Chapter Four
Rafe
I can't look at that woman anymore, but I can't stop thinking about her either. Iona Buchanan is a succubus, luring men into her traps only so she can devour them. What she said...No, I refuse to think about that. It might trigger memories I prefer never to relive. But my mind insists on forcing me to hear those words again. I think I could put up with you for a quickie. If I don't look at you and just use your body. After that statement, I no longer have doubts about ruining Iona's life, and I'm now certain that she has been shagging my son.
Why, then, did she want me released from jail?
Suddenly, I realize I have no bloody idea where I am. I recall stalking out of the hotel and crossing the car park. After that, everything became a blur. I'm walking down the pavement, trying not to trip off the edge and onto the street. Why I feel off balance is no mystery. It's the fault of that woman.
The beautiful, sensual Scottish lass.
No, that's not what I meant. I was referring to the psychopathic succubus known as Iona Buchanan.
You aren't worth bothering with anymore, Rafe. You don't exist in my world.
I stop dead and bump into some bloke or other. The memory of those words always derails me. I shouldn't let any woman have that much power over me, yet I seem incapable of letting go of the memories. Iona Buchanan didn't speak those words. Another woman uttered them.
"You're blocking the foot traffic."
For a moment, those words can't penetrate my brain. I stare at the man who spoke them, but I can't recall who he is or why he's glaring at me. The pavement is wide enough for three people to walk side by side, yet this bloke seems to think I've committed a crime by standing still.
And then I realize why. This man is Thane Buchanan.
"The pavement is yours," I say as I attempt to push past him.
But Thane moves in front of me. "You and I need to have a wee chat."
"No, thank you. I've had my fill of 'wee' chats today."
"Then let's have a large one." Thane grips my shoulder. "You have two choices. Walk into the café on your own power, or else I'll drag you in there by the scruff of your neck."
"Hmm, let me think about it." I squint my eyes briefly. "No, I'm going to pass on that offer."
When I try to move past him, he squeezes my shoulder hard and snaps a pair of handcuffs around one of my wrists. I felt him doing that. Then he snaps the other cuff in place. But when I glance down, I get a strange surprise. The cuffs have fluffy pink padding. What the bloody hell is this man doing?
"Let go of me, you Scottish Neanderthal."
"There never were Neanderthals in the British Isles." Thane grasps the chain that holds the cuffs together and starts dragging me toward the café he'd mentioned a moment ago. Since I seem to have no choice---unless I want to tackle Thane---I give in and follow him into the café. We sit down at an outdoor table.
My captor picks up a menu and starts browsing.
What the fuck? I've never visited Scotland before, but if the Scots I've met today are any indication, I doubt I'll ever return. Assuming I can escape. They might have me thrown in jail again if I refuse to comply. With what, I haven't a clue.
A waitress approaches us. Her gaze shifts to my pink handcuffs, but only for a brief moment. Then she smiles at Thane. "Good morning, Mr. Buchanan. What can I get for you and your friend?"
I snort and shake my head.
"We'll both have haggis, neeps, and tatties," Thane announces. "And a bottle of Thane Black Label too. Thank you, Bonnie."
This arse has a beverage named after him? I suppose he owns the entire village too. That would be just my luck.
Our waitress toddles off to work on our order. Not that I intend to eat or drink anything. This man will probably sprinkle cyanide into my food and drink. Maybe I have caused a great deal of trouble since I arrived in this village earlier today, but I don't give a toss about what a bunch of barmy Scots think of me. Saving my son from a succubus is all that matters to me.
Moments after Thane placed our order, it arrives at our table, before we've even had time to glower at each other. Once the waitress leaves, I can't hold back my curiosity. Instinctively, I try to fold my arms over my chest. But I can't do it. The fucking cuffs prevent it.
Instead, I lean back in my chair and squint at Thane. "Are you paying for the meal? Or am I required to cough up the money myself?"
"Dinnae fash. I'm paying." He opens the bottle of whisky and pours a dram into two glasses, then hands one to me. "You'll feel better after a taste of my Black Label."
"Not a fan of whisky. I prefer vodka."
"You won't leave this café unless you try my single-malt Scotch."
"Getting me drunk won't help you get rid of me." But I give in and pick up a shot glass, knocking back the contents in one swig. "Satisfied?"
Thane clucks his tongue. "That's no way to enjoy a high-quality single malt. Try it again, more slowly this time."
He pours me another dram.
I stifle a growl and take a sip.
"Let it roll over your tongue and down your throat," Thane tells me. "Take it slow, don't rush. The flavors will awaken your senses little by little."
I smack my glass down. "Enough. I tasted your sodding whisky. Now I want to go back to my hotel---alone. I don't need an escort."
Thane clucks his tongue again. "You're the impatient sort. Does that bleed over into your sex life? Must not be much of a lover."
"If you don't release me from my shackles, I'll flip this table over and strangle you with the handcuffs."
The bizarre Scot studies me for a moment while smiling slightly. "I was going to order you to stay away from my sister, but I've changed my mind. Iona can take care of herself. If you should hurt her in any way, Ramsay and I will hunt you down like the rabid dog you pretend to be."
"Who says I'm pretending?"
"My gut says so." Thane releases my cuffs and slaps a handful of Scottish notes on the table, then he rises. "The whisky is yours to keep. And I do recommend eating something before you get drunk. Enjoy the haggis."
Thane Buchanan saunters out of the café, disappearing down the street.
I stare at the food on the table, my brows wrinkled, and try to deduce what in the world just happened. Thane bought me enough food for two people, gifted me with whisky, and then walked away.
Well, I am hungry. Haggis can't be as revolting as it looks. Might as well give it a go.
I scoop up a spoonful of haggis and cautiously consume it. The Scottish pudding isn't as revolting as I'd assumed it would be. This won't become my favorite dish, but at least I'm in no danger of vomiting. Tatties and neeps aren't vile either, but then, they're simply potatoes and turnips. As much as I loathe admitting it, Thane's whisky is the highlight of my meal. It's the best single malt I've ever tasted.
No, I won't share that revelation with Thane or Iona or any other Scots.
When Bonnie comes to clear off my table, I hand her several bills that amount to a twenty-pound tip. Her eyes widen when she sees that, but she doesn't question the amount.
I walk out of the café carrying the bottle of Thane Black Label. I briefly wonder where his distillery is and if guests are allowed to tour the facility. Then I realize the last thing I want to do is meet the Buchanan brothers again. They don't frighten me. I've simply had enough negative excitement for one day.
Going back to the hotel seems unwise. Iona might still be there, and I don't care to risk speaking to her. All I want is to find my son. But I keep forgetting to ask these barmy Scots where he and his best mate are staying. They're here on a six-week holiday, that's all I know.
I won't ask his mother. That would result in the equivalent of setting off a neutron bomb.
To waste time, I amble down the pavement heading toward nowhere in particular. I turn two corners, paying no attention to where I'm headed. After about fifteen minutes, I halt in front of a strange establishment. The name of it seems to be in Gaelic, and I have no idea what the words mean. But I do recognize the sort of merchandise being peddled inside the shop. It's New Age bollocks.
Since I'm rather lost, I simply stand here like a vagrant. Might as well try to ring Toby for the eighteenth time, strictly so I won't look like I'm loitering. But Toby's mobile rings and rings and rings, finally switching to voice mail. I leave yet another message.
"Please call me back, Toby. I need to speak to you. I'm in Scotland, and I just want to see you and know you're all right. Cheers."
I sounded pathetic, didn't I? Begging my son to return my call.
The door to the shop swings open, and a group of cheerful women exit. They smile and give me appreciative looks. At least I haven't lost my appeal for all women, only the Scottish ones who are sleeping with my son. I trudge into the shop strictly out of curiosity. Don't know what to do with myself now. I've been dragged off to jail, threatened by Scottish louts, and given a free meal for reasons I cannot comprehend. Of course I'm bloody confused.
As I wander about the shop, not really paying attention to the wares being hawked, I notice a woman behind the sales counter is watching me. She doesn't seem interested in me as a man. I think the woman is simply wondering why a single bloke would visit a place like this. The only other patrons have just left. I must seem like the largest sore thumb in Scotland.
"May I help you find something?" the woman calls out to me.
Now that she's spoken to me, I can't reasonably ignore her. All I can do is trudge over to the counter. "I wasn't actually looking for anything. Sorry. I think I'm a bit lost. Never visited this village before."
"Well, then, let me be the first to welcome you." She thrusts a hand out across the counter. "I'm Kirsty Turner, and this is my shop."
I shake her hand. "Thank you for not clubbing me to death. I'm Rafe Knight."
"Oh, aye, you're the British man who harassed Iona and got locked up at the police station. I gather you aren't interested in my metaphysical wares."
"No. Sorry. And yes, I am that arse." I rub my forehead. "Actually, I'm trying to find my son. Toby is on a six-week holiday in the Highlands with his best mate, taking a break from his job as a computer programmer."
She tips her head to the side. "Are you Toby Knight's father? He's best friends with Eric Taylor, an American laddie. Eric's mother is marrying Thane Buchanan."
"Thane? I met him earlier. He threatened me with haggis and whisky."
Kirsty laughs. "Aye, that sounds like Thane. But why don't you ring Toby?"
"I tried. Had to leave a voice mail."
"What about texting him? Younger people prefer that."
Texting? I've never mastered that. My fingers are too big, and I can't understand how anyone manages to type anything on their mobile phones. But I suppose I'll give it a go. "Gah! The bloody autocorrect thinks it knows what I want to say better than I do."
Kirsty smiles, holding out her hand. "Would you like me to type it for you? Just dictate your message to me."
"That's very kind. Thank you." I pause to collect my thoughts, then start dictating. "Toby, it's your father. I'm worried about you. Please get in touch right away."
Kirsty hands my mobile back to me. "There you are."
"I'm grateful for your help. But I think I'll walk while I wait to hear from Toby."
While I shuffle out of the shop, one thought plagues me. Why doesn't my son want to speak to me?