Secret Things and Highland Flings. Tracy Corbett

just say, I have my doubts.’

      ‘Then phone Louisa and ask her.’

      ‘Oh, I intend to. But for now, stop complaining and let me look at your arm.’

      He did as asked, making a mental note to phone Louisa and prewarn her. The wound was smeared with blood, but not as ragged as he’d feared. Her face was so close he could see a few freckles on her nose. She smelt nice. Floral.

      ‘It might need stitches,’ she said, frowning. ‘I’ll patch you up temporarily, but you’ll need to visit A & E.’

      He took a sip of tea. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Don’t read anything into it. I’d do the same for anyone.’

      She cleaned the wound and covered it with a dressing. Throughout, he sat perfectly still, his eyes switching between her and the Tupperware on the side. He wasn’t sure which was more enticing.

      Eventually, she reached over and handed him the container. ‘Honestly, men and their stomachs.’

      He helped himself. ‘These are delicious,’ he said, trying to charm her with a smile.

      ‘Cake is all that’s on offer.’ She rolled down his sleeve and turned away. ‘Time for you to leave.’

      ‘You’re right.’ He got off the stool. ‘I have another three break-ins scheduled for tonight.’

      She swung around so sharply she knocked the first-aid kit off the counter.

      He bent down to retrieve the box. ‘It was a joke.’

      She glared at him. ‘Funny guy.’

      He placed the first-aid kit on the side. ‘I really am sorry for frightening you. Despite appearances, I’m a very trustworthy person.’

      She raised an eyebrow. ‘Pillar of the community, I’m sure.’ She walked over to the stairwell and held the door open. ‘Just out of interest, what painting was sent here by mistake?’

      He avoided eye contact. ‘Nothing special. Just a random painting of an old bloke.’

      ‘Right. So not valuable, then?’

      ‘Worthless.’

      She nodded. ‘I wonder why you took the trouble to come all this way to retrieve it then. Surely it would’ve been easier simply to phone me and ask for it to be returned.’

      He closed his eyes. He was an idiot.

      Without another word, she headed downstairs. It didn’t take a genius to work out she’d already discovered the painting.

      He followed her down.

      ‘Not to worry,’ she said, reaching the bottom. ‘I’m heading up to Rubha Castle in the next few days to evaluate the rest of the family’s collection. I’ll happily take the painting with me and return it to the family, if that’s what they wish.’ She held the rear door open for him.

      Well, that was something.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand in an attempt to repair the damage he’d inflicted on both his reputation and her gallery. ‘I appreciate that.’

      She ignored his offer of a truce. ‘No problem.’

      ‘And thanks for the tea and cake.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘And not calling the pol—’

      The door slammed shut in his face.

      So much for trying to ‘charm her’. Far from retrieving the painting without arising any suspicion, he’d managed to cast even more doubt over the honesty of his family. And got stabbed in the process. Good one.

      To top it all, he was now stranded in Windsor without a place to stay.

      Sighing, he collected his rucksack from behind the bins and mulled over his options. His arm was throbbing, he looked a bloody mess and he couldn’t imagine he’d be welcomed at the prestigious Castle Hotel in the high street. And then he remembered the advert in the tattoo parlour’s window. He’d try there. Plus, it meant he could keep an eye on the gallery and ensure the owner did as promised and took The Cursed Man back up to Scotland.

      It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best he could come up with tonight.

      He backtracked to the front of the building. Tainted Love Tattoos had closed for the night, but the lights were still on inside. He cupped his hand and peered through the glass. A woman was sitting at a table. When he tapped on the glass, she looked up. He pointed to the sign hanging in the window.

      She stood up. He could see she was wearing a tight black skirt with matching corset, fishnet stockings and a pair of black patent shoes. The heels alone looked capable of causing serious damage. Around her neck she wore a black choker with tiny rubies hanging from one side that looked like droplets of blood from a puncture wound.

      Bloody hell. Talk about intimidating.

      She walked towards him, her onyx eyes blinking from beneath her Pulp Fiction hairdo. She released the bolts on the door and opened it. For a good few seconds she just looked at him, not saying a word.

      Unable to take the silence any longer, he said, ‘I was wondering about a room for the night?’

      She didn’t respond.

      He pointed to the sign. ‘It says you have a room to let.’

      She leant against the doorframe. ‘I know what it says.’

      ‘Right.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘Do you have a vacancy?’

      She eyed him cautiously. ‘You on the run?’

      He shook his head.

      ‘What’s with the arm?’

      He followed her gaze. The dressing was already soaked with blood. ‘I fell off my bike.’

      Her expression indicated she didn’t believe him. ‘No drugs.’

      He frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

      She sighed. ‘As in, I don’t want anyone shooting up on my premises. Comprendo?’

      He tilted his head to one side. ‘You remind me of someone.’

      ‘Fascinating. You want a room, or not? Forty quid a night, two fifty per week, seven hundred for the month. Cash. No tenancy agreement. No refunds. Payment upfront.’ She narrowed her gaze. ‘Food not included. Phone off limits. Touch my stuff and you’ll die a slow and painful death.’

      He visibly swallowed. ‘Good to know.’

      ‘We got a deal?’

      He scratched his head and then shrugged. ‘Deal.’ He held out his hand.

      She ignored him and stepped back to allow him inside. She locked the door behind him. Should he be worried?

      ‘Sit,’ she said, pointing to a black leather chair that wouldn’t look out of place in a dentist’s surgery.

      ‘Excuse me …?’

      Placing her hands on her hips, she stared at him. ‘You’re contaminating my sterile working environment. I don’t appreciate threats to the safety of my clients’ well-being.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m a softie like that.’

      He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I can tell.’ He sat down, fearful of what might happen if he didn’t.

      She pulled out a first-aid kit. He was struck by a sense of déjà vu.

      ‘HIV positive?’

      He blinked up at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

      She sighed and then repeated very slowly, ‘Are you HIV positive?’

      ‘Oh, right. Err … no.’

      ‘Hepatitis B?’

      He