Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Chapter Sixty-Four Chapter Sixty-Five Chapter Sixty-Six Chapter Sixty-Seven Chapter Sixty-Eight Chapter Sixty-Nine Acknowledgments About the Author By the same author About the Publisher
Edinburgh Castle Friday 21 December
When Katya Waleski stepped out of the Great Hall at Edinburgh Castle, she had less than fifteen minutes to live.
The castle ramparts were bitter but the chill went deeper than her bones. The north wind whipped and bit her bare shoulders; she shivered – not simply because of the temperature.
Her companion removed his custom-made evening jacket and placed it around her shoulders. Katya lengthened her spine like a cat and purred, more aware of the role she was playing than the man was of the performance he was receiving. Her wine glass was slippery with condensation; it almost fell out of her hand. Her usual poise had deserted her.
Katya gazed into his eyes, showing him white even teeth; for once the smile left her lips. The champagne bubbles tickled her nose, languorously she twirled her curls; it was not often she got paid to enjoy herself. Katya closed her eyes. For a few long seconds she held her breath as she savoured the champagne.
The biting north wind cut through her hair, a country girl. The stars shone in an almost cloudless black sky, the moonlight reflected off the snow, giving the castle battlements an eerie glow. It was difficult to walk on the cobbled stones; they were icy underfoot and the meltwater crept through her satin sandal. It was hard to keep her footing so she held on tightly to the arm of her escort.
She scanned the castle walls, peering into the shadows. Could she feel eyes upon her from somewhere in the distance? Katya was used to being ogled but this surely felt … different. A lone piper circled the half-moon battery, welcoming late comers to the ceilidh, serenading the lovers who sought intimacy in the ancient nooks and crannies of the castle.
Katya quivered at the caterwaul. You had to have the blood of the Celts in your veins to be stirred by such a noise. The lament merely made the fine hairs at the base of her neck stand on end.
The wind had picked up, and it blew a solitary cloud across the moon, the dense ground cover that hid his static body began to crackle and bend. Branches scratched his cheeks, his jaw tightened and his neck stiffened as the gale began to howl. He could see the clouds rolling in over the River Forth. It was going to snow. He rubbed his leg to ease the paralysing cramp.
The first flake fell.
Didn’t that just say it all, though? A snowstorm while he froze his ass off waiting for that bitch.
The Watcher dug himself in deeper; something large scuttled by his ear. They say in Edinburgh you are never more than thirteen feet from a rat. He disciplined his mind to ignore the different types of creepy-crawlies, which might, at this very moment, be crawling their way up his spine or nesting in his ears.
His eyes followed a couple as they left the castle early. The man staggered and leant on the railing of the wooden bridge; clutching on to the rails, the gentleman spewed his guts out. Flaming torches illuminated the massive stone statues of Scotland’s guardians – Wallace and Bruce looked down disapprovingly. Were these Protectors judging the drunk, who was now failing to heed the ‘don’t drink and drive’ warnings, or were they judging him? He sniggered at the thought.
The Watcher knows death stalks the castle ramparts.
‘The lovers,’ he spat out the words, were strolling hand in hand towards the battlements, their heads nestling together like two turtle doves. The man’s hand crept underneath the jacket and fondled her tight, high buttocks; he inched the dress up over her hip, and stroked her silky smooth skin. The Watcher held his breath. His tongue crept out of the side of his mouth, like a ravenous dog’s, flecks of spit formed at the corner of his mouth. With a life of its own, The Watcher’s cock stiffened, uncomfortably; he was forced to shift positions; the bed of leaves rustled beneath his weight.
With eyes only for each other, Katya and her beau strolled towards the cannons overlooking Johnston Terrace. ‘Love is blind’ hissed The Watcher. Using his top-of-the-range German night-vision goggles, and aided by the light reflected off the snow, The Watcher had a perfect view. He settled himself down to enjoy the show.
It’s freezing but Katya was hot; The Watcher could almost see the sheen of sweat on her skin as he licked his dry lips. She seductively slipped her lover’s jacket from her shoulders, mindful of the fact it cost more than she earns in three months, and she handed it back to him.
The Watcher held his breath as she used her lovely white teeth to undo her lover’s zip; the jacket is placed on his arm as he leant against the cannon to appreciate his girl. The red silk evening gown slipped easily from her shoulders, revealing full high virgin breasts; her head fell back in ecstasy. A tiny black dragon is tattooed near her nipple; it catches The Watcher’s throat when he recognizes it as Mushu, the dragon from Mulan. He shook his head – it would not save her tonight.
Her hands reached up to undo her lover’s black evening tie. He was more than willing to play ball; the tie lay around his neck as she opened his white pin-tucked evening shirt. The Watcher admired their hardiness – it is seriously cold. He shook his right leg to keep the blood flowing, and placed his free hand inside his trousers.
Raking her long red talons over the expensive evening shirt, his nipples stood to attention. It is not merely a natural reaction to the cold, the man was understandably aroused. He caressed her neck with light tender kisses, moving his mouth down until he found her nipple, her back arched in gratification.
Katya was a bad girl; her sensuous mouth was open wide with pleasure. The Watcher strained to hear her moan, as he stroked himself faster and faster. Yes, Katya was a very bad girl.
Her lover could bear no more. The tent pole in his trousers said everything, The Watcher understood as he observed him lay the jacket on the barrel of the siege cannon. Gallantry is not dead, surmised The Watcher; the lover didn’t want Katya’s back to stick to the icy metal.
The sex did not disappoint The Watcher; Katya’s hands quickly undid her lover’s trousers as they fell without hindrance to his ankles. Grudgingly, The Watcher conceded his rival was a handsome specimen; no one complained about the cold now – not even The Watcher.
They were good enough to be professional, The Watcher thought as she wrapped her long Eastern European legs around the man’s waist. She panted, he could see her breath move in and out of her mouth like exotic smoke, and her back inched along the cannon as her lover thrust himself into her.
It was hard for The Watcher to remain still; he squirmed in the undergrowth, unable to satisfy himself. The moonlight caught the girl’s red hair;
