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  Key retrieved, I’m standing on the other side of the door in thirty seconds flat. I’m wet and cold but oddly exhilarated about having arrived in one piece.

  It was a truly hairy journey.

  Being on this side of the wall is a little like going deaf, the sounds of the fierce weather barely audible through the thick stone walls. My chest heaves as though I’ve been running, excess adrenaline flooding my veins. But really, was this not the stupidest idea in the history of stupid ideas? I should’ve cancelled the booking once I’d seen the forecast for up here. I should’ve just swallowed the cost and flown up the day before the wedding because now I’m stuck for the next three days with no one but myself for company. I don’t even think there was a TV mentioned in the listing. I know there was definitely no internet.

  ‘If you can’t stand your own company, how can you expect anyone else to want to be around you?’ I mumble as I grope the wall for a light switch. ‘This wall is about the only thing you’ll be groping this holiday.

  But as I find the switch, and the room illuminates with a warm glow, my mood brightens immediately. This cottage is adorable. And cosy. And most importantly right now, warm. The two walls on either side of me are painted dove grey, the adjacent two an exposed dark grey stone. An inviting large oxblood leather sofa flanks one wall, the tartan throw hanging over the arm almost as tempting as the dim glow of a real peat-fuelled stove in front. The addition of these two small things warm my grumpy mood on sight. Suddenly, things aren’t looking so bleak. I have a good book in my bag that I’m sure can distract me from my laptop some over the next few days, a real fire to curl up in front of, and a blanket that looks suspiciously like cashmere.

  Throw in a glass of wine and I’ll be in my element. Who needs menfolk—friends or otherwise?

  The open floorplan boasts a tiny kitchen with pale units and timber countertops to match the wooden floor. A floor that’s heated, I realise, as I peel the sodden boots from my frozen toes and make my way over to open the small silver coloured fridge. Milk, eggs, and butter aren’t exactly standard fare for a holiday rental, but there’s so much more than that. Yoghurt, chicken, beef, and even beer and a slab of local cheese made on the Isle of Lewis, which I know is a short ferry ride away because that’s where Clare is getting married this weekend.

  A couple of decent Spanish reds and two French Chardonnays stand on a dining table barely large enough for two dinner plates. On the floor next to it sits a wicker hamper full of gourmet goodies. There’s enough food here to last one person for more than a week.

  I snag a satsuma from a bowl on the countertop, which is something that looks more typical of the little things often left in a holiday rental. A basket of fruit, a selection of individually wrapped teabags, sachets of bad instant coffee, and tiny shampoo bottles in the bathroom. But raw steak and chicken? Expensive bottles of wine? I’m pretty sure none of this was included in the rental price. As I inhale the citrusy scent so symbolic of the coming festive season, a thought hits me. Mo must’ve arranged for the luxury provisions for us. Then a second thought hits; he’s mostly a vegetarian, depending on how much champagne he’s imbued. Or how close the nearest McDonalds is. And he knows I’m no whizz in the kitchen and that I mostly subsist on takeaway and microwavable meals.

  Maybe this is his— very odd—apology? But no, I don’t think so.

  Welp, I suppose I’ll ask him in the morning when I call. Despite the book/fire scenario, I know I’ll be calling. Lots.

  My now toasty toes lead me back across the living room floor to where I’d dropped my bag and shortly following, to the spiral staircase that I know leads to a tiny mezzanine floor. Up there, I’ll find a stylish yet snug bedroom and en suite with all the trappings. And while I can hear the rainwater shower calling my name, I think I’ll just climb into bed.

  At the bottom of the staircase, I consider leaving the light on, spiral staircases being a bit of an accident waiting to happen with these sock-covered feet of mine. Though I do notice the low glimmer of lights set into the treads, so when I flick the switch, the stairs are like tiny stars illuminating my way to bed.

  I ache from neck to toe, every muscle in my body tight and exhausted but out of all the mistakes I may have made, I couldn’t have predicted the effect the weather would have on my journey from the airport. Dropping my bag to the floor, I whip off my sweater and abandon it likewise. I need to take off my makeup and brush my teeth at the very least, but right now, the lure of the bed is too great. I lower my bottom to the edge, my sigh of satisfaction a testament to its apparent comfort. I know if I curl up now, I’ll wake sometime in the morning feeling cold and cruddy and possibly with a bout of acne, not that it stops me from stretching.

  Stretching out to find a lump in the bed.

  A very solid lump.

  As I pat it gingerly with my hand, I realise it’s not so much a lump as a warm, tightly wrapped package, one I give a little squeeze.

  ‘Eungh . . .’

  A tightly wrapped package of pleasure, judging by the very masculine and rumbly sound it just made.

  And then, it speaks.

  ‘Hen,’ a sleep rumbling voice intones. ‘If you’re gonna touch me, do it under the covers.’

  With a scream, I shoot from the bed, fall over my bag, and end up on my bottom, my back pressed uncomfortably against something hard and wooden. My heart beats wildly, the sound echoing in my ears—the thing literally feels like it’s beating out of my rib cage!

  ‘Oh, my God! W-who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Jesus, would ya calm down?’ Despite the languid and rumbling tone, and the fact that he sounds like a sleepily sexy Gerard Butler, fear causes me to scramble across the sisal carpeting.

  ‘Stay away!’ I yell as, in the dark, my back meets something else with a thump—the corner of the wall, I think. I realise I’ve pulled my bag into my lap, though I don’t think I fear being robbed of my straightening irons or my Urban Decay blush. I pull on the zipper, seeking something to defend myself with, and pull out the first thing my hand grasps. ‘Stay the hell away!’

  ‘Stay away from you? You were the one holdin’ my junk, we’re you no’?’

  Through my panic, I realise he hasn’t moved from the bed, so a little deeper and a little more menacingly, I add, ‘I warn you, I know joe-jitsu!’ Okay, so as menacing as a five foot five squeaky sweater-less girl can be when facing a stranger in the dark.

  ‘Joe jitsu? Would that be the wee Chinese man who owns the chipper in the village?’

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘Joe, the owner of the fish and chip shop? Unless, of course, you mean you know ju-jitsu.’ He sounds amused. Maybe he’s one of those psychotic serial killer types?

  ‘That’s the one,’ I return, brandishing my straightening irons like a sword in the dark.

  As something scuffs against the wood, I take the opportunity to hurl myself in the direction of the stairs, bum first. But as I reach the dim glow of the stair lighting, I realise my plan might not be the best of ideas because I’m mere inches from breaking my neck. Which, let’s face it, isn’t exactly preferable over robbery. Or rape. The blood in my veins suddenly turns ice cold.

  ‘I said stay away!’ I yell, sprawled across the floor, still waving my weapon in front of me. It’s just a pity they weren’t plugged into a socket because, as any girl would tell you, nothing’s more painful than catching your ear with the things. They’re like a perfect implement of torture.

  If you don’t tell me where the next terrorist attack is, my friend here will straight iron your dangly bits! That has to be a more effective threat than that of waterboarding. Maybe I missed my calling. Maybe I should’ve gone into the armed forces, though camo does nothing for my colouring.

  Then the light comes on.

  ‘That’s no’ exactly a light sabre, is it, hen?’

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there’s a supermodel in my bed.

  Why is my heart beating faster?

  O
nly, at second glance, he’s a little too rugged and a little too large to be a catwalk model. He could do editorial easily. There’s a touch of David Gandy about him. I let my eyes roam over him just to be sure. And there’s a lot to see, though not everything is on display. The duvet offers him a modicum of modesty, draped around his waist as it is, revealing a tanned and muscled torso you only ever see in the gym. He has abs like a ladder, seriously, bisected by a trail of downy hair that disappears under the white sheets.

  A fitness model, maybe.

  Broad shoulders and solid pecs, the man is broad and buff and . . . and a little full of himself, judging by his smirk. I mean, I imagine choosing a life of crime must make any man, or woman, a little brazen, but the look on his face right now? Cocky doesn’t even cover it. But at least he doesn’t appear so intimidating in the light.

  Don’t be ridiculous—get frightened! A crim is a crim no matter how good looking.

  And his package—the thing I felt under my hand—won’t be any smaller in the light . . .

  Please, God, if I’m good, can you get him to flash me before he ties me up and robs me?

  Or maybe he could just tie me up? A little light bondage might—

  ‘The socket is over there.’ He tilts his head in the direction of a claw-footed bath under the window, smirk still firmly in place. A bath in the bedroom? Not that I’m paying a great deal of attention to my surroundings. I’m too busy staring at the solitary dimple in his cheek.

  I thought those came as a pair?

  ‘But you look like you might need a hairdryer first.’

  I begin to pat my hair, suddenly aware of what a sight I must be. But, bugger it, I’m not here to have sex, even if the stranger in my bed is criminally good looking.

  ‘Look here,’ I begin, gathering my somewhat forced indignation around me like a cloak, ‘I’m not sure what you’re doing here, but I think we can both agree that it’s time you left.’

  That’ll teach him. Life of crime meet Miss Manners at her best.

  ‘I’m pretty sure you have that the wrong way around,’ he replies, still sleep rumpled and gorgeous as he rubs one massive paw though his almost chestnut coloured hair. That’s to say, his hand—he rubs a hand through his sandy coloured hair. A big hand. A really big hand. I hope they come as a matching pair. Otherwise, that would just be odd.

  But he’s still smirking.

  I take a deep breath and stick with my authoritative tone. Control the situation, don’t let it control you. ‘If you leave now,’ I begin, ‘we’ll say no more about it. You’ll just toddle off, and I won’t be forced to call the police.’ I make a shooing notion with my hand. ‘No harm done, see?’

  With the exception of the extensive bruising my bum will no doubt develop later on. I hope I haven’t smashed my phone, I think as it pokes me in the bum.

  ‘The polis? You want to call the polis?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . if I must.’

  Why is he smiling? That’s not exactly the response I was expecting. Nor was I expecting to feel the deep, primal tug at my insides as he stretches out to grasp his own phone from the nightstand.

  ‘Here,’ he says, throwing it to the bottom of the bed. ‘You can use this. The local policeman’s name is Jim. Filed under J. We went to school together,’ he adds, probably interpreting my expression. ‘On you go. Funnily enough, I saw him earlier in the pub. He said he was on duty tonight. This’ll give him a laugh.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ I respond tartly. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just dial emergency services—999. You know, rather than call your accomplice.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he replies, sitting up. He leans back against the roughhewn wooden headboard and mountain of snowy white pillows, folding his arms across his chest and adding a little pec flex for good measure.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ I snipe, lifting my bum a little to pull my phone from my back pocket.

  ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

  ‘The whole chest flex thing for a start,’ I mumble, swiping it open to input my passcode.

  ‘I’ll grant you, it’s maybe no’ so appealing as what you can do with yours.’ Phone in hand, I’m suddenly aware of my breasts, then the frilly ruffle edging of my bra, and lastly, my lack of coverage. My head comes up slowly, my gaze meeting his. ‘I can’t jiggle mine,’ he qualifies oh-so helpfully.

  ‘I am not jiggling,’ I splutter, scanning the room for my sweater. The bedroom is long with an open door at the far end leading to a shower room, but it’s not a very deep space. Hence my meeting with the wall and almost the bottom of the staircase. On instinct, I get to my knees, reaching out to pull the corner of the duvet towards my chest in the interest of modesty.

  ‘You’re sure you want to do that?’

  I halt in my action of pulling the covering closer, my gaze following the stranger’s to where I’ve left him a little more exposed. The trail of hair widens, the suggestion of muscled hipbone. You know—that amazing V?

  Cover me to expose him? The thought has its merits, for sure, because I think I’d quite like to know if I’d imagined the size of the package in the dark. I might’ve been mistaken, small hands and all that.

  As he speaks, my attention snaps back to his face.

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve had so much fun in bed. Alone.’ His dark eyes positively gleam with mischief. Meanwhile, mine see red. As red as my cheeks, at least.

  ‘That’s it. I’m calling the police.’

  ‘Fine, go ahead,’ he replies with a short flourish of his hand. ‘Not that I’d expect Jim to call around before the morning.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. You think this is a joke?’

  ‘Some would think so,’ I think he says, his words coughed into his hand.

  So or Mo? He can’t mean . . .

  Still clutching the bedding with one hand, I raise my head slowly from the screen of my phone, the knot in my stomach tightening. ‘What has Mo got to do with this?’ My words halt immediately, my head filled with only one thought.

  Mo didn’t only order the food in the bloody fridge.

  He ordered me a man!

  Chapter 3

  GREG

  ‘No. No, it can’t be.’ My reluctant companion jumps to stand, the duvet forgotten, her phone clutched in her hand. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll kill him!’

  Against my better instincts, I begin to chuckle. In my experience, the beautiful ones are often a little unhinged. High spirited, I used to think, at least until I’d dated a few of them. And ultimately married one. But it does no harm if you don’t get involved. And if you don’t get involved, you’re not at risk of losing bodily parts. And property.

  Yep, the beautiful ones are a little nutty is a statement that would fit my would-be intruder. I don’t think she’s dangerous, not exactly, but she is beautiful. Dark hair falls around her shoulders, though not exactly in soft waves. They are more like wet clumps with a couple of soggy strands sticking to angry wee cheeks. But the rest of her? Put it this way, I would’nae be in a hurry to kick her out of bed.

  Her trim waist flares to shapely hips, her skin the colour of fresh cream, and there’s a fair bit of it on show as far as first introductions go. And, by Christ, she’s feisty.

  Beautiful, feisty, and definitely a wee bit mad. Though whether the crazy or angry kind still remains to be seen, I suppose.

  ‘Oh, you think this is funny, do you?’

  I shrug my non-answer, but it’s clear I’m amused. Amused, confused, and maybe a wee bit enamoured supported by the fact that, under the covers, I’m sporting a wee bit of a chub. My dick doesn’t care if she’s bonkers. It might not be the first time I’ve woken at half-mast as the result of a semi-clad women touching my tackle. It is, however, the first time I’ve been woken by a woman who wasn’t there when I went to sleep.

  ‘I might’ve known he’d pull this trick,’ she grates out, continuing her angry tirade. ‘Especially given how amused he was at he
aring how it worked the first time for Will.’

  ‘This has happened before?’ I ask, but she doesn’t respond. At least, not to me, as she begins angrily poking her phone.

  ‘What until you see what I have planned,’ she begins muttering, her voice pitched a little higher and a little camp. ‘You’ll have a fabulous time. Fabulous time, my left boob!’

  My eyes fall to the area in question, though I’m a little fairer minded because I consider both. And I dunno about time, but she’s right about fabulous.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she asks, her gaze whipping up from her phone.

  ‘A generous C-cup,’ I answer evenly. I’d put money on it. Just the right size for these hands of mine. Creamy skinned and full and soft and round. Pink nipples or a little darker? Dusky pink, I decide. For a minute, I think I might’ve said that aloud, judging by the way her mouth falls open. But no, I managed to stop at C-cup.

  She had me at C-cup, for sure.

  Maybe I’m dreaming, I wonder as I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  Nope, she’s still here.

  ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you that if the wind changes direction, then you’ll be stuck pulling that face?’ And wouldn’t that be something? A beautiful girl with her mouth constantly open, waiting for something to fill it.

  Jesus, Greg. Wake up.

  ‘Look, mister . . . mister . . . whatever your name is—’

  ‘Greg. Greg Hamley. And you might be . . . who? Apart from crazy, I mean.’

  ‘Crazy? I’m the crazy one!’ she confirms, poking one pink fingernail into her chest. Okay, maybe she doesn’t really think she’s nuts, even if she’s acting like it. But dafties rarely realise they are. ‘So I’m crazy, am I? Crazy for not wanting to fall for Mo’s tricks?’