1
The New Jersey mob arrived in the Scottish Highlands four months after Jena Morgan. The three men strutted down Invertary high street, looking for something—or someone. Dressed like cast members of The Sopranos, the men fit in about as much as a shark would blend at a pool party.
Jena didn’t spot them straight away. The famous go-go dancer was too busy haggling with the owner of the local hardware store.
“Please.” She wasn’t above pleading. Or flirting. She batted her eyelashes at the old man. He laughed. “I’m desperate and I can’t afford your quote. It’s going to rain and I need to patch the holes in the roof before I end up swimming around the house.”
“This is Scotland, Jena, it’s always going to rain. Rain does not constitute a desperate need.” Gordon Stewart folded his arms over grey, paint-splattered overalls and grinned. The sparkle in his eye told her he was eager for her next argument. It was a dance they did every time she came into his store.
Brenda, Gordon’s wife, came in from the back of the store sipping a mug of tea. “Stop messing with the girl; give her what she needs. She’s got enough on her plate sorting out the wreck she lives in without dealing with your dodgy sense of humour as well.”
Brenda winked at Jena, who beamed back. Part of her wished Brenda would adopt her. If she’d had parents like the Stewarts she might have developed the ability to make smart decisions. Instead she’d grown up with a missing father and a mother obsessed with becoming the next Mariah Carey.
“Look,” Jena said to Gordon. “We both know I can’t afford the full price. What about a payment plan?”
He shook his head, earning an elbow in his ribs from his wife. He grunted at her before stroking his grey beard. It was his thinking pose. Jena crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Fine,” he said. “How about you give me what you can afford and then work here two mornings a week to make up the difference?”
Brenda nodded her encouragement.
Jena’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious. I don’t know what half this stuff is.”
“I know.” Gordon laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I read somewhere that laughing can add years to your life. Having you around will make me immortal.”
“Gordon!” Brenda scowled at him. It had no effect.
Jena took a deep breath. “Okay.” Like she had a choice. She pointed at him. “But you’re delivering the materials for free.”
“Done. You start in the morning.”
“And you supply lunch.”
“Only if you don’t eat that rabbit crap.”
“I eat anything.” She couldn’t afford to be fussy. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She pulled the heavy door open and cool October air made her skin tingle. “You evil old blackmailer,” she muttered, and heard him laugh.
Waving at Brenda, Jena stepped out into the high street and was stunned anew at the picturesque quality of her new home. Streets lined with crooked whitewashed buildings, quaint little shops and a cobble-stoned road. All surrounded by emerald-green hills and reflected in a gentle blue loch. She took a deep breath and felt something settle within her. Her whole life she’d wanted a proper home, a place to belong, and she’d finally found it.
And that was when she saw them. The three men who were looking for her.
She almost fell on her backside scrambling to get back into the hardware store. “Going out the back way,” she shouted, sounding more than a little hysterical.
She passed the stunned faces of the store owners as she ran straight through the shop and out the back door.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no…” She stumbled her way up the back alley in three-inch neon pink wedges, grateful she’d worn her lowest heels to town.
Her heart almost burst from her chest when she spotted her destination—the ancient grey Presbyterian church. Someone called her name. She didn’t turn to see who. Instead, she picked up her pace, flying up the street on legs toned by years of dancing.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no…”
It took all her upper body strength to pull open the heavy church door.
“Coming through,” she shouted at the vicar as she ran past him into the ladies’ toilet.
“Jena?” His voice carried after her.
She slammed the old wooden door, bolted it and wedged a chair under the handle. Then she sank to the floor, curled her knees to her chest and rested her cheek on them. This was not happening. It was a hallucination brought on by too much DIY and not enough Pop-Tarts.
There was a thump at the door. She squealed before smacking her hands over her mouth.
“Jena, what do you think you’re doing? Is this some weird American thing I don’t know about?” It was the vicar, sounding grumpy—as usual.
She let out a shaky breath. Her hands fell to her knees.
“I’m claiming asylum,” she shouted.
There was a pause. “You’re claiming what?” the minister boomed.
Jena pulled her iPod out of her handbag, inserted her earbuds and pumped up the volume. She needed some Taylor Swift. Life was always better with Taylor.
There was more thumping. Jena closed her eyes and pretended that she hadn’t seen her ex-boyfriend walking up Invertary high street.
And he definitely wasn’t flanked by two goons.
With that thought, she closed her eyes and let Taylor work her magic.