Fairytale Come Alive Page 3

At least there was one thing to look forward to.

  “Look at that house!” Mikey cried from beside her, craning his neck and moving around in the backseat, trying to get a look at the house as they rode at a crawl next to it. “It’s something out of a movie!”

  “Or a modern day fairytale,” Isabella teased, Mikey looked at her and smiled a beautiful, gleaming, happy smile.

  She smiled back but it felt funny on her face.

  With great exuberance, Mikey vaulted out of his door.

  Isabella took a deep breath and, with far less enthusiasm (in fact, none at all), she exited hers.

  * * * * *

  Fiona

  Prentice Cameron stood staring out the window at the sleek limousine, watching as the effeminate man bounded out one side and continuing to watch as the beautiful, elegant woman sedately exited the other.

  If Fiona Cameron had breath, she would be holding it.

  She stood, ghost-like (because she was a ghost) and invisible, behind her husband and watched over his broad shoulder as his first love nodded at the driver regally then looked up at the house, her stunning face blank and cold.

  God, Fiona hated her.

  Years ago, Prentice had caught Fiona studying a picture of Isabella Austin Evangelista in a glossy magazine.

  The picture was amazing.

  She’d been wearing a dress that had to cost as much as Fiona’s entire wardrobe. She was walking, her gait wide, the slit up the front of her dress exposing thin, shapely legs, and she had on a pair of stylish, strappy, high-heeled shoes.

  No one could walk in those dainty, death-defying shoes with grace except fucking Isabella Austin Evangelista. She could probably run in them, dance in them, play netball in them, the bitch.

  In the photo, Isabella held a beaded clutch in one hand and the other hand was lifted, holding the thick fall of her (fake, fake, fake) streaked honey-and-white-blonde fringe to the side of her temple, her eyes to the ground.

  Her cheeks shimmered. Her dark brows were arched perfectly (which had to be the work of what Fiona was certain was a top-notch brow-shaper person at a posh salon). And, lastly, her lips were glossed in a way that it looked like da Vinci himself had held the lip brush to her lips.

  Fiona was so engrossed in the picture, she hadn’t heard Prentice approach and didn’t know he was there until she felt his lips at her neck.

  “Doesn’t hold a candle to you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Even as she felt a shiver at his words, she laughed and shook the picture in front of him, trying not to be embarrassed at being caught ogling his famous, beautiful ex in a magazine.

  “Right.”

  His eyes had moved to the photo for barely long enough to take it in before they came back to her.

  “She’s too thin,” Prentice had said.

  Fiona shook her head and repeated, “Right.”

  “She wears way too much makeup.”

  Fiona grinned and repeated again, “Right.”

  Prentice’s face hardened but his eyes got warm as they looked into hers. “She’s deceitful, untrustworthy, snobbish, thoughtless and a complete bitch.”

  That Fiona couldn’t contradict.

  She knew exactly what Isabella had done to Prentice, exactly. He’d told her everything.

  And Fiona also knew that Isabella had not deigned to come back when her friend had been fighting for her life in hospital.

  Therefore Fiona knew that Isabella Austin Evangelista was all those things.

  And more.

  And none of them were good.

  Before she could say another word, Prentice had kissed her. Then he’d taken her to bed.

  She’d never ogled a picture of his ex again.

  Ah, she thought, good times.

  “Prentice?” Dougal called from the doorway and Prentice turned from the window.

  Fiona stayed staring out of it.

  The man with Isabella rounded the car, staring up at the house with his mouth open and his eyes wide. Isabella gave him a smile that looked like butter-wouldn’t-melt and linked her arm in his.

  She was wearing classy, high-heeled black boots, a cranberry-colored wool skirt that hit her at her knees and fit her like a second skin and a matching jacket that had stylish detailing at the pockets and the lapels. She had on a satin blouse in a color one shade darker than the cranberry suit and it came all the way up to her neck, circling her throat in elegant gathers. Her hair was bunched back in soft but stylish twists that led to a complicated chignon at her nape, the hairstyle so sophisticated there was no way she did it herself. The back of the suit was even nicer than the front, the skirt falling in row of knife-sharp kick pleats at the back of her knees, the same from the waist of the jacket down to the top of her arse.

  Fiona let her ghostly lip curl at the idea that Isabella Evangelista had a stylist do her hair, she wore a fancy, posh suit (of all things) and rode in a limousine to a tiny, Scottish fishing village.

  What a daft cow.

  “You okay?” Dougal asked, entering the room and closing the door behind him.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Prentice asked.

  Dougal’s eyes went to the window and Prentice burst out laughing.

  “I’m hardly pining for Isabella Austin,” Prentice said, laughter still in his voice and if Fiona had breath, she would have let it out.

  “This can’t be easy for you, mate,” Dougal said softly and Fiona remembered (as she often did) why she liked Dougal so damned much.

  “For God’s sake, Dougal, it’s been twenty years,” Prentice’s deep voice still held amusement. “I don’t even think of her anymore.”

  “Maybe no’ but you’ll have to now,” Dougal returned.

  “Aye,” Prentice agreed readily. “For a week, then she’ll be gone back to her life filled with limousines, paparazzi and posh parties and it’ll be like she wasn’t even here.”

  Dougal watched his friend.

  “It’ll be like she wasn’t even here,” Prentice repeated, his words low and slow and filled with meaning.

  Fiona knew he’d been through this before, of course, and he had, with effort, built a life where it was like Isabella Austin had never even been there.

  Dougal shifted uncomfortably.

  “You should know, Annie has these ideas about Isabella –” Dougal started but Prentice shook his head.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “She says there’s reasons –”

  “I know she does, she’s tried to explain them to me, without making much sense. She’s Isabella’s friend, she’d try to find some excuse for the way she behaved, no’ only to me but no’ showing up when Annie nearly died. They’re good friends, it’s natural and it doesn’t mean a thing to me,” Prentice stated and when Dougal looked dubious, Prentice approached him and said, “No’ a damned thing, mate.” Prentice’s voice became low again when he continued, “It’s been a long time, Dougal, we’ve all moved on.” Then Fiona watched as her husband grinned his devastating, wicked grin. “Except you, of course.”

  Dougal relaxed and smiled back. “That’s me, stuck in a rut.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Annie you called her a rut.”

  Fiona laughed a silent laugh. Annie would hate that.

  Dougal’s laugh (seeing as he was alive) sounded jovially throughout the room.

  The door flew open nearly hitting Dougal in the back and Annie was there.

  Her hair was wild (it was always wild, a long mixture of thick, dark blonde frizz and curls, it was manic and gorgeous, just like Annie). On her petite but rounded, body she was wearing tight-fitting jeans, a green t-shirt that said, “All the other kids are doing it” on the front in yellow and blue lettering and a ratty-assed olive drab cardigan that nearly went down to her knees.

  “Bella and Mikey are here!” she screeched excitedly, then turned on her Wellington-clad foot and ran from the room.

  Dougal and Prentice watched her go.

  Dougal sighed before he turned to Pr
entice. “You know I love her.”

  “I do,” Prentice replied, his fantastic lips twitching.

  “You know I love her a lot.”

  Prentice chuckled. “I do.”

  “I didn’t love her that much, mate, no way in hell I’d walk out of this room and spend a whole fucking week trying to be nice to that bitch.”

  Prentice shook his head, clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder and they both walked out of the room.

  Fiona floated behind them remembering again why she really, really liked Dougal.

  They followed the screeching, Annie’s mixed with an unknown, and unusual, masculine-esque shriek.

  When they approached the foyer Annie and the man from the drive were in each other’s arms, jumping up and down.

  Isabella Austin Evangelista (the daft cow) was standing to the side, eyes on her friends, hugging her elbows in her hands with what looked (shockingly, to Fiona’s way of thinking) like an actual genuine (but very small) grin on her perfectly lip-glossed lips.

  “Bella.” They heard and her eyes moved coolly to the stairs then Fiona watched in dismay as her face melted when she saw Fergus.

  Good God, could the bitch be any more beautiful?

  Fiona felt Dougal go tense and Prentice stopped moving forward altogether as Isabella’s face changed again, the small grin widened, brightened and the room lit with the radiance of her smile.

  Yes, Fiona thought with irritation, the bitch could be more beautiful.

  “Fergus,” she breathed softly, turned and rushed quickly to the stairs and up four of them to embrace Fergus.

  There was nothing cool and disdainful in her embrace for Fergus.

  Then again, Fergus was loaded and obviously Isabella didn’t have any problem with men who were loaded, it was just lowly fishermen who she had a problem with.

  She’d married international playboy Laurent Evangelista and he was so loaded it was unfathomable how loaded he was. Of course, he’d cheated on her very publicly then ditched her even more publicly, paid her off with an enormous divorce settlement (just as publicly) and was still carrying on with his younger version of Isabella whilst on the Riviera and in Paris and wherever-the-hell-else famous, rich people hung out.

  This had, for some bizarre reason Fiona could never figure out when she was alive (nor now, when she was very dead), made Isabella even more celebrated and famous.

  She had simply been the fascinating, stylish and beautiful American heiress who had finally landed the equally fascinating, stylish and handsome French-Italian playboy Laurent Evangelista.

  For some reason, people took her side in the whole messy affair, then again, no one really knew the true personality of Isabella Austin except those in a tiny fishing village in Scotland.

  No one could believe Laurent would throw over his lovely, soft-spoken, charity-working, fashion-designer-muse wife for a common (but younger and it was lost on no one she looked almost exactly like Isabella) strumpet.

  There’d even been t-shirts made that you could buy that said, “Up with Isabella” on the front and “Up Yours Laurent” on the back.

  Since then (and it had been years), Isabella became more famous, more hunted by the paparazzi, an object of fascination. Likely, this was because no one could believe anyone who had all that money, all those good genes, all that fashion sense and a kind soul (blech, Fiona thought) could be so humiliated. It made even the common woman feel camaraderie with her because they knew if it could even happen to the likes of Isabella Austin Evangelista, it could definitely happen to them.

  It also meant they were all waiting with bated breath for Isabella’s next catch, hoping he would be devastatingly handsome, romantic and he’d sweep her off her feet and heal all her considerable wounds.

  Which meant that every man she even looked at was her latest lover. According to the media, she’d had scores. None of which lasted more than a few months (again, according to the media).

  Which meant that somehow, fabulous, celebrated, renowned beauty Isabella Austin Evangelista had the every-woman curse of never finding the right bloke.

  Which set her up as the Queen of Lonely Hearts and that made the camaraderie extend to every woman in the whole the fucking world.

  If they only knew she’d simply gotten what she deserved, well…

  “Good to see you,” Fergus muttered, his voice thick, his words cutting into Fiona’s ethereal thoughts. “Missed you, lass.”

  Her cheek was pressed to his and her eyes were closed.

  “Not as much as I missed you,” she whispered in her breathy voice.

  With her paranormal senses, Fiona felt Prentice’s body turn solid.

  She looked at her husband. His face was hard, his mouth tight, his eyes glittering.

  Something was wrong.

  As quick as it came, his body relaxed and his eyes went blank.

  Fiona looked back at Isabella.

  Her eyes opened and they focused on Prentice.

  The coolness hit her face like an arctic snap and she pulled away from Fergus, her gaze moving to Dougal.

  “Dougal,” she said softly.

  “Isabella,” Dougal returned roughly and Fiona could tell he was making an effort to be polite.

  She started walking down the steps in her high heels, her head turned to the side and, if Fiona had tried that, she would have fallen flat on her face.

  Isabella’s eyes were on Prentice.

  “Prentice.” Again, that breathy voice.

  What was it with that breathy shite? Fiona thought. She’d never spoken that way when she was there those summers long ago.

  “Isabella,” Prentice replied.

  Fiona stared at her.

  Did she flinch?

  Flinch?

  No, no, Fiona’s paranormal senses were heightened but no way would butter-wouldn’t-melt Isabella Austin Evangelista flinch.

  And if she did, why would she, simply upon hearing Prentice say her name?

  “This calls for champagne!” Annie screeched, taking Fiona’s thoughts from the impossible flinch and rushing forward, tugging the man along with her and linking arms with Isabella.

  “I’ll get it,” Dougal said immediately. “Prentice, a little help?”

  “Of course,” Prentice murmured but Isabella spoke.

  “One moment, please.”

  Everyone stopped, as they would, her voice was still soft, slightly breathy but there was something about it that made you pay attention.

  God, Fiona hated her.

  “Prentice,” she held her hand out toward him and Fiona would have sucked in breath (again, if she had any), then Isabella turned to the unknown man, “this is Mikey. A friend of Annie and mine from –”

  “I remember you mentioning Mikey,” Prentice interrupted and before Isabella could say more, Prentice walked forward hand extended to Mikey.

  Isabella dropped her hand, her gaze moved to Dougal then away as Prentice shook Mikey’s hand.

  “Pleasure,” Prentice muttered but Mikey pumped his arm like their handshake was the last thing he’d do before he died and he never wanted it to end.

  “Prentice Cameron,” Mikey was staring avidly at Prentice then he turned to Isabella and Annie. “Girls, you were holding out. You said he was delicious but you didn’t say he was dee-lish-us.”

  Dougal and Fergus (who had joined them) laughed.

  Prentice chuckled and carefully disconnected his hand.

  Annie giggled.

  Isabella adopted her butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, effectively removing herself from the humorous situation entirely as if she was a casual observer, not a participant.

  Yes, Fiona hated her.

  Before Fiona could let the depths of her hatred settle (which would probably take a million years), the door flew open and Debs, Prentice’s sister, flew in.

  Everyone turned and then they tensed.

  Fiona grinned. She loved Debs.

  And Debs hated Isabella Evangelista.

  This,
she thought, was going to be good.

  Debs, as usual, didn’t disappoint.

  She slammed the door behind her, took a step forward and opened her mouth.

  Then she shouted, “You fucking bitch!”

  Fiona looked at Isabella, her grin still in place but it faltered when she saw the cool look the heartless cow was directing at Debs who, Fiona knew, adored Isabella like a sister (once).

  “Debs –” Prentice said warningly and started forward but Debs was not to be denied (again, as usual).

  “I could not believe it when I heard you were going to be here.” Debs glanced at Annie and snapped, “I’m sorry, Annie, but you know it has to be said.”

  “Debs –” Prentice repeated, reaching his sister and taking her by the upper arm which she yanked from his grip while her gaze snapped to his face.

  “I know you’re over it because, luckily, you found a better one and married her. But me and everyone else,” Debs threw her arm wide to indicate the entire village, “wants her to know she is not welcome here.” Her eyes went back to Isabella. “So don’t think of playing any of your fancy rich girl games with any of our men this time around. Got me?”

  “Who is this interesting creature?” Mikey muttered to Annie.

  “Debs, really, this isn’t necessary, nor, might I add, nice,” Fergus cut in.

  “I’m not known for being nice,” Debs retorted.

  “You can say that again,” Mikey told her.

  Debs’s eyes narrowed on Mikey. “And who are you, her newest victim?”

  “No,” Mikey replied. “I’ve been her second best friend for over twenty years and if you don’t mind your manners, miss priss, I’ll be forced not to mind mine and you won’t like that. Do you have me?”

  “How dare you!” Debs screeched.

  “I dare easily, darling,” Mikey returned, completely unperturbed.

  “Dougal, Prentice, do something,” Annie beseeched, looking like she was about ready to cry and Fiona forgot how much she hated Isabella and felt badly for her friend.

  Surprisingly, Isabella forged into the breach.

  “It’s perfectly fine,” she said, again softly her voice somehow carrying that weird authority and even Debs stopped her tirade and stared at her.

  Then, even more surprisingly (and strangely, to Fiona’s way of thinking), she murmured, “It’s nothing less than I deserve.”