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In real life, not so much.
Her driver, an elderly, stoic Scott who’d said nothing beyond an extremely low-voiced, “Aye,” when she’d asked if he often drove to Drumnadrochit, continued through town without stopping. For an instant Kris became uneasy. What if the man had decided to take her into the countryside, bash her on the head, and toss her into the loch, making off with her laptop, video camera, and anything else she might possess? Sure, Lola would miss her eventually, but by then Kris would be monster bait.
A hysterical bubble of laughter caught in her throat. She didn’t believe in monsters—unless they were human.
She lifted her gaze to the rear-view mirror and caught the driver watching her. He looked like anyone’s favorite grampa—blue-eyed, red-cheeked, innocent.
And wasn’t that what everyone said about the local serial killer?
The vehicle jolted to a stop, and Kris nearly tumbled off the shiny leather seat and onto the floor. Before she recovered, her driver leaped out, opened her door, and moved to retrieve her bag from the trunk.
Kris peered through the window. They’d arrived at Lakeside Cottage, which, while not exactly lakeside was damn close. Kris would have to cross the road to reach the loch, but she’d be able to see it from the house. The village of Drumnadrochit lay out of sight around a bend in the road.
“Idiot.” Kris blew her bangs upward in a huff. “No one’s going to bash you over the head. This isn’t the south side of Chicago.”
She stepped out of the car, then stood frozen like Dorothy opening the door on a new and colorful world. The grass was a river of green, the trees several shades darker against mountains the hue of the ocean at dawn. The air was chilly, but it smelled like fresh water and—
“Biscuit?”
A short, cherubic woman, with fluffy white hair and emerald eyes stood in the doorway of the cottage. For an instant Kris thought she was a Munchkin. She certainly had the voice for it.
“I made a batch of Empires to welcome ye.” She held out a platter full of what appeared to be iced shortbread rounds topped with a cherry.
Since Kris hadn’t eaten since the flight to Heathrow, she took one, despite her belief that a biscuit should only be served warm, dripping with butter and honey.
At the first bite, her mouth watered painfully. Crisp and sweet—was that jelly in the middle?—she couldn’t remember eating anything so fabulous in a very long time.
“It’s a cookie,” she managed after she swallowed the first and reached for a second.
The woman smiled, the expression causing her cheeks to round like apples beneath her sparkling eyes. “Call it whatever ye like, dearie.” She lifted the platter. “Then take another.”
Kris had to listen very hard to distinguish the English beneath the heavy brogue. She felt as if she were hearing everything through a time warp, one that allowed the meaning of the words to penetrate several seconds after they were said. She hoped that the longer she stayed, the easier it would get.
“Thanks.” Kris took two cookies in each hand. “I’m Kris Daniels.”
“Well, and don’t I know that.” The plump, cheery woman giggled. The sound resembled the Munchkin titters that had welcomed Dorothy to Oz. Kris glanced uneasily at the nearby shrubbery, expecting it to shake and burp out several more little people.
Then she heard what the woman had said, and a cold finger traced her spine. If they already knew her here, knew what she did, who she was, her cover was blown, and her story was crap before it had even begun. Why hadn’t she used a false name?
Because she hadn’t thought anyone in the Scottish Highlands would have seen a cable TV show filmed in Chicago. And how, exactly, would she present herself as Susie Smith, when her credit cards and passport read Kristin Daniels?
“You know me?” Kris repeated faintly.
“I spoke with ye on the phone. Rented ye the cottage. Who else would be arriving today bag and baggage?”
Kris let out the breath she’d taken. She was no good at cloak and dagger. She liked lying about as much as she liked liars, and was therefore pretty bad at it. She needed to get better and quick.
“You’re Mrs. Cameron,” Kris said.
“Effigenia,” the woman agreed. “Everyone calls me Effy.”
Effy’s brilliant eyes cut to the driver, who was as thin and tall as she was short and round. “Ye’ll be bringing that suitcase inside now, Rob, and be quicker about it than a slow-witted tortoise.”
Kris glanced at the old man to see if he was offended, but he merely nodded and did as he’d been told.
Very slowly.
Kris’s lips twitched. She’d have been tempted to do the same if Effy had ordered her around.
