He shrugged, “Why would she? She knew you didn’t trust her either.”
There’s a crash of tearing metal and broken glass, and we charge out the door with our guns drawn to see a terrified valet tumbling out of the Porsche that he just rear-ended into the Range Rover.
That my wife had been about to enter.
“What the feckin’ hell? You’re fired, you feckin’-” I’ve got a grip on the valet’s red jacket and I’m shaking him like a terrier with a rat and then Morana begins to laugh. She laughs and laughs, ignoring me and brushing off anyone’s attempt to touch her until Hamish brings around another SUV.
“How is your lovely bride?”
Rubbing my eyes, I growl, “About as good as ya’ can expect.”
“So, complete shite, then.” Cormac’s tone is not unsympathetic.
After listening through both conversations Morana had with Artim, thatcock-sucking donkey fucker, it was clear she had no intention of betraying us. Knowing how they had treated her all her life, I don’t understand why she would risk getting near any of them again. Maybe she was simply naive enough to hope that if she did as they asked, the Ivanovs would finally leave her alone.
Her cousin’s such a stupid shite that it never occurred to him to be suspicious about how easily he intercepted the cell signal from Morana’s phone and got the number. He thought he was pulling off some real undercover fuckery.
“I quizzed Nikandr again about what he thought he saw at the auction that night, as you asked,” Cormac says. Now, his tone is faintly apologetic. “After running through some of the surveillance video from the auction, he says the woman was another cousin. It was Artim’s sister, not Morana.”
“This is information that would have been much more helpful WEEKS AGO!” I shout. “Goddamnit, I treated her like shite!”
“Apparently, the cousin looks a great deal like her, the same blonde hair, similar build,” he continued as if I wasn’t shouting at him.
“She feckin’ hates me,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I promised her I’d take her to Morocco.” There’s a quizzical silence from Cormac, but I’m hit with the enormity of how this must feel for Morana. I’ve used my wife. Just like everyone else in her life.
“Brother, I’m thinking you care more about her than you expected to,” he ventures.
“I can’t fix this.”
“Aye, you can. Women are not as complex as you think. Don’t fuck anyone else. Keep your word. Be honest about the things you want. Tell her that you will fulfill these three things and she’ll forgive you.” Cormac hums thoughtfully. “Though if my wife were in the room, she would likely add that Morana will and should make you suffer first.”
“Thank you. Your words of wisdom are profound,” I say sourly.
“You’re welcome,” he says pleasantly. “When you do get Morana to speak to you again, tell her that Mala would like to take her out to lunch. Are you two coming to Ma’s Sunday dinner tomorrow?”
“Not unless I can get her to leave her room.”
Morana…
The doctor came today and removed the tracker from my shoulder, leaving a small incision. “This will heal quickly,” he says kindly, “just keep it clean.”
It was the only thing I’d asked Miss Kevin for last night before I walked up to my room and locked the door. I can’t look at anyone. They all knew. She left a breakfast tray outside the door when I wouldn’t answer her repeated knocking and polite inquiry. Same with lunch. The sun is setting, sending long shadows over the back garden and I see Bad Cat, sitting on his swing.
Bad Cat used me too, for cans of salmon. But at least he was honest about his intentions.
There’s another knock on the door, heavier this time, impatient. “Morana, open up.”
Fucking Cameron.
The pounding on the door increases. “I just want to talk, open the door and- fecking hell!”
Fucking Cameron’s fist has punched right through what I thought was a very solid oak door, and when he tries to pull his hand out of the hole he’s made, a jagged shard of wood tears a cut along his forearm.
Smiling, I go into the bathroom and lock that door.
Chapter Eighteen
In which we address Fucking Cameron and his box of murder things.
