“Och. Wait!” Kevin called out, but she was already turning around the side of the building and stepping through the fog into what seemed to be a courtyard. She heard the sounds of struggle, then saw movement in the fog. The courtyard was illuminated by a few dim lamps, and she could make out a smallish woman with a crown of pink hair trying to fend off an attacker. He was large, broad shouldered, and looked like he could bench-press both Portia and the woman at the same time. The woman kicked out.

“Let go!” she growled, and the man laughed.

“Make me.”

Portia was paralyzed by panic for a moment, but she had taken self-defense courses. She had played this out in her head, what to do if she saw someone being attacked.

She took a deep breath then ran up—holy shit this guy was huge—and elbowed the guy from behind, bouncing back a few feet from the force of the impact. Her hit didn’t seem to faze him, but it got his attention. He turned to face her. His skin was tanned, surprising for all the talk of cloudy days and pasty British men she’d heard about. His eyes were a beautiful shade of olive green beneath the fringe of salt-and-pepper hair that fell into his face. It was cropped shorter on the side, revealing that the hair at his temples had already completed the transition from salt and pepper to salt. His face was that of a man too young to be going gray, though rough-hewn, with gray-tinged stubble. Portia blinked, and then she saw a flash of metal and the man’s attractiveness became the most trivial of matters.

He had a knife.

Portia focused on those gorgeous green eyes, lifted her hand, and sprayed like he was a cockroach in her living room.

“What the fuck!” the man dropped to his knees, hands pressed to his eyes. He muttered a string of words Portia didn’t understand except that they were invective against her.

“She told you to let go,” Portia said, feeling a strange light-headedness that was probably an adrenaline rush. She also felt a little rush of pride—she’d only been in Scotland for about an hour and had already stopped a crime in progress. She was already composing the text message to her parents, some variation of See? I’m not a total fuck-up, when she felt a burning that had nothing to do with victory.

“Ow, ow, OW!” Her can of pepper spray clattered to the ground and she brought her hands to her eyes, too.

“Did you stand downwind?” the man said, and for a moment she thought he was crying but then realized the strange sound was his low laughter. “Oh, you bloody tosser.”

“Tav, are you okay?”

Through her tears Portia could make out the woman who’d just been attacked run to her attacker and begin to help him up. Her attacker named Tav.

Wait.

“Go get some milk, Cheryl,” he said, pulling himself to his feet.

She heard Kevin then. “Did you just mace Tav? Oh, this is brilliant, man.”

She heard the sound of a cell phone camera shutter, which in modern times was the equivalent to a death knell. She spread her hands to cover her face more fully, regretting that she’d pulled her hair back.

“Sprayed herself, too,” Tav said, and Portia somehow knew that “the bloody idiot” was implied.

She pressed her palms into her eyes, waiting for Cheryl to bring the milk, or the earth to open and swallow her. She’d been in Scotland less than an hour and had managed to assault the man who would be her boss for the next six months—and herself in the process.

Project: New Portia was off to a fantastic start.