Page 132 of Screwged for Christmas

The vehicle moved down the drive, gaining speed. A few tears slipped down my cheeks, but I didn’t wipe them away. Lachlan lit with holiday decorations and covered in fresh snow was imprinted on my mind.

And Malcolm.

He’d be pissed when he discovered that I’d left. But he’d also see this was the right thing for us. I’d get back to New York and deal with the stalker. Maybe he’d moved on. If I could be so lucky.

Suddenly, taking my chances with a stalker seemed less risky than staying so close to Malcolm. If I’d let him have that conversation there would be no way I would refuse and then where would I be? Just a girl in a castle with a medical degree and no where to go. Castles were great, but I didn’t work this hard to be locked away in a castle.

I think. I didn’t know. And therein lay the problem.

The vehicle continued to gain speed as we left the estate.

I had a prickling sensation up my spine that wasn’t from pleasure.

I opened my eyes. I squinted in the dim light. Was the driver wearing the same plaid that Fergus wore—the Lachlan tartan?

I glanced around the car. This was the one Malcolm picked me up in.

“Excuse me, would you please slow down? It’s icy out.” My nails pricked my palms.

“Certainly.” The timber of his Scottish brogue sent shivers down my spine. The only voice that did that was Malcolm’s—

Leaning forward, I peered at the man in the driver’s seat. His dark curly hair peaked out from under his hat and his profile was one I’d grown to love. A strong nose, thick lashes, and full lips.

But how could Malcolm be here?

“Malcolm.” My fingers dug into the seat in front of me. I leaned forward.

He pulled off his cap, and his lips twisted into a cruel grin as I got my first good look at his face. “Try again.”

I sucked in a sharp breath.

The light white scar under Malcolm’s eye was gone.

I shook my head; I’d had too much to drink tonight. There was no way Malcolm’s scar could be gone.

He returned his attention to the road. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Are you supposed to be a genius, Lass?”

He wasn’t Malcolm.

He was Ronan, Malcolm’s no longer presumed dead twin.

Fuuuuuuck.

“You’re Ronan?”

“The true Duke of Lachlan.”

What. The. Fuck.

It was official—my life had become a made for tv movie.

“Where have you been? Did…? Did you fake your death and hideout? Why the fuck would you do that?”

He was quiet a minute, frowning. “I was given some bad business advice. My investments didn’t work out.”

Rage bubbled through me. I thought of everything that Malcolm and his mother had been through thinking this man was dead.

“Dressing up your gambling debts in a Scottish accent doesn’t make you any less of a shit. Malcolm has been killing himself to save Lachlan.”

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