The Curse of Wolf Crag #2
She knew she was still a bit tipsy as she sat up, duvet pulled around her.
Or maybe the rush of dizziness came from getting her first good look at him in several long years.
Since he wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of tight black briefs, it was indeed a good look.
Was it possible that he was even handsomer than she remembered?
Maybe it was that maturity suited him. His was a hard-muscled man’s body now, with none of the lankiness of the boy she’d loved.
He’d grown into his strong jaw and thrusting beak of a nose.
He was as scruffy and fuzzy as ever, with an artfully stubbly jaw and dark hair a bit too long for fashion.
Of course he still had a thickly furred chest that trailed into a line that arrowed sexily down his abdomen and disappeared into his underwear.
“You’re looking at my crotch, woman.”
“Don’t sound so pleased about it. You could use a waxing,” she added sarcastically.
“And you a shower, as I’ve already pointed out. And you owe me a new suit. I didn’t bother stripping when I came at your call. It was my best suit, now it’s a rag.”
“I’ll get started on making you some tweed, right away.”
“Still weaving?” he asked.
“Still practising law?”
Every word out of both of them had grown tight and tense.
Tara drew back from the hot anger that suddenly seethed through her.
It was far too easy to argue with Alistair rather than talk to him.
The anger was longstanding and had nothing to do with the here and now.
Here and now, he’d saved her life. Damn! How she hated owing him!
She still made herself say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He handed her a black terry robe that was soft as velvet. He turned his back as if he were a gentleman and pointed towards a hallway. “Off with you.”
Tara was more beautiful than Alistair remembered.
He’d forced himself not to look at her as a woman as he undressed her and checked her for serious wounds.
Once he’d stripped away the muddy, bloody clothing and determined she’d be fine he’d covered her and not taken a single peep while she’d been out.
He put her clothes in the wash, cleaned himself up, and was drawn back to her side despite the effort to keep busy with other things.
He had watched her, studying every line of her fine-featured face.
Her features might be described as elfin by anyone not born on Wolf Crag.
Tara’s features weren’t knife blade sharp enough to belong to an elf, nor were her teeth.
Though she did well enough biting and nipping with what she had during love-play, as he remembered so well.
He’d stroked her silky dark hair and regretted that she’d cut it short. He’d breathed her in. She was more delicious than ever, the ripe, calling scent of a woman that curled deep into him. It overrode the old wanting and brought out a newer, deeper hunger.
And he didn’t have to fear that she’d react with horror when she woke up. She’d accept that her attackers had paid the price they deserved. She understood his nature, and she had always accepted that. He’d missed being around a woman so in tune with his world. It was her world, too, after all.
It was fate. Had to be. Why else would Gran have reminded him of Tara just as Tara cried out for help?
It was meant to be. He may have left Wolf’s Crag, but he wasn’t fool enough to deny when the magic of the place was at work around him.
He was trying to save the island. And the island was telling him it needed Tara to come back home.
With him.
Perhaps the island wasn’t going that far, but he chose to interpret it that way.
Maybe Wolf Crag just wanted its people back, but Alistair Douglas had always known he and Tara were meant to be.
Maybe he’d forgotten it, a little, but seeing her drove the knowledge hard back into his blood and brains and bone again.
She was his fated mate, alpha to his alpha, no matter how hard he’d run from her once he discovered the world and the women outside the island.
By the time she came back from the bathroom, he had a plan.
Tara lingered in the bathroom as long as she could, taking full advantage of being alone, and the ultra-modern plumbing in Alastair’s flat.
Hot water helped a lot. It helped the aches, the street stench, it helped to clear her head of the last of the alcohol.
It didn’t help Tara’s physical, visceral reaction to Alistair, but cleaning up the physical mess helped strengthen her wits and willpower.
All she had to do was get dressed and get out, get away from him.
Of course, she’d have to get her clothes back from him first.
She steeled her nerves, wrapped herself up as tightly as she could in the oversized robe, and returned to the large room that contained a sleeping area, kitchen, office and lounge. The walls were old, exposed brick, the ceiling was high, the wooden floors polished to a glossy sheen.
“Quite the bachelor pad,” she said. “You are still a bachelor?” She didn’t mean to sound bitter, or hopeful, but heard both mixed in her tone.
He turned from the computer on his desk. “Yes.”
His grin made her blush, but she deserved to be embarrassed.
At least he’d put on some clothing. Black, of course – tight jeans and T-shirt.
Douglas men always wore black. It wasn’t an affectation, really, it was that they were colour-blind in human form and their women folk trained them away from fashion mistakes from a young age.
“Is there a man in your life?” he asked.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Aye, but do you have a man?”
She snorted. “Go chase your tail.”
His answering laugh sent the familiar dark shiver deep inside her. As it always had and always would, she supposed. It was best that she leave now.
“Where are my clothes?”
“I made tea.” He waved towards the lounge area as he stood. “Have a seat. Let’s get caught up.”
That was not what she should do, but Tara gave in to what she wanted to do. She settled into a comfortable chair, with her legs tucked under her.
“How’s your granda?” Alistair asked when he brought her a big mug of tea. “Must be lonely for him with you gone, him being old and frail for a mortal.”
Alistair’s comments stirred niggles of worry and guilt in her, but Tara said, “Theo Simmones moved in with him a while back.”
“What? That old goat? He can’t be much company for old Randall Thomas.”
“He was talking about making up a couple of the spare bedrooms and hanging out a B&B sign. Not that tourists make their way over to the Crag that often.”
Alistair leaned back in the chair opposite and looked at her over the steam rising from his tea. His blue eyes were suddenly bright with enthusiasm. “That’s going to change soon. I’m working on opening a resort on the south side of the Crag.”
“I’m appalled.”
“You look it. Even the folk on Wolf Crag change with the times – and we could certainly use the revenue summer people would bring.”
“Yes, but – what if some nosey mortal found out about––”
“I’ve already got faefolk lined up to run security for the resort. If anything got out of hand, a glamour would be thrown over the mortal’s memory.”
Tara sipped tea. And thought. And missed her grandfather and the ancient Thomas farmhouse, and summer on Wolf Crag. The place was always trying to pull you back if you let it. Maybe it was seeing Alistair again that was putting a travel plan into her head.
“I don’t see how you can attract tourists, Fang, when the ferry only makes the trip once a week, and only holds two cars,” she pointed out.
“We’re adding an airline service,” he answered proudly. “Three trips a week via Phoenix Air.”
“The Phoenix brothers have an airplane?” She was horrified. They weren’t exactly phoenixes, and their name was actually McCabe.
“And pilots’ licences. And thousands of hours of flying in the air force. They aren’t the reckless kids you remember. None of us are reckless kids anymore, Tara.”
She heard his sincerity, and the meaning behind what he said.
Maybe it would be best if she went back to Wolf Crag for a while, now that she’d finally encountered her old nemesis here in Glasgow.
He is not the love of my life, she thought resolutely, and stood up.
She thrust the half-full mug into his hands when he rose from his seat.
“Lovely seeing you,” she said. “Thanks for saving my life. Where’re my clothes? Never mind.” She saw neatly folded clothing, along with her shoes and purse, resting on the kitchen counter. She snatched everything up.
“I put out a T-shirt for you,” he said. “There was no saving the blouse.”
At least he didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t offer to give her a lift home. She couldn’t help but be a bit miffed at his easy dismissal of her as hurried out to flag down a cab in the light of dawn.
The ferry ride was a long nine hours north from the Isle of Skye, and the sea wasn’t exactly calm and cooperative along the way.
Tara didn’t mind the rough sea, and relished being the only passenger.
It gave her time and privacy to adjust to the change from the normal world to the strange place where she was returning.
She didn’t mind that no one met her on the dock.
She checked her watch and decided it was long enough before sunset to safely make the three-mile walk home.
And after sunset? Well, she wore silver bracelets, there was a small amount of cold iron in her backpack, and her walking stick was made of hawthorne.
That would be enough to keep the fae folk away, and she had pepper spray for anything else.