The insistent buzz of his cell phone makes us pull apart. “Is that the theme from Star Wars?” I ask, “Like the Darth Vader one?”
Dougal sighs, rubbing his eyes as he answers. “Aye?” Whatever’s said on the other end makes his face darken into a cold, hardened mask. “I’ll be there in ten.”
Slipping his phone back in his pocket, he takes my hand, pulling me out of the armory and taking me back upstairs. “I have to go,” he says, kissing the back of my hand. “There are four guards on duty, including Angus and Ian from the lodge. Eat something and try to get some sleep, aye?”
“Are you going to be alright?” I ask, “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough,” he says, “I’ll explain when I get back. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
“I never thought I would say this,” I admit, “I am going to worry about you. Will you please call me when it’s done?”
For a man about to march into battle, Dougal’s looking very happy and a bit smug. “You’re going to worry about me, wife? I knew ya’ liked me. Ya’ canna hide it.” Kissing me again, he leaves the penthouse as I watch the lift doors close.
I’m very worried that there’s more than just liking this man. It’s more than just caring about his safety. I can’t say the word, even to myself.
Chapter Twenty-Six
In which the bad guy is called, "A jobby-flavored fart lozenge."
Dougal…
Punching the man hanging from the ceiling hard enough to hear his ribs crack, I shout in his face. “Listen, ya’ jobby-flavored fart lozenge, I’m on a schedule here. Ya’ fecked up my night and I’m low on my patience. Start fecking talking or I’m gettin’ the power drill.”
“Someone’s in a mood tonight,” Lachlan comments to Cameron.
“Aye,” Cameron agrees, “remember that His Grace is a newlywed. I’m thinking these stupid fecks spoiled a special night, aye?”
I want to shout at them to shut the feck up but in the interests of time, I pick up the drill. “Anything to say, ya’ fecking twat?”
He doesn’t have anything to say after three or four passes with my drill into his kneecaps, but the blubbering prick starts jabbering and offering up all kinds of nonsense when I start in on his shoulder. Weeding through it all, I have our answers.
“It’s not Blackwood, but they’re angling to make it look that way.”
We’re sitting in Cormac’s office, and he gets up and pours himself a drink.
“Anyone else?” he asks dryly, holding up the bottle of Macallan.
“Not for me,” I say regretfully. “I have one hour to get back home, dress up in a fancy suit and take Ilsa to a boring as feck cocktail party for investors.”
Lachlan snickers. “Thank ya’ for doing the heavy lifting, brother. I’d shoot myself if I had to walk around acting like anumpty.”
“So, you’re saying that I am the loveable moron in this scenario?” I feel regret for not bringing my power drill into this meeting.
“Aye,” Lachlan says with a big, stupid grin.
Have I sent that fake doctor’s letter to all his ex’s yet?
“Back to it,” Cameron says impatiently, “what could he tell you about who’s moving in on us.”
“He claims he’s an ‘independent operator’ and took his orders from a broker on the dark web.”
“Grand, an arsehole for hire,” grumbles Cameron, “they’re always sloppy.”
“I have Ian going through his phone now, the idiot had it on him. Hopefully, Ian can track down the broker on the dark web.”
“We know most of the brokers,” Cormac muses. “Cameron, reach out to a couple of them. See if anyone tried to offer them the contract first.”
A team of twenty men had attacked our most expensive restaurant last night and tore it to pieces. They were trying to find the hidden lift that takes special guests down to the gambling floor, where the real money is made. We killed them all, except for the man who’s in the concrete cell downstairs, but the restaurant will have to be rebuilt from the ground up.
