Page 1 of Hollywood Games
PROLOGUE
The Scottish Highland Institute of Tartan Excellence in Los Angeles, known to locals as ‘LA Shite’, had never before hosted a celebrity of this calibre. Situated in a small strip mall in the Valley, its only claim to fame came three years ago when a minor TV starlet, high on meth, stopped to ask for directions. Now, Hollywood’s biggest and brightest star was naked on the floor of its conference room.
The chairman and sole staff member, Hamish, had been approached a few weeks before by a tall thin man with a straggly beard that reached the middle of his chest. He was dressed in a long dark robe that marked him out as a priest of some kind, but there was no aura of the divine about him. He smelled of decay and debauchery, and his eyes had the bleak, inescapable finality of a black hole. He may have appeared to Hamish like an emissary from hell, yet he’d promised him heaven in the form of a movie megastar and a quarter of a million dollar hire fee. All Hamish had to do in return was create a family tree linking the man back to Robert the Bruce, sign a non-disclosure agreement, and disable the smoke alarms. That, and split the fee with the so-called priest, and throw in a case of whisky.
Hamish had promised not to enter the room, but as the pungent smoke seeped under the door like marsh mist, he crept to the back of the building. He stood on top of a dumpster, and peered through the gap in the small window he had insisted stay propped open for safety/snooping purposes. Inside, the most famous man in Hollywood was sitting on the floor, naked except for a length of tartan fabric draped over his equally famous manhood. The priest was waving a bundle of smoking leaves above him, chanting indecipherably, with the cadence of a song by the Wu-Tang Clan. He stopped the incantation with a jolt and raised both hands.
‘It is as I have foreseen.’
The seated man swayed, as if he’d just stepped off a sailboat and was trying to remember the floor was no longer moving. ‘Tell me what you see.’ His voice was excited, but distant, as if he were in a trance.
‘I see trees of green,’ the priest continued. ‘Red ro—’
‘Red hair! I knew it! Tell me more.’
The priest cleared his throat. ‘She is a wild woman of Scotland. Her hair is red and curly. And she is brave.’
The man on the floor nodded as he swayed, making ‘hmmhmm’ sounds of satisfaction.
‘You have been married across multiple lives.’
‘Knew it,’ the man whispered.
‘I see a bear. You will fight it.’
Hollywood’s most famous head jerked up. ‘Are there bears in Scotland?’
‘A man-bear,’ the priest replied smoothly. ‘A man with the heart of a bear. You will defeat him and claim the ultimate prize.’
The nodding recommenced. ‘Yeahhhh.’
‘Her spirit is waiting for you. She approves your vision.’
The nod turned into a shake. ‘No. She’s real.’ The man thumped himself hard in the chest. ‘I feel it here.’
‘Herspiritis real—’
‘No.She’sreal. And when I’m in Scotland, I’m going to find her.’
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1
This was it. She was going to die.
Zoe gripped the steering wheel of the hire car, her knuckles white. She’d made a rash decision and it looked likely to be her last. Fat flakes of snow slapped angrily against the windscreen. The storm screamed around her. Death would come from slipping into oncoming traffic, or by flying off the road down the side of the mountain. She stared ahead, following the tracks of the cars in front. She’d never driven in snow before and wasn’t sure of the rules. Was the logic backwards, like for skidding? Did you have to speed up in snow rather than slow down? Her jaw set with determination. A snowstorm was nothing. She’d drive into an active volcano if it meant today she’d get to be with with the hottest man she had ever known.
Two months earlier she’d left her job, her friends, her family to build a new life in the Highlands of Scotland. She moved into a dilapidated cabin left to her by her great-uncle, chasing a childhood memory of open spaces and freedom. It was the craziest decision she’d ever made, and seemed doomed to fail. Then she met Rory. Six foot five, shaggy blond hair, arctic blue eyes, and the body of a god. The Earl of Kinloch was scruffy, sexy, and all hers. A week ago she’d gone back to England to spend a quiet few days over Christmas with her parents. Now she was rushing back to be with Rory for Hogmanay. But when her flight from London that morning had been cancelled, she hired a car. Her love for him had made her defy her family, common sense, the weather forecast and an airline. She was now willingly driving into a Scottish blizzard with no phone signal, no emergency supplies, and no plan B. Used to a four-wheel drive truck, her five-foot-ten frame was now squeezed into a tiny car. A car that was white.White – in a fucking blizzard!She was a snowball with headlights, sandwiched between lorries, counting down the seconds on her life.
As daylight faded, she drove into the Highlands. The roads became smaller, steeper, snowier. Soon there were no tyre tracks left to follow. She had to rely on guesswork, hope and prayers. Her forehead prickled with sweat. Chasing the man of her dreams had led into a living nightmare. She shivered with fear, struggling to see past the swirling snow as it thumped on the windscreen. There was no space left in her brain to lust after Rory or curse her own stupidity. Every synapse was focused on keeping her alive.
Soon it was dark, and she was the only vehicle left on a road that had disappeared. She slowed to a crawl, heart pounding as she drove up the last mountain before Kinloch, the wind buffeting the sides of the car. At the top of the glen, she skidded. Her foot slammed onto the accelerator with fright, taking her out of the skid into a half slide down the winding road. Her cabin was a few miles out of the village, hidden down a dirt track, and she nearly missed the turning. She yanked the steering wheel to the left as she saw it, hit the brakes and came to a grateful stop, buried in a snowdrift. Switching the engine off, she shook with adrenaline, gulping in air as she oscillated between laughter and tears. She was alive. She’d made it. Now she just needed to get her bags, make it down the track, and into the arms of the love of her life.
She pushed open the door into the howling storm. The wind whipped stinging snow into her face. She walked carefully, head bent, the darkness lit by the torch on her phone. The potholes were hidden, and she stumbled, pushing on until she rounded the last bend. Through the flurries she could see her little cabin gently illuminated by the battery-powered lights inside. There wasn’t any electricity, running water, bathroom or phone signal, but the roof, windows and door were secure and it had a wood-fired Rayburn stove. It also had a huge bed, which hopefully contained Thor’s better-looking brother. He was the entire reason she’d just driven into the next ice age.
Zoe reached the front of the cabin, and saw with lurching horror her truck wasn’t there, which meant neither was Rory. She faced the full brunt of the storm as it shrieked from the loch towards her. Where was he? Could he not make it up the hill from Kinloch? Had he come off the road?Shit, shit, shit!She hurried up the steps to the porch that ran along the front edge of the cabin. She needed to get inside, change into wellies and waterproofs, then head back out to try and discover what had happened.
She fumbled to unlock the door, threw her bags and herself in, shut it behind her and rested back against it, eyes closed in relief. The solid wood muffled the noise outside. Everything was warm and still. She drew in a breath, smelling the familiar scent of woodsmoke. She was home. She opened her eyes then blinked rapidly. Home wasn’t quite as she remembered.
