Thank God Rick wasn't home yet. There was nothing worse than coming home from a long day at work, and finding the 'significant other' in one's life prostrate with depression over yet another perceived failure in his attempt to become a published novelist. Now, at least, she'd have some time to prepare for the inevitability of a long torturous evening of listening to him lament about his bad luck, bad timing and stupid editors--never bad writing, which, sad to say, Kate thought was the common denominator in the many rejections he'd collected throughout the last year.

Oddly enough, though, Rick wasn't a bad writer. When he wrote literary fiction, he was a genius, a belief of Kate's which was backed up by the many stories he'd had published in various university reviews in the last few years. But when it came to pulp fiction, ala Stephen King, Rick just didn't have it.

Kate unlocked the front door and bent to pick up the manuscript box. Maybe if she prepared a good dinner and got him relaxed with a bottle of wine, the blow wouldn't be so hard. But just as she picked up the box from the stoop, she heard Rick's car pull up beside hers.

Slowly, she turned and saw him get out of the car. His brown eyes were already locked upon the box in her hands. His face paled, and then darkenened like a thundercloud churning in a threatening sky.

And she knew a good dinner nor a glass of wine would help.

"Do you see what it says?" Rick thrust out a sheet of paper at her, his lean face red with fury. "Those son-of-a-bitches! 'Find your own style. Stephen King rip-offs are a dime a dozen.' Who the hell do they think they are, accusing me of ripping off Stephen King! He'd kill for an idea as good as this one!"

"Rick, don't get yourself all worked up. It's just one editor's opinion."

"For Christ's sake, Kate! This is the 12th rejection! It's not just one opinion!"

"Well, maybe that should tell you something." Kate bit her lip, knowing as soon as she said it that it was the wrong thing to say.

His eyes hardened, became tiny black stones in his thin face. "So, you're turning against me, too?"

"No, Rick! But maybe you should change your tactics. Write something...you know...that comes easier for you."

Rick stared at her for a long uneasy moment. A tense silence stretched between them. Finally, he spoke, his lips barely moving. "Bring me your Stephen King books. All of them."

Kate held back an exasperating sigh. Would he never give up on this Stephen King kick? For the last two years, since the day she'd moved in with him, he'd been reading and studying King's technique, and so far, it hadn't done a thing for his writing. But it was what he was determined to do. And after all, how could she criticize a man for following his dream?

Kate went into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a stack of paperbacks. "Here. You've read these so many times, I would think you'd have memorized them by now."

Rick took the books from her and turned toward the patio door, his face expressionless.

"Where are you going?"

He didn't answer. Tucking the books beneath one arm, he opened the sliding glass door and strode out to the patio. Kate followed. Still without speaking, he dumped the stack of paperbacks into the brick barbecue pit and methodically began to splash lighter fluid over them.

"Rick! What do you think you're doing?"

It was as if he didn't hear her.

"Rick! Those are my books!"

"Tough shit." He struck a match and touched it to the corner of The Shining. Flames began to lick at the edges of the paperbacks, and suddenly, they exploded into a frenzied bonfire. Kate watched in shocked silence as charred bits of paper danced above the barbecue pit. Rick gave a grim smile as he gazed at the burning mass of novels.

"That's what I think of you, Stephen King," he muttered. He looked up and grinned at Kate. "Damn! I feel better already."

Kate couldn't stop herself from shivering at the odd glitter in his eyes. It was as if the man she loved...the man she was considering marrying...was quite insane.

That night, Kate had her first dream of the Highlander. She'd gone to bed early while Rick was still at the computer, working out the plot-line of another horror novel. He hadn't apologized for burning her books, and until he did, she was determined to ignore him with icy silence.

The dream began almost as soon as she fell asleep, and it was very vivid, almost as if she were watching it on a movie screen. Yet, it was more than that; it was like what she imagined virtual reality to be--as if she felt what was happening. The Highlander stood at her bedside, a tall handsome man with blue-black shoulder-length hair and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a Scottish kilt, and wore the tartan of his clan across his brawny, hair-roughened chest. In one muscular arm, he carried a broadsword. His thin sensual lips twisted in a slight smile as his eyes scanned her.

"Kayla," he whispered in his thick highland dialect, and reaching out a calloused hand, stroked her face with gentle fingers.

She felt it! Felt the warmth of his touch. Slowly, he bent toward her, and his mouth settled on hers in a masterful, full-bodied kiss, one that sent the blood singing through her veins. She moaned, her mouth opening under the silken pressure of his tongue. His kiss deepened, sending shock waves of desire rumbling through her body. Her hands flattened on his strong muscled back, sliding up toward the strong cords of his neck. Her fingers laced through the cool strands of his hair, her back arching hungrily against his lean maleness. He dragged his mouth from hers and began to kiss her throat, his tongue hot and moist against her skin. His hands moved to her breasts, caressing her taut nipples through the silk of her nightgown.

She gave a sharp gasp. "Oh...Cameron..." Was that her voice? But how did she know his name?

His hands grew bolder, slipping inside her bodice to cup one breast, rolling the tip of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth returned to hers, moving slowly, tasting at leisure, and then again slid away to a point down her neck, licking and kissing with gentle nipping bites. Kate's limbs weakenend as a new level of desire rocketed through her--a desire so intense she hadn't known it was possible to feel such a thing. His hands moved from her breasts over her flat stomach and down to the hem of her short nightgown. After a moment's hesitation, his hands slipped under her nightgown and moved up her bare thighs. She groaned softly and arched against him.

"Oh, love me...love me," she pleaded.

"Aye," he whispered, and drew away.

For a moment, Kate was sure he was gone. But then she realized he was still there, his knees straddling her, his kilt hiding the bulge of his erection. For a long moment, his piercing eyes gazed into hers, and as he watched her, his hands continued to move slowly up her thighs, pushing her nightgown up, exposing her satin panties to his gaze. His thumbs hooked into the narrow band of elastic on each side of her panties, and without preamble he pulled them down. Kate released a soft, excited gasp and lifted her hips to make it easier for him. The Scotsman slipped the panties off her feet, and still gazing at her, pressed a seductive kiss against the satin material before tossing them over his shoulder. His lips parted in a mischevious grin that incredibly, fanned Kate's desire. She whimpered and grinded toward him seductively. His grin disappeared and his eyes grew turbulent. His hands again slid up her thighs, his thumbs pressing gently, urging her legs apart. At the apex of her legs, he paused deliberately, and Kate held her breath in anticipation. She felt his tension. Intuited his own excitement, and it made the waiting even more deliciously unbearable.

His thumb brushed against her hooded kernel of flesh, and Kate bit down on her bottom lip to prevent herself from screaming out in delight. Suddenly she felt his warm breath against her most secret place, and then his tongue was there.

"Oh, God...Cameron!" she gasped out.

Almost immediately, a violent climax shuddered through her, leaving her body damp with perspiration, her heart rioting in her chest and a consuming need for more in the deepest core of her womanhood.

And the amorous Scotsman was gone.