Catriona sighed. “Things happen. Believe me.”
Broch slapped a hand to his chest. “Dae ye think Sean wouldn’t give his blessing tae me?”
“It isn’t that. I’m sure he’s proud of the big slab of haggis you’ve grown into. But we’re both his kids.”
Broch recoiled. “Nae we aren’t.”
“Not by blood, but it’s still a lot to deal with. So no sex talk in front of Sean, okay?”
He nodded. “Ah ken.”
Catriona realized her directions had been too specific. “Wait, what I mean is, no sex talk in front of anyone, especially Sean.”
“Aye.”
She took a moment to gather her thoughts.
I know there was a third thing...
“Oh, and last, don’t you ever tell me a little time in your kip would change my attitude. It’s insulting.”
He giggled. “Aye?”
The sound of his child-like amusement made her laugh. “Yes. It makes it sound like without a man women’s brains don’t work right.”
Broch tilted his head to the side. “Ye said it...”
She punched him in the side of his pec.
“Ow.” He grabbed his chest, giggling harder.
Chapter Five
Catriona pulled as close as she could to Tyler Bash’s house in the Hollywood hills, parking her Jeep on the steep street outside. She put the vehicle in park and looked at Broch, who sat in the passenger seat, still in his kilt.
“Let me do the talking,” she said, opening her door.
He scoffed. “Lik’ ah cuid stop ye.”
Trudging up the hill, they navigated to the gate at the end of Tyler’s driveway. Catriona pressed the button on the callbox several times. No one answered.
“We really should look inside,” she said, tilting back her head to eyeball the tall gate.
Without another word, Broch jumped, grabbing the top horizontal bar of the gate, hoisting himself up with one mighty pullup. Swinging a leg over the spiked top of the gate with much more grace than Catriona would have imagined possible in a large man wearing a skirt, he balanced there, stabilizing his position. As his leg arced, she caught a flash of neon yellow. It seemed his love affair with the boxer briefs she’d bought him hadn’t ended.
Thank you, Calvin Klein.
At least she didn’t have to worry about him flashing the family jewels with every twirl of his tartan.
Broch held himself suspended on the opposite side of the gate and reached down towards her.
“Ah’ll hoist ye up.”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. Drop down and hit the button on the box on the other side.”
He fell to his leather-booted feet and found the control panel. The doors cranked open and Catriona walked inside.
“Let’s get a move on before the neighbors call the cops about a monkey wearing a skirt.” She reached under his kilt, and sliding her fingers beneath the thin fabric, gave the bottom of his boxer briefs a tug.
He spun away from her. “Hey, harassment. That’s workplace harassment, lassie. Ah learnt aboot it and ah’ll report ye.”
She laughed. “I wish all the new employees took that course to heart the way you did.”
Striding up the driveway to the house, Catriona let her gaze wander, searching for anything odd on the grounds. All seemed well until they reached the cement porch of the Spanish-style home.
The ornately carved front door was ajar.
Not a good sign.
No telling what waited inside. She patted her hip and glanced back in the direction of the Jeep.
I should have brought my gun.
She motioned for Broch to step away from the direct line of the door and pushed it open with her fingertips.
“Hello? Tyler?”
Nothing.
She poked her head inside.
The place was a mess.
Like many young stars, Tyler had the money for a fancy house but not the taste or brains to hire a decorator. The inside looked as if a college student had moved home for the summer. A worn black leather sofa demanded center stage. The coffee table—an early-American-style hand-me-down from mom, no doubt—served as support for a video game machine and its corresponding controllers. The side table, fashioned from a whiskey barrel, sported a lamp made from a whiskey bottle.
At least that part of the room has a theme.
They wandered through the rooms finding varying degrees of mess, but little evidence as to what had happened to Tyler.
“Whit now?” asked Broch, plucking an apple from a bowl on the counter and biting into it.
Catriona sighed. “Well, we can find out who saw him—”
“Who are you?”
A blonde appeared in the living room, staring at Catriona, a paper grocery bag tucked in the crook of her arm.
Catriona detected a nervous lilt lacing the girl’s inquiry. “We work for Parasol. Who are you?”
Broch moved behind Catriona and the girl’s shoulders released. Catriona could tell by the girl’s reaction she’d been relieved to see Broch. She’d been worried Catriona was competition.
“I’m Tyler’s girlfriend, Abigail,” she said, confirming Catriona’s suspicion.
Abigail had every right to be worried. She was smack in the middle of one of Hollywood’s oldest stories. The hometown girlfriend comes to L.A. with the movie star wannabe—he gets the big check and she gets the boot.
Catriona leaned forward to shake the girl’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Do you know where we can find Tyler?”
The girl puffed a clump of hair from where it had flopped over one eye and placed her groceries on the counter.
“He didn’t come home last night.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“To get his fix.”
“Drugs?”
Abigail chuckled without mirth. “Worse. Poker.”
“Alain’s game?”
“Who?”
“Did he mention a Frenchman?”
The girl nodded, her consideration rolling to Broch as he took another loud bite of apple.
“You’re enormous. Are you an actor?”
Broch shook his head. “Na.”
“So it was the Frenchman’s game?” repeated Catriona, hoping to hold Abigail’s attention for more than ten
