Her Highland Master (The Dungeon Fantasy Club Book 1) (2 page)

It seemed, as she surveyed the car, working to quell her unease as it settled like a lump in her belly, that her only way out was through the hatchback trunk. So be it. She couldn't stay here and wait for help. She'd die if she did that, and she couldn't leave Ophelia. Her sister needed her to get her act together too badly. She could only imagine the scene, Ophelia receiving news of her demise, far too similar to their parents.

Resolved to ignore the fear as it gnawed at her chest, Zoey moved into action. Grabbing her purse, she slid her phone in her back jeans pocket, and studied the best way to shimmy up and out of the car. Turning off the ignition, she stored the keys in her purse, and began climbing. The car was angled forty-five degrees or so at an incline, so she used the seats to help position her body and used them as a foothold as she scrambled up and over first the front seats, then the smaller back seat until she was squished up against the trunk window, grappling for space with her suitcase. She levered herself up with the skill of a contortionist as she gripped the back latch and forced it open.

Zoey sucked in a breath as a blast of frigid, snow-filled air billowed into the car. Pulling herself up and out of the car, she huffed. She pulled on the handle of her suitcase, and almost tumbled from her precarious perch. Dammit, she'd have to come back for her luggage. At this angle, her forty-five pound mega suitcase, filled with all of her travel essentials, would have to stay here. She could only hope that it survived the snowstorm, because there was no way she could heft it up and not do herself some serious damage. What good would it do her if she yanked it out of the trunk only to slip, fall, and get a concussion or worse? And once she jumped, there would be no way for her to close the hatchback.

Pulling herself up and over the door, she took a deep breath and let go.

The snow coating the road turned the ground into a slick, slushy puddled mess that most sane individuals would never attempt to land on. The moment she touched down, her feet slid out from under her. Gravity took care of the rest and she landed on her rear with a
thwump
.

Could this day really get any worse? She knew even thinking that was akin to the kiss of doom and practically begging the universe for more calamity. Snow blanketed her black pea coat. It soaked the pretty blue hat that she'd purchased at her favorite shop on the Magnolia strip in Burbank. White slush covered her jeans, wetness seeped in, freezing her lower extremities, and buried her black boots. She was a mess. Between the wind and the wet snow, every part of her body was chilled to the bone by the time she stood next to her rental car, rubbing her throbbing tailbone. The car was a disaster. The trunk door was propped open, waving in the wind, allowing all the snow inside. Her luggage would be ruined. Not to mention that she could kiss her deposit on the rental goodbye. Even the extra insurance she'd purchased might not cover all the damage she was sure there would be.

She glanced at the furious sky, certain she would find some mythical fairy, or god who had made her a target for destruction. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

After trying to get a signal on her phone again for a few of the longest and coldest minutes of her life, Zoey tossed the useless piece of equipment into an outside pocket in her purse. She strode further onto the winding road, looking up at the manor home. Surely someone would be there, and would let her use a phone to call a tow truck. Maybe let her wait by a warm fireplace with a hot cup of tea. The thought of anything hot and warm made her groan. She wanted that tea, dammit.

Trudging through the snow, she hastened as fast as her feet would carry her. If it weren't for all the snow and ice on the slick roads, deepening by the minute, she would have run. As it was, her all-weather boots were not living up to their name as she wiped out for a third time in the snow. Snow had leaked under her coat, her hat and hair were a sopping mess, and she could no longer feel her thighs.

Her teeth were chattering by the time she stumbled through the—thankfully—open black gate to the manor. Beyond the gate entrance, the small road opened to a circular drive with a stone fountain in the center. She strode around it, awed by the manor up close, which looked more like an estate really. Ashen stone walls towered three stories up, with gilded windows and turrets. It was a place straight out of a storybook fantasy. Well, except for the hellish storm. That she could do without, she thought, as another gust of frigid air blasted her senses and her body went numb. She shuffled around the courtyard faster, hurrying for what had to be the front door. This place made her think of dashing lords, heroic men in kilts à la Robert the Bruce, and she could easily envision a celebrity or a titled lord emerging from the front door.

The first traces of apprehension swept over her now that she stood near hopeful salvation. The door was a heavy scrolled oak number, with a huge brass knocker in the form of a crest with three stars on a shield, and above it a knight's helm with a stag's head, which her befuddled brain didn't recognize.

Holding the image of that roaring fire and hot tea in her mind, she alighted the dark stone stairs. She seized the brass knocker, her fingers all but frozen inside her gloves, and knocked on the heavy door. After a few minutes with no response, Zoey started banging incessantly against the wood using both her fist and the knocker.

"Hello," she cried, as the wind kicked up and swept the sound from her. Not that anyone heard her as the wind howled with a ferocity that made her wonder if it would pick her up and sweep her to Oz. When no one answered as she stood there shivering, searching for a doorbell, colder than she had ever been in her life, she grew impatient, frustrated that the dreamt about hospitality wasn't forthcoming. She finally spied a doorbell, coated with snow. Her body trembled so fiercely that her arm shook as she pressed the bell, and then she did something she normally would never do. She tried the door handle and when it turned with an audible groan, she opened the door to another person's home and stepped inside. Closing the door behind her, she whimpered.

The warmth of the entryway enveloped her. Her body shook, she couldn't feel most of her body, she was so cold. An impression of subtle wealth surrounded her. This wasn't the gaudy Hollywood flash of new money she witnessed all over LA, but an understated grandeur as her feet sank into the large rug carpeting shiny, marble-looking floors. Cream-colored walls were lit by silver scrolled wall sconces lining them every few feet. She wobbled, standing in the foyer, dripping wet as the snow melted onto a rug that looked to be a true Persian, not one of those knockoffs found at the local superstore.

Her trepidation mounted and Zoey called out, "Hello, is anyone here?" Her teeth chattered as she glanced around the room. Soaking in the magnificence of the home, she wondered whether she had ever visited a finer one.

"Och, and look at ye, melting all over the Tang rug I might add." The sound came from a deep, male voice which made her think of brandy and cigars as its owner descended the grand marble staircase. She shook her head, attempting to clear her mental freeze. It was a Tang and not a Persian? She never would have guessed that.

"How might I be of service?"

Zoey stared as the man descended, momentarily tongue-tied as a gorgeous male specimen approached. It was like she had died and gone to the Scottish Express with a man who had a likeness to what she imagined the old Highland raiders had looked like. His ginger hair was longer than was the usual fashion; curly, and shoulder length. It would make any other man appear feminine, but his hair style actually helped soften the hard angles of his face. He had startling jade eyes and a generous smile, framed by short, scruffy stubble a few shades darker than his hair. As he reached the bottom step, Zoey noticed how tall he was; the man had to be at least close to six and a half feet. His long legs ate up the remaining distance between them.

"Lass? Are you all right?" His voice rolled with a deep Scottish burr that made her toes curl. If only men in Los Angeles talked like this—she would never leave the city.

"N-n-n-no." She shivered, feeling woozy, her vision wavering. "My car is stuck in a ditch down the hill a ways, and my cell phone can't get a signal. I hoped you might have a phone I could use and a place where I could wait for a tow truck."

"Och, an American lass?" The surprise was thick in his voice. "I'm sorry, but you won't get old Robbie out in a storm such as this, I'm afraid."

Disappointment crashed through Zoey. The entire contents of her suitcase were likely lost. The dream vacation to escape hell ended as she discovered that hell did indeed freeze over from time to time. Her vision faltered again as the day's events caught up with her, and she swayed.

No, I have to push forward.

She lifted her hands up in an effort to catch herself on the way down. She fought valiantly, but her body no longer obeyed her command as she slid down.

A pair of strong arms saved her from hitting the ground and she stared into concerned jade eyes. "I've got you, lass."

*****

Declan hit 'send' in a reply email. The freak storm was going to keep a lot of people away from the club this weekend. Many of the club-goers who had stayed the previous night were hunkering down in private rooms on the dungeon level to wait out the weather. He didn't mind the fact that attendance was down. It was always the same couples anyway, always the same women—most of whom he'd rather face a pit of vipers than get into bed with—not that he hadn't dallied with them. And lately he had been finding it all rather boring. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had enjoyed the club, or a woman, other than for the perfunctory release that they offered.

"Declan? Pick up, man." His butler and longtime friend Jared's voice sounded over the intercom near his desk phone.

Declan was annoyed at the interruption; he had a conference call with London in less than an hour which he wasn't prepared for, what with all the last minute cancellations. Pressing the intercom button, he said, "What? I told you I had to finish up."

"I have an unconscious woman on my hands and your response is work," Jared's voice blasted him.

"Bloody hell, man. Where are you?" Declan stood, sliding his leather desk chair back. Only Jared would have a woman unconscious after his lusty attentions. He mentally went through the possibilities of whom Jared might have fucked unconscious. In his world, it happened when a sub went into what they termed 'sub-space'.

"At the front door. Just get here quickly. Bloody woman is soaking the floor." Jared disconnected the intercom with an oath that, under normal circumstances, would have made Declan grin. But why the hell was Jared bringing club business up to the front door instead of down on the lower level where it belonged? That was what Declan wanted to know. He left his office and took the elevator down to the main floor.

In the few minutes it took Declan to arrive, Jared had procured some towels and was kneeling next to her, wrapping a tiny frame within them. Why the hell did he need so many blankets, had he killed a woman in the throes of ecstasy? Declan wondered. He could barely see any limb or skin to indicate it was in fact a woman on the ground. He did, however, notice a rather large puddle by the front door, soaking his Tang dynasty rug.

"What the hell happened? I told you not to try out any of your tricks on the unschooled." Declan couldn't keep the fury out of his voice. This was unacceptable. Jared knew better. As one of the founding members of the club, Jared was the one who normally doled out punishment if a member acted incorrectly, not Declan, even though he owned the damn place.

"I already took her coat off her, but she's soaked through." Jared talked over him, not affected in the least by his tone. "And do you really think I would take advantage of a woman appearing on our doorstep in a storm like this? What kind of a prick do you think I am? For your information, I have done nothing but offer the lass my aid. Is it my fault she passed out minutes after she boldly walked into the house?"

"Where did she come from? And she just walked in, you didn't let her in?" All Declan could discern through Jared's rather odd swaddling job was long, midnight hair.

"I'm not really sure, and yes, she was a might eager, coming in before I arrived at the door. From what I could make of her story, it seems the lass wrecked her car on the road and couldn't get a signal on her phone to call for help. She's out cold, but her body is still shivering. I don't know how long she was out in that storm but she might be suffering from hypothermia."

"Christ," Declan replied, thinking of the conference call that he was going to be late for now. "Give her to me. I'll take her to my room, she needs to be out of those wet things and warm. Take care of this mess and bring some tea to my room," he ordered, scooping up the shivering, swaddled woman into his arms. She was quite a handful with the mound of towels covering her form. He vaulted up the stairs almost two at a time with his bundle.

He nudged his bedroom door open, strode past his bed, and deposited her quivering form on a padded leather chair in the corner. He stripped out of his clothes efficiently and then unwrapped the blankets. As the layers were removed, he uncovered a stunning woman as he peeled the wet clothing from her body. She was lithe and supple in all the right places. High pert breasts—the creamy skin would overflow in his hands—wide curvy hips, all contrasted with her tiny form. He didn't miss her pointy pink nipples, or the fact that her sex was denuded of hair. Scooping her up again, Declan deposited her into his bed. He slid in next to her, and settled himself with his back against the headboard before pulling her into his arms. He yanked the covers up around them and used his body heat to warm her body as it convulsed. He pulled her close until he was almost spooning her petite body in his upright position, sharing his body heat with her.

"What is going on?" Her voice sputtered as his hands rested beside her generous breasts.

"You're suffering from possible mild hypothermia. I'm sharing body heat with you until you are sufficiently warm and out of any danger. Relax, lass, no harm will come to you."