offered to move us here with her.” 

“I bet it was.”

I can’t imagine having so much loyalty for my employer that I would willingly move to another country just to keep working for them. I wouldn’t move five feet to keep working for Ralph. Then again, my boss is a total jerk. Still, it has to say something about Bronwyn’s character to have such loyal staff.

Daisy efficiently unpacks and carries my toiletries to the bathroom. Then she hangs my suits in the armoire. I’m holding my breath, waiting for the moment she discovers I don’t have any underwear. This is so embarrassing. 

“Is this it?” she asks, looking for another suitcase.

“Yes, it’s just a short trip, so I packed light.”

She puts my nightgown in a dresser drawer. “Too bad you didn’t bring a pretty dress. Mr. Fareed will be at dinner.”

“Fareed? Who’s that?” I ask, feigning ignorance as I dig for dirt.

“Oh, he’s a good friend of Miss Bronwyn.”

“An old acquaintance from when she lived here before?”

“No. He’s not old. He’s young and gorgeous. So dreamy,” she says breathily.

“Dreamy. I see.”

“You’re so lucky to be having dinner with him. I’m just saying it’s too bad you don’t have a nice dress to wear.”

As if I care what that no-good fraud thinks! I see her checking in all the pockets. I’m sure she’s still looking for underwear. I’m mortified. She looks at me questioningly, but I pretend not to notice. 

I glance at my watch. “I didn’t sleep much last night, so I think I’ll take a nap,” I hint, mentally willing her to leave.

“I’ll come back at a quarter ‘til to show you the way to the dining room,” Daisy says as she leaves.

 

***

 

The nap was just what I needed. I wake in time for a shower. I wash out my only pair of underwear with shampoo and hang it to dry on a hook next to the towels. Why hadn’t I insisted on shopping before coming to the castle? I quickly blow-dry my hair. Then I step into my navy skirt, sans panties.

“Well, this is a first,” I whine. I slip on the snug gray shell sweater. “Thank goodness I at least packed bras.”

I can’t help but appreciate how the material clings to my figure. I don’t bother with makeup or the curling iron but grab my matching suit jacket because it’s a bit chilly. I’m certainly not trying to impress the slimy Fareed. Despite the fact that Daisy is obviously besotted, I don’t care what he thinks of me. A rather loud rap on the door greets me as I emerge from the bathroom. Sounds like my guide has arrived.

“You’re late,” she accuses when I open the door. “I’ve been knocking forever.”

“Sorry,” I apologize as I rush to catch up.

I follow her through several hallways and down a back staircase, which she says is a shortcut. I’m hopelessly lost by the time we finally arrive at the dining room. I see the space is already occupied. The table is set for six and is decorated with an American Fall theme. Looks like I’ll get my Thanksgiving dinner after all.

Every seat is occupied save one, but I don’t have time to study the other guests. I recognize Bronwyn Smith seated at the head, and I smile as I make eye contact with her. I see that Gavin MacKenzie is seated to her right. Oh joy.

“Hello, dear Rashelle,” Bronwyn says. Thankfully, communication with her won’t be a problem because she has only the barest hint of an accent.

I saw her a few times at the firm with Marsha and Marvin, but I’ve never met her. I didn’t know if she would even recognize me. I’ve never personally represented her in any legal matters, just her children. She makes me feel welcome, which is nice.

“Hello, Mrs. Smith. Thank you so much for your generous hospitality.” My words are intentionally warm as I launch into my plan to butter her up ASAP so that I can get my eyes on her will.

“You’re quite welcome, and please call me Bronwyn, dear. Mrs. Smith just sounds so old,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

I can’t help smiling because she’s pushing ninety and yet doesn’t want to seem old. Vanity truly has no expiration date.

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking your seat. We’ve been waiting,” Bronwyn admonishes. I suddenly feel bad that I’ve kept everyone waiting. I had no idea what to expect, but this is obviously a Thanksgiving dinner party.

“I am so sorry I’m late,” I say as I step toward the empty seat. I stop dead in my tracks when I lay eyes on the gorgeous man in the chair next to mine. Is this guy for real? He looks like he’s come straight from a photo shoot for a Regency romance novel cover. My breath catches as his piercing blue eyes meet mine. The force of that gaze is like an electrical charge. What the heck is going on here? Of course Daisy has a crush on him. Who wouldn’t?

He stands up and formally reaches out his hand toward me. I’m drawn to him, like a puppet on a string. He has mesmerizing blue eyes, long blond hair, and a square jaw. His hair is such a light shade of blond that it’s almost white. But it’s not an old person white like Gavin’s hair. It’s a sexy blond that reminds me of Legolas in the Lord of the Rings movies. He’s tall and has an elegant and slender physique. And what a face!

My hand tingles as he takes it and presses a kiss to my knuckles. He gently releases it and pulls out my chair. After I sit, he pushes it back in for me. I could get used to these old-world manners. He takes his seat to my right, and his knee brushes mine. It’s all I can do not to gasp at the touch.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I fear that my brain has somehow short-circuited. He turns and gazes directly into my eyes, and suddenly, I forget how to breathe. Am I seriously falling for the conman? I'm all flushed and jittery like a teenager, and none of this is okay. 

I’m starting to feel dizzy, so I inhale in a rush. That’s when I remember that I don’t have on underwear. There’s no way he could know that, right? I suddenly wish I had put my only pair back on instead of washing them and leaving them to dry. Feeling paranoid, I squeeze my legs shut, as though he might be able to see through the table.

I know I’m acting crazy, so I close my eyes and take a brief moment to get my teenage hormones under control. I remind myself that this man is despicable. What is going on with me? I’d been determined to hate him on sight. The fact that he’s drop-dead gorgeous shouldn’t change that. So what if he’s the only man I've ever felt this attracted to? I can’t ignore the fact that he’s a criminal. I refuse to get burned, even if a part of me is making the argument that it might be worth it. 

I resent his effect on me. Oh, he’s good. There’s no denying it. But I refuse to be drawn into the sensual web he is trying to spin on me. I need to put a stopper on this before I do something regrettable. I can see why Bronwyn is defenseless against him, even at her age. Desperate to break his spell, I break eye contact with him and look around the table as Bronwyn introduces everyone.

But it’s like a tornado is roaring in my ears, and I don’t catch a single name except Fareed. Why did the hottie have to be seated right next to me? I can’t even take a breath without noticing how delicious he smells. I don’t usually like cologne. But this is subtle, woodsy, and unique.

Bronwyn’s children have good cause to be worried for their mother, I realize. I guess I should be grateful that I’m not an heiress, or he might really put the moves on me. I’m not poor, but I can’t even begin to compete with Bronwyn’s financial portfolio.

“Want some?” Fareed says softly, for my ears only.

“What?” I squeak.

I turn toward him and see that he’s holding a bottle of wine.

“Oh, some wine,” I stutter. “Of course.”

My face flushes red in embarrassment at what I thought he meant. I steel myself against his seductive charm and try to divert all of my energy into forming a plan to remove Bronwyn Smith from this unscrupulous scoundrel’s clutches. He should be locked behind bars because this man is a threat to women everywhere.

He has me wondering why I’ve held onto my virginity all these years. It’s all I can do to stay seated next to him. A sense of self-preservation keeps telling me to get out of here, to run away, and just keep running. It takes all of my willpower to remain next to the chick magnet who seems bent on charming every woman in his sight.

There’s a smirk on his face that lets me know he’s aware of his effect on me. The nerve! I need to get myself out of here fast before I become another notch on his bejeweled sporran. Yes, he’s dressed in a formal Scottish costume too. It’s as though his body was designed just to showcase the rich blue plaid. And those legs of his should be illegal.

 “Are you too warm, dear?” Bronwyn asks me.

“Uh, no. I’m fine,” I reply awkwardly

It’s obvious everyone has noticed the interaction between Fareed and myself.

“Let me help you with that jacket,” he says as he stands and moves behind me.

There’s a timeless question as to what a Scotsman wears under his kilt, and I can’t help but wonder if Fareed is as devoid of underwear as I am. Since when does my mind live in the gutter? I gasp as he slips the jacket off my shoulders and his hands slide down my arms. Bronwyn laughs hilariously as Fareed places the jacket on the back of my chair. Something is off here. If she’s under his spell, why is she so tickled by him flirting with me? When will this awful dinner end?

I refuse to meet his gaze as I try to enjoy the exceptionally prepared Thanksgiving feast. There’s so much butter in the meal that I’ll no doubt gain five pounds by the time I leave the table. It’s so much better than the plane fare, but I still have to rank my mother’s cooking higher. It’s a matter of unwavering loyalty. Time and again, Fareed attempts to engage me in conversation, but I ignore him. 

“Heather, do you live here in the castle?” I ask Gavin MacKenzie’s niece, who is sitting on my left. Thank goodness she’s easier to understand than her uncle!

“Ach, no. I live in Edinburgh. I just came up for Miss Bronwyn’s dinner party.

 Everyone, with the exception of Fareed, seems to either be related to Bronwyn in some way or is a longtime friend of the family. They explain it all, but I can’t follow. I’m not usually this dense, it’s just hard to focus when Mr. Sexy’s attention is trained on me. How on earth can I be so turned on by a man I can’t stand? And more importantly, why is he interested in me? What’s his game?

He’s got me so discombobulated I can hardly enjoy my food. I take another bite of the savory cornbread stuffing and look up to see Fareed’s gaze is locked on my lips as I chew. I flinch, and I follow the bite with a generous swig of wine.

Turning my attention back to my hostess, I say, “This is absolutely delicious.”

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. My chef, Charles, has been with me for years. There is no cuisine he hasn’t mastered! Why, Fareed, you haven’t eaten a bite,” Bronwyn teases him. 

It definitely has not escaped her attention that he’s trying to lure me in. Why me? Heather is prettier, with her silky blonde hair, not to mention her tight young skin. Why can’t he just leave me alone so I can focus on why I’m here? I need to get his hooks out of Bronwyn Smith so I can grab that will and skedaddle out of here and back to New York. I certainly don’t need him to pick me as his next target.

The delectable yet strange dinner seems to drag on forever. Finally, our hostess suggests we retire to the parlor for after-dinner drinks. I use my jet-lagged state to excuse myself.

“Of course, dear. You must be exhausted. Fareed, darling, would you mind escorting Rashelle to her room? You know how confusing this old pile of rocks can be.”

Is she serious? He’s the reason I’m trying to escape! I look at the old woman, and she’s smirking. She did that on purpose. Her children are very wrong about her state of mind. She’s sharp as a whip. I have no idea why she finds this so humorous. Isn’t Fareed supposed to be her boyfriend? Something strange is going on here. But I’m going to need to compile more evidence before I state my case to anyone.

Fareed tries to take my hand in the formal posture of escorting me, but I jerk it away, and Bronwyn's laughter rings in my ears as he leads me from the room. We take yet another meandering route, and I’m no closer to figuring out the lay of the land than I was with Daisy’s strange path. He consistently tries to encroach on my personal space, but I keep darting away. I’m sure we look like a couple of drunks lurching from side to side as we walk down the hallway.

“Do you mind giving me some space?” I ask, not bothering to veil the rudeness since we are no longer in Bronwyn’s presence. I may be helplessly attracted to the lecher, but I will not give in to my baser urges. I can’t stand the slimeball on principle. 

“Of course, I will give you anything you desire, my beautiful Rashelle.”

“Just stop it already! I’m not your anything. I’m onto you and your games!” 

“What games?”

He actually looks wounded by my words. Oh, he’s good, all right. 

“Games like you pretending you’re from here. I don’t know where you’re from, but it’s definitely not Scotland.”

“I am from here.”

“Yeah. That’s a lie. Obviously. There’s not a touch of brogue in your voice.”

Finally, my words seem to have silenced him. Thankfully, I recognize that we have reached the hallway where my room is. There are names on the doors, and I know mine was called the golden suite. I dart inside and bolt the door. I feel better knowing he’s locked out.

My heart is pounding furiously as I lean against the door and fight with my treacherous fingers, which want to unlock the door so that I can invite him in. What the heck? I force myself to revisit the facts. He’s trying to steal an old woman’s home. And even though she is obviously still in her right mind, I can attest firsthand that she is powerless against Fareed’s charms. I suspect that any woman with a pulse would find herself unable to resist his allure. Did I mention that I’ve never, ever felt this way about a man before? It’s all epically unfair.