To Love a Highland Dragon (30 page)

“Aye, lass. I told you I was born loving you, and that I would die loving you. But I think I told you that in a dream.”

“That is just so beautiful.” She turned and kissed the hollow at the base of his neck. “Maybe it’s the magic courtesy of Gran and Mauvreen, but I’ve been catching glimpses of visions. Familiar ones. Now that I’ve slowed down enough to pay attention, you were in my dreams, too. From the time I was young.”

“’Tisn’t surprising. We were made for one another. Probably loved each other in other lives along the way.”

“Let’s hang onto this one as long as we can. As much trouble as it took us to be reunited, maybe we don’t want to have to do that again.”

“I will be by your side till ye die.”

“And then what? You’re immortal. I’m not.”

“I will just wait until ye’re reborn, and we shall find each other again.”

“I know I asked, but this isn’t a time to talk about dying.” A small shiver moved down her body.

“Nay, lass. ’Tisn’t. Yet, doona delude yourself. Rhukon hasna gone away. We have defeated him thrice running now, so he will be cautious, lick his wounds, but he is still a problem.”

“Maybe the Celts will…fix it somehow.”

“Not if they can get someone else to do it for them.” Lachlan spread magic more thickly around them. He didn’t wish to be overheard. “Kheladin and I glossed over how we managed to return from the past.”

“I noticed.” She changed position and propped her head on an upraised hand so she could watch him in the moonlight. “I was surprised Gran didn’t press for more details.”

“I spelled my words so no one would ask me to elaborate. Dragons were the first time travelers. ’Twas Kheladin’s magic that returned us to you.”

Maggie sat bolt upright in bed, gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth. “But that means we could go back to when your castle was still standing. I could really see what life was like back then. The Celts were ready to send me back to you, but Gran told me if I went, there’d be no way to return…” She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m so tired I’m babbling. That’s wonderful news.” She tossed her body atop his and kissed him on the mouth.

“I love your enthusiasm,” he said after surfacing from their kiss, “but if we go back, ’twill be hard to find an excuse to not do the Celts’ bidding and corral Rhukon—if I can.”

“Let them do their own killing.”

Would that it were so simple.
“It doesna work like that, lass. If I tell them nay, the next boon I ask, they’ll spit in my face.”

The chime of her phone sounded. “Who the hell could that be?” she muttered. “It’s closing on ten.”

“Leave it,” he suggested.

“I can’t. Not yet. Not until I extricate myself from my commitments here. It might be the hospital.” She felt around on a table, picked up the phone, and said, “Dr. Hibbins.” Because he wanted to understand the life she’d be walking away from, Lachlan extended his magic to listen. If it were the grandmother, or one of the witches, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything, but somehow he didn’t think Mary Elma would bother them.

“Maggie. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Glad you’re back in Inverness.”

“It’s a bit on the late side, Dr. MacDuff,” she murmured. “I was just going to sleep. Is there some emergency at the hospital?”

“Oh no, my dear. I wanted to firm up a dinner invitation for you and your grandmother. Say around sixish tomorrow?”

Maggie sat up in bed. “That’s terribly kind of you, Dr. MacDuff—”

“Frank.”

“All right, Frank. I’d planned to get hold of you tomorrow. Something’s come up. I won’t be able to finish my fellowship here. I’m terribly sorry, and I’ll work the next two weeks, or even a month if necessary, to make certain you can get coverage, but—”

“What’s happened, Maggie? Let me help.” MacDuff’s voice dripped faux concern. Lachlan wanted to punch him.

“Just family matters. Nothing to be done about it, really. I’ll go by work tomorrow and sign a letter of resignation. I’ll also work on continuity plans for my patients.”

“I’m coming over there. You need someone to talk with.”

Lachlan reached for the phone. Maggie batted his hand away. “No.” She infused compliance into her words with cunningly woven magic, no doubt a byproduct of the infusion from her kinswoman. “You are not coming over here. It’s late. You have no need to speak with me outside the hospital.”

“Certainly. Goodnight, Dr. Hibbins.”

Maggie blew out an exasperated breath. She scrolled through something on the phone’s display before laying it down. “Well, that explains why the phone kept ringing,” she said. “It was—”

“I know who it was. I listened.”

“You’re shameless.” She met his gaze.

“Not shameless. Ye’re my woman. Mine.” The dragon’s fierceness surged, running hot. “All he wants is—”

“Sssh.” She laid fingers over his mouth. “What he wants doesn’t matter. All I want is you. Now and forever. I love you. Never forget that. Never doubt me. I am yours, Lachlan, heart, body, and soul. I’m quitting my job because I want to, not because you’re making me.”

Lachlan’s anger evaporated in an instant. Maggie’s words were like a balm. “And I love you, lass. Forever, my love.”

She twined her fingers with his. “Yes, forever.”

Ann Gimpel is a clinical psychologist, with a Jungian bent.  She’s also a mountaineer at heart. A lifelong aficionado of the unusual, she began writing speculative fiction on a bet. Since then her short fiction has appeared in a number of webzines and anthologies. Paranormal romance and urban fantasy novels are available in e-format and print. Look for new books coming soon: Fortune’s Scion, To Love a Highland Dragon, Earth’s Requiem, and Earth’s Blood.

http://anngimpel.blogspot.com

Taliesin Publishing thrives on introducing you to new authors and stories. If you enjoyed this book, please continue reading for excepts of other stories releasing soon we think you’ll love. And if you do, please spread the word.

Where great stories give birth to legends.

Null City Book 1

Releasing September 2013

In the room made of light, they plan the end of Hell. White floors disappear into the distance to blend seamlessly with walls and ceilings. A portable conference table with four folding chairs occupies the center. Three gold laptops blinking blue-screen error messages are ignored while their owners cluster around the fourth, with its apple-shaped icon gleaming in a brushed aluminum case.

“I told you not to order through in-house Central Stores.” The fourth laptop’s owner sits back to allow them a better view and serenely folds her hands into the flowing sleeves of her robe. “They have a sweetheart deal with Celestron Computers, but their processors are dinosaurs, and they’ve outsourced their tech support to imps at Fallen Court.” Her face, while carved from the same perfect model, hints at an unfinished spark not visible in her three companions.

Ignoring her words, the others focus on the message on her screen. The rustle of their robes subsides until the only sound is brisk tapping as her fingers return to the keyboard. “That’s it then.” She looks up at her three elders. “My calculations show if we control all three points in time that determine Null City’s history, we have a 96.7 percent chance of successfully isolating the City and recovering the Archangel Raziel’s Book.”

The Eldest softly closes his gold laptop. “Null City must be destroyed before humans try to use the power in the Book to unmake Creation.”

The laptop operator’s voice is calm, and her face remains immobile. But her youth relative to their endless eons is betrayed when she asks, “Not only will that strategy lead to massive death and destruction for humans, but it could mean war between Fallen and Angels. Is there no other way?”

Gently, the Eldest replies, “No.”

1972, Seattle

Gaby’s new employee handbook was clear: missing a client appointment was an excellent way to get fired. But it didn’t say a thing about breaking and entering. She’d checked. Over the past hour, she’d knocked, called, tried the house phone, paced, and automatically straightened the paintings lining the elegant hallway of Seattle’s Olympic Hotel. Despite the muted voices from within the suite, the brass-bound double doors of the Presidential Suite remained closed.

She’d promised Dad: no more B&E. Her foot tapped. She could go back and try to explain to the agency.
Tap
. But this assignment was supposed to pay crazy-well for a week or more, and they’d asked for her specifically.
Tap, tap
. She needed that money for the normal life she’d promised her brother and sister after their parents were killed. Her foot slowed.
Sorry, Dad.
She pulled out her father’s torque wrench and favorite hook pick. Moments later the lock’s tumblers hit the shear line with a subtle click.
I didn’t break a friggin thing, Dad. I’m just entering.
Returning the little tools to her bag, she eased the door ajar a careful half-inch. “Hello?”

No answer. No problem. If there was one thing raising her brother and sister taught her, it was how to power a bellow. “
Is anyone here
?”

“Dammit, Harry, did you leave the door open again?” The man’s voice was velvet and smoke with a faint Creole accent. He called, “Be with you in a minute. What do you play?”

“Ten-key?”

Silence.

Gaby juggled the now-cold coffee she’d brought from the lobby, briefcase with her beloved ten-key adding machine, purse, and dripping coat while digging in her pocket for the assignment slip from the a
gency to check―again. Yep, she had the right room. The door was pulled open and she stared.
Nobody gets to be that beautiful
was as far as her thoughts would go. Then again, maybe the hollow feeling in her stomach was hunger—she had skipped breakfast to get ready for this assignment.

“Luic leMuir.” Leaning against the jamb with one arm blocking the doorway, he ignored her outstretched hand.

Don’t say it
, she sternly admonished her squealing inner-Gaby.
He doesn’t need to know you have every record he’s ever made. Or that you take your showers to the sound of that voice…

“Gabrielle Parker, CPA.” Her own voice was a breathless octave higher than normal. “Accountants-on-Demand sent me?”

Under her spellbound gaze, one of his eyebrows lifted. “Well, Gabrielle CPA, I didn’t expect you to be so…” His voice trailed off.

Inner-Gaby cut off mid-squeal.
So…what?
“Young? I have a college degree, and I’m the youngest member of my graduating class to pass the CPA exams.” Up went the eyebrow again, sending her stumbling over the edge of the conversational cliff. “I’m a Mensa member; I can solve Rubik’s Cube in less than thirty seconds, and…”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Early. I wasn’t expecting you until ten.” Lifting the arm blocking the door, he waved in the direction of the next room, from which wafted both the sound of arguing voices and a cloud of something that was definitely not tobacco. “We were still working.”

“It’s after eleven. I’ve been outside your door for over an hour.” She took a deep breath and sternly ordered inner-Gabby to shut up. “Is there a mistake? Did you have an accounting project?”

He deliberately eyed her from the pale hair pulled back into what she hoped was a sophisticated chignon but suspected was a lot closer to a granny-bun, down her mother’s suit, which Carey insisted made her look much older, finishing up at her sensible, low-heeled pumps. Her brown gaze narrowed, starry-eyed adulation shriveling before the coolly amused glint in his blue eyes.

“You look…”
Like someone dressed up in her dead mother’s five-year-old conservative librarian suit
, she silently finished for him.

“…damp. Are you any good?” He paused. “At accounting?”

I know a twelve-year-old who out-glints you any day of the week, Mr. Sexy Rock Star. You think an angel’s face and gold records gives you a be-mean pass?
“Are you any good?” She tilted her head, taking in the long, dark hair, mustache and beard, tie-dyed vest over a broad, shirtless chest, and leather pants. “At singing? I couldn’t carry a tune in a paper bag, but I’m the best accountant you’ll ever find.”
Shut up, Gaby!
She mentally groaned at the vision of the $52.79 balance in her checking account. At this rate, breakfast and lunch weren’t the only meals she’d be missing.

Again with the eyebrow. “Do you want to hear me sing?”

“Not really,” she lied.
Been to the concert, got the T-shirt
. “I don’t have time for…”
narcissistic rock musicians
“…entertainment. Do you want to see me do some accounting?”

“I don’t have much time for … accountants … myself.” That eyebrow arched wickedly again.

“But my business manager heard you were good, so I asked for you specifically. Since you’re here, why don’t you have a look at these records?” He waved her into the suite’s dining room, now piled with banker’s boxes. “I’d really like to know why they don’t add up to what’s in our bank account.” For some people, Gaby heard, it was sex. For others, chocolate, alcohol, drugs, or even rock and roll. But one look at the pile of overflowing banker’s boxes and she knew her breathing sped up, her cheeks flushed, and her fingers itched for their comforting dance over her adding machine’s keys. Her vision narrowed in anticipation of the story she would put together from the clues the boxes would yield. Sure, he was pretty—but this was
accounting
.