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Curse of the Cat's Paw in Relic

Award, Erin Aislinn's Cover of the Month    
Nominated, Cover of the Year 2006    

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Curse of the Cat's Paw in Relic,  2006 New Concepts Publishing Genre: Paranormal Romance IBSN: 1-58608-802-5 Format: Ebook Some myths are real, others legendary.... Sinister legends and deadly forces shroud Jamie, keeper of the mysterious mummified cat's paw, on her journey to the misty moors of Scotland.

Once there, she hopes to right the wrongs of the past, counting on everything to go smoothly.

What she doesn't count on is the sexy as hell Scotsman, Ian Munro.

Can she return what is rightfully his without sacrificing her heart?

 

Reviews

Showcasing a mood reminiscent of a dark Gothic story, Curse of the Cat’s Paw is danger and intrigue at their best!
- Fallen Angel Reviews

Curse of the Cat’s Paw is a wonderful story of ancient evil and new love that will tug at your heart strings.
- Enchanted Ramblings

 

 

Excerpt

Jamie waited nervously outside of the Edinburgh Airport baggage claim, her fingers digging deep into the leather of her purse. Where was the man supposed to pick her up? All around her tourists bustled, looking for their own ways into the cities, the smell of exhaust as the taxis pulled up to the curb and gathered their fares. Despite the newness of the airport, she could see the much older buildings in the distance, possibly from the medieval times. I'm really here in Scotland, she thought to herself, I can't believe it.

Planes zoomed over head, cutting through her thoughts. She looked up, the grey skies greeting her. Strangely, the sky almost seemed different here than at home, and not just because of the lack of sun. She could feel the history buzzing through the air here, making her nose of archeaology itch. If only she were here under better circumstances...

Another car buzzed near her, drawing her attention. Each time, she had hoped it would be Mr. Munro, the present tenant of Craogh Mor, a land supposedly in her possession now. Where was he?

Her thoughts centered on Ian Munro, the man who the Scottish lawyer had said held her land. What kind of man was he? How old was he? She stared at weathered concrete in front of her cream colored designer pumps, pondering about Mr. Munro. Was he an old man, wizened by time and back-breaking labor or a stately, elderly Scottish gentleman that still could wear a kilt well?

Moments ticked by with no sign of anyone coming to the exit she was standing at. Nervously, she glanced at her watch. Ugh! She'd forgotten to change to Scotland time!

Thankfully there was a tall wrought iron tower clock nearby that read almost two o'clock. Good. He should be here any minute.

Jamie stood on the weathered wooden platform, rocking lightly back and forth on her heels. No sign of him yet. She paced lightly, listening to the rhythm her heels banged into the wood, her gaze trained out onto the road. No sign of him yet.

Just then, a truck rumbled up the paved road. It came toward her through the slight fog enveloping the land. The body of the truck could have once been red, the color having faded to a dull brick hue. Rust showed through in spots.

Her heart banged in her throat as the truck pulled to a stop in front of her.

She wasn't prepared for what faced her.

A tall man emerged; his black hair sweeping into his warm brown eyes. Simple wool encased his strong upper body, accentuating his muscular build. Hooded eyes stared out from beneath a slash of inky black lashes. The expression residing on his face wasn't particularly warm. "You must be the American lass," he announced with a thick Scottish brogue.

She nodded, not sure what to make of him. "I am," she called out, bending down to pick up her heavy designer valise. "Is the house far from here?"

He slammed the truck door shut. "Far enough," he commented as he walked around the truck, stopping to stare at her luggage. "Is that all you have?"

"Yes," she tugged on the handle, finding it a little hard to pick up.

"Pick it up and throw it in the back of the truck and let's run down the road to the house," he said a bit gruffly as he walked back to his side of the truck. Obviously, he was going to be no help to her.

Scowling, she bent down and tried to pick it up, finding it too heavy.

"You cannot pick it up yourself, lass?" She shook her head. With a scowl on his face, the man left his place beside the truck and picked her case in an angry fist, flinging into the back of the dirty bed of the truck.

"Be careful with that!" she cried.

"Just get in," he snapped, stomping to the other side and sliding in behind the wheel.

Jamie yanked the door open and got in beside him. "Thanks a friggin' lot," she growled.

"You're welcome lass," he said mockingly as he started the engine and gunned it.

"By the way, how did you know it was me standing there waiting for you?"

"Because you look as though you don't belong."

He watched her wince at his words. Good. Maybe if he was cold enough to her...

Ian's side glance traveled down the lovely shapely legs encased in light colored silk, the matching skirt riding high to show even lovelier thighs. Lust nipped at him. Did she wear a suspender belt under that? His beloved Bridget had always worn once in a while, knowing that he couldn't resist her tempting treat.

Forcing his eyes to move, he trailed upward to her face. Tenseness rode the ridge of her jaw, hardening her features. From this angle, he couldn't see what color her eyes were but he was sure they were brilliantly colored. Her skin looked as soft as dew-filled rose petals...

"Are we going to sit at the airport all day?"

Her acerbic words cut through the lust rising in his body. "As you wish, Princess."



* * *

"The fan belt's shot," Ian announced from under the hood. Emerging, he was wiping his greasy hands on a well-worn bandanna. "We'll havta walk the rest o' the way, lass."

The road they were on looked like something out of a medieval novel. "Don't you have reliable transportation?"

He strode toward her, his towering form all but blocking out the sun. "Not all of us can afford luxury cars," he sneered. "Some of us have to work for a living."

She jabbed a finger into his hard chest. “I work damn hard for my money," she snapped. "What I meant was don't you have anything other than this truck that was reliable? I said nothing about a luxury car."

"I guess my plebian tastes are too much for your noble blood," he growled as he turned toward the road and started walking.

"Hey you..." she tried to remember his name but realized quickly that she didn't have it. "I don't even know your name!"

Her driver stopped and spun on his heel, kicking up dry dirt in a thick plume. "My name is Ian Munro but I suspect that the barrister has already given it to you," his scowl deepened. "It's my heritage you're trying to steal."

Jamie felt the cold creep all over her body. When Mr. McPherson said he was sending someone to pick her up from the airport, she'd never dreamed it would be Mr. Ian Munro himself! "Look, I'm not stealing anything! It was left to me by my mother who died recently."

"Start walking," he ordered as he turned away. "Night's coming and you don't want to be out on the Moors at night."

Disgusted with his behavior, she reached into the truck to retrieve her bag but quickly found she couldn't lift it over the side. "Can you grab my case?" she called out to Ian.

"Leave it. I'll send someone for it later."

Damn him! Why...she started walking when sharp pinches dug into her feet, forcing the silk hose to grind against her skin, making blisters. Friggin designer shoes. "I'll wait with my things then."

Ian turned again, his eyes conveying a hidden anger. "No, it's too dangerous for you."

"I can't walk."

His dark brows knitted in fury. "Why not?"

"I'm not exactly dressed for walking.

Ian threw his hands up in disgust and stormed over to her. "You look fine," he snapped. "Come on."

"My shoes are killing my feet so I'll have to stay here." She held her ground. There was no way she was going to let this backward Highlander get to her.

His gaze flicked to her shoes. "Why didn't you wear something more practical?"

"I hadn't planned on your truck breaking down and having to walk to God knows where. If I had, I would have been prepared."

Ian scowled some more and held out his large hands. "Let me see those."

She stepped out of them and handed them to Ian. "I've got to warn you, they're not your size or color."

"You Americans always think you are so witty," he stated savagely as he hooked the heels on the lip of the truck bed.

"What are you going to do now? If you think I'm going to walk to Craogh Mor barefoot and tear up the skin on my feet, you've got another thing coming."

"Oh, you're not going to have to walk without shoes," he retorted, his tone laced with malicious savagery. His hand rested on the back of the shoes, sitting there as if waiting for something to happen.

Anxiety filled her as she watched his thumb stroke the lace covering the rich leather. "What are you going to do?"

His smile, all the while sensuous, contained a dangerous fire. "Just this." With a slam of his massive hand, the five hundred dollar heels went flying not the bed of the truck with an explosive fore.

"What did you do that for? They were expensive shoes!" she cried, trying to get into the back of the truck to retrieve the heels. Maybe, she could find a good shoe repair place in Edinburgh, she could get them fixed.

"Now they're practical." His hand at the waistband of her skirt halted her motions. "I'll get them later," he growled as he pulled her down and handed her the newly misshapen shoes. "Here, you'll need these. It's going to be a long walk."

"How long of a walk?" she put her feet into her shoes, trying not to show how furious she was with him because what would be the point if she was? It obviously didn't bother him. "Long enough that we should get started," his tone brooking no argument.

As if to end the conversation, he turned his back to her and started walking. Gritting her teeth, Jamie grabbed her purse and followed him, distant thunder telling her that a storm was just around the corner. Would they make it in time?

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