Secret Things and Highland Flings. Tracy Corbett

confrontation. ‘Coward!’

      Shivering, she got back in the Fiat. It was official – she was being followed.

      By whom? Had Marcus got wind of her trip to Scotland? Even if he had, he wouldn’t know her final destination. A detour was needed. She checked her map. The direct route to Shieldaig took her along the coastal road, but if she used the mountain road it might give her the opportunity to shake whoever it was off.

      She reprogrammed the satnav and headed off, constantly checking her mirrors.

      The road ahead narrowed and soon became a single lane. Thankfully, there weren’t many other cars on the road. There wasn’t enough room for two and she had to pull into the passing bays to allow any approaching vehicles past. What with that and checking she wasn’t being followed, it didn’t allow any time for sightseeing.

      Consequently, she hadn’t realised the terrain had changed until she’d turned off the main road and began snaking her way up the mountain track. A series of twists and turns followed, the surface precarious and bumpy.

      By the time she’d passed the road signs warning ‘Not for Learner Drivers’, ‘No Wide Vehicles’ and ‘No Caravans Past this Point’, it was too late to turn around. The lane was too narrow. Plus, there was a sheer drop to her right. Where the hell were the protective barriers?

      A sign stating ‘You have Reached 3000 Feet’ didn’t help. Neither did the sight of a wreath perched against a tight bend. Had someone driven off? Oh, crumbs.

      She slowed to a crawl. The early morning mist had morphed into thick damp fog, obscuring her view. She could barely see past the bonnet. And then a van appeared ahead. She squealed and braked. The van driver seemed unperturbed by the conditions and pulled into the layby so she could pass.

      Thank God she was on the left – no way would she want to swerve to the right. Not with that sheer drop.

      She edged past as slowly as she could, almost too afraid to look. The van sped off.

      Far from feeling relieved, she had a hairpin bend to negotiate and visibility was even worse. Why had she taken the mountain road? What an idiot.

      She blinked hard, trying to bring her surroundings into focus. Had her contact lens moved? She rubbed her eye. It made her vision worse … and then it dawned on her. She’d torn another lens. Blast it. And her glasses were squashed in the bottom of her suitcase. Could things get any worse?

      Apparently so.

      Headlights appeared behind. The red taxi. Oh, hell.

      As much as she wanted to drive off, she couldn’t see clearly enough. She looked in her rear-view mirror and saw the blurred image of a man exiting the passenger side.

      It wouldn’t have been a shock to see her ex-husband walking towards the Fiat. Or one of his hired goons. But the combination of thick fog and one contact lens meant it wasn’t until he’d reached the driver’s door that she realised it wasn’t Marcus. It was the blue-eyed thief.