“Well, this is exciting,” Mala teases, “a real date!”
“Not when we have to have dinner with Nolan O’Rourke,” I snort, throwing another shirt in my overnight bag. “There’s something so wrong about that man.”
“Yeah,” she agrees casually, “he’s a sociopath and he’d blow up the world for laughs if he ever got his hands on a big enough nuke.”
“That’s… not a pep talk if that’s what you were going for, just so you know.”
“Sorry.” Mala did seem apologetic. “It’s easy to joke when I’m not the one having to hang out with him all night. Do you want to have lunch when you get back?”
“That would be nice.” Instead of the chilly anxiety I usually feel when I think about dealing with Cameron’s family, this is warming, a cautious optimism that makes me think there might actually be a place for me here.
“Good!” She’s all business. “Now, finish packing and throw in some extra lingerie.”
“We’re not at that point in our sister-in-law relationship yet,” I primly reply, “I must ask you to refrain from such language.”
She laughs raucously, as I expect. “Yeah, tell it to someone who’s not married to one of these horny bastards. Have fun in Ireland!”
I hang up, a little flustered. Well, Cameron did buy drawers and drawers of this stuff… marching into the closet, I grab a fistful of silk and lace without looking and put it into the bag, zipping it up before I change my mind.
“Ah, the lovely MoranaIvanovaMacTavish,” purrs Nolan O’Rourke as he stands to greet us.
Trying not to glare, I say, “I just go by MacTavish now, thank you.”
He puts a courtly hand to the chest of his $10,000 bespoke suit made of unicorn skins or something close. “Oh, but it is a shame to lose touch with one’s heritage.”
“Not my Russian heritage,” I force myself to speak calmly, he knows he’s getting to me, “just the family line. I’m sure you understand, based on recent events.”
He smiles fondly, opening his mouth and showing off all his perfect teeth, and Cameron cuts in. “O’Rourke, good to see your distillery at last. You acquired it after that O’Connell massacre, correct? And then the fire. Tragic, that.” My husband doesn’t bother to lower his voice.
None of this seems to upset our host. I knew the MacTavish Clan were billionaires. But I can’t imagine the level of money it would take to be as supremely carefree and untouchable as Nolan O’Rourke.
He merely chuckles indulgently and waves at the table. “Join me.”
The table is built into an alcove in the old distillery, a perfect shadowy balcony that oversees the dining room below it and all the gleaming copper pot stills and oak fermenting barrels. Cameron told me on the way over that there was some cataclysmic fire shortly after O’Rourke acquired it, but everything looks like it has been here for the 150 years the distillery has been in operation.
“I asked the chef to throw something together for tonight,” O’Rourke says casually. “I stole him from a little place in Paris and he brought their Michelin stars with him. The restaurant in question closed last month. Sadly, it doesn’t seem they survived his departure.”
“When you say… you stole him,” I ask cautiously, “traditionally, I would assume you lured him away with an obscene amount of money and cart blanche over the menu. But, you being you…”
He laughs heartily, barely a wrinkle to be seen on his perfect skin. Did he buy it from a twenty-year-old? Didn’t Cameron say he was in his late forties? “Your scenario is correct, dear. Although had he played coy, I might have considered stronger measures.”
Fortunately, the waiter interrupts this troubling discussion with a tartare of scallops, pomelo, shisho, elderflower, and horseradish.
Taking a bite, I give out an involuntary moan. Leaning close, Cameron whispers, “The next time I hear that comin’ out of your mouth, we’d better be in bed, lass.”
The wonderful meal almost turns to ash in my mouth when the men begin a discussion on what they’re calling the “final assault” on the Stepanov Bratva, and by association, my father’s. This is a real shame because the next course is BBQ Donegal lobster with carrot and citrus sauce.
By the time we’re finished with the wild strawberries, poached meringue, lovage, and Voatsiperifery pepper, I’m prepared to overlook all of O’Rourke’s faults if I can eat here every day for the rest of my life.
“I do hope you’re not uncomfortable, darling.” O’Rourke is cradling a glass of brandy and looking at me with a ridiculously insincere expression of concern. “We are speaking of your father’s end, of course.”
I think of Cameron’s pain last night. The story of the two sisters. “I would end him myself if given the chance.”
He doesn’t ask me again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In which Cameron is just absurdly romantic.
