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.’

‘Her spirit is real—’

‘No. She’s real. And when I’m in Scotland, I’m going to find her.’

Chapter One

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.

The sparsely furnished cabin had been transformed. In the far right-hand corner was now a boxed-in bathroom; above it, a large hot water tank. Pipes ran down the side wall to the Rayburn stove, now surrounded by kitchen cupboards, from the bathroom at one end to the front wall of the cabin at the other. There was a sink and draining board built into the worktop, with a wooden draining rack mounted above on the wall, and a large freestanding fridge freezer. Had he got her water and electricity?

She saw a switch on the wall, just inside the front door. She pushed it up. Lights went on around the cabin. She flicked it off and on, as if daring the miracle to repeat itself, then went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was full of food, milk and a bottle of Prosecco. Zoe’s heart squeezed. He had done all of this for her. At the sink she turned on the taps, noticing a smaller one to the side, with a note by it. This is for drinking. More info on the table. She poured herself a glass of water, then went to read what Rory had written.

Welcome back, Princess.

If you’re reading this then you arrived safely. I’ve filled the firebox of the Rayburn, but fill it again as soon as you get in. You have limited electricity coming off two solar panels by the outhouse. There is a battery, but don’t go power crazy. I’ve dug out under the porch and filled it with wood so we won’t run out. There’s still plenty on the deck and I’ve covered it with a tarp to protect it from the snow. Drinking water is the small tap on the side of the sink. Basil is fine and has missed you, but not as much as I have. There is a surprise for you in the bathroom. It’s not the most romantic present, but I think you’ll like it. I wanted to be there when you arrived, but have to go back to get a bag of grit. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Rory XXX

Zoe put down the note and went to check on the cage in the corner of the cabin, where Basil, her big-eared, fluffy little Dumbo rat, was sleeping. She then went to see her new bathroom. An enormous two-person shower ran down the left-hand side; a long shelf at hip height along the back wall; a built-in sink, with a huge mirror on the wall above; a heated towel rail on the side wall, and under the window, a toilet. However, this was not a compost toilet as they had planned. This toilet was flushable. Rory had stuck a note on the seat. Who said romance was dead? Your surprise is a septic tank. Only put down loo roll and what comes out of you. Rory XXX. She blinked back tears. He was the most incredible man she had ever known.

But he wasn’t here. He was stuck on the road or back in Kinloch. And her parents… Oh god, what had she done? She leaned on the edge of the sink, her head light. What the fucking fuck had she done? She looked up, the mirror reflecting her horror back at her. By the time she’d felt brave enough to ring her parents about driving up after her flight was cancelled, there was no phone signal. They would now know the plane hadn’t taken off and would be panicking. And Rory? She’d rung him north of Manchester and promised she’d stop if the roads got bad. But she hadn’t. She’d pushed on. And for what? The people she loved most in the world didn’t know if she was alive or dead. She hung her head. She needed to go back out into the storm, make it up the mountain until she found a signal, and let them know she was okay.

She wrapped up, grabbed a powerful torch, and opened the door into the storm. It assaulted her as she stepped out of the cabin and she staggered. The snow had piled in drifts onto the porch, covering the tarpaulin protecting her wood supply. She stepped gingerly down the steps, reached the ground and sank into snow that fell into the top of her boots.

She forged ahead, hunched over. The biting wind slapped her with ice each time she tried to look up. When she finally got to the main road, she only knew it was there by the absence of trees, and the giant snowball that was her car. She shone the torch left and right, peering into the darkness. No vehicles had passed since she’d stopped. The snow was too deep for anything other than a tractor or a snowplough and was showing no signs of abating. It was suicide to try and walk the distance needed to get a signal, and she’d already used all nine of her lives on the drive up. Her mother would be having a fit. And Rory? Fuck! It might be days before she could get out, or anyone could get to her. Her throat tightened. How could she have been so selfish and stupid?

By the time she got back to the cabin her tears were frozen, her fingers numb. She hung her clothes to dry in front of the Rayburn, put on her pyjamas, and made herself dinner on the stove top. She was meant to have arrived that morning, spent the day in bed with Rory, then driven into Kinloch to celebrate Hogmanay with Morag – her mum’s old school friend and Zoe’s second mum – along with Fiona and Jamie, Morag’s children and Zoe’s closest friends in Scotland. That was never going to happen now.

Exhausted, she lay on the bed, listening to the screaming wind. Hopefully the storm would have passed by morning and she could get out to find a signal.

On the edge of sleep, she heard a thumping sound outside on the porch. She sat up, alert. There it was again. She shrieked with joy and shock, switched on the lights, ran across the cabin, and threw open the door to let in an extremely cold Rory and a mountain of snow. He was dressed in ski boots, ski pants and a long jacket with an enormous rucksack on his back. Ice was encrusted in his hair and his lips were blue. Her very own yeti had found his way through the snow to her.

She threw her arms around him and kissed his frozen lips. ‘Oh my god! How did you get here? Did you drive?’ she asked.

Rory rested his forehead against hers and let out a sigh. ‘I skied. It took bloody hours getting here from Kinloch.’

He shuffled off his backpack and it hit the floor with a thud. ‘What were you thinking? You could’ve died!’

Zoe swallowed. He was right. Hot shame burned through her.

Rory turned away and tugged off his jacket, ski pants and socks. A T-shirt and long johns clung to the muscled outline of his body. He shook his head. ‘I’m just glad you’re alive.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she began, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘You’re right. I didn’t think, and I had no idea what I was driving into. You know more than anyone how impetuous I can be.’ He gave a huff but his features were softening.

She picked up his jacket, ski pants and socks. They were soaked through. She hung them over chairs in front of the Rayburn.

‘I’ve never seen a storm like this before,’ said Rory quietly. ‘Slates were flying off the castle roof when I left.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ He stopped by the bathroom door. ‘Er, would you…’

She looked up, a spark of hope in her chest.

He stared intently at her. ‘Would you like to join me?’