Needless to say, it was a bit of a mood killer.
Chapter Eleven
In which Alec discovers the only thing worse than a case of blue balls are live bullets.
Alec…
This is torture.
The International Court of Justice would surely demand the death penalty for getting a man worked up to the point that the skin was nearly peeling off his painfully hard cock.
Fee had pulled out her mobile after we were so rudely interrupted by its shrill buzz, and looked at the screen with wide eyes. I barely got my tongue out of her mouth before she yanked away from me.
She abruptly climbed off my lap, disappearing back up the stairs without another word.
I waited for my cock to go back down and my security to finally pull their heads out of their asses and track me down, now that I could push the panic button on my watch.
My Patek Philippe did have sentimental value. It had belonged to my father, passed down to him from my grandfather, and then to me. However, its most useful feature was a panic button that set off a GPS alert to Charles, Gordon, my head of security, and my two IT menaces, Terrence and Lucy. Even if I’m in Ireland, they should have a team assembled and descending on this farm in a couple of hours.
It was clear that no one in this family knew who I reallywas. Foolish enough to kidnap a ‘titan of industry,’ which Fee had sneeringly called me. But abducting the head of the Davies Mafia? That would be suicide, and she was sharp enough to know it.
Groaning, I settled in, twisting to get as comfortable as I could while waiting to finally be free of this infuriating family.
My head jerked up when I heard a sound too familiar to me. Some people claimed that a gunshot sounds just like fireworks, but they’re wrong. There’s a piercing shrill to a bullet fired that echoes long after the trigger is pulled. Was Grandad shooting rats in the wheat? Picking off a rabbit for dinner?
Or, had the cavalry arrived?
I was fairly certain my third guess was correct when Grandad - Fintan, rather - loped down the stairs, red-faced and furious as he grabbed my shirt.
“Who the feck are ya, lad? There’s a team out there shootin’ up my farm. A strange kind of rescue if they’re wanting their fella back alive.” He gripped my shirt, eyes cold. “You’re not just a businessman, are ya now?”
“Cut me loose,” I said slowly, precisely. “They need to see me unharmed unless you want them to kill your family.”
Growling, he pulled out a vicious-looking blade and sawed through the ropes in record time before yankingmygun out of his waistband and aiming it at me. “Move, lad! They’re turning the hen house into feckin’ swiss cheese!”
“Give me my gun, old man. If they see you holding it on me they will shoot you in the head. My men’s aim is impeccable.”
Glaring at me, he defiantly stuffed it back in the waistband of his work pants. My hand shot out, yanking my pistol back out the instant he turned to head up the stairs. I nudged his back with the barrel as he froze, furious. “Who’sshooting, you or them?”
“A bit of both,” he huffed, grabbing his ancient shotgun on the way out the front door and looking like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to shoot me or use it to bludgeon me to death. “I shoulda known you’d point that fecking gun at me the minute you had it back.”
I chose to ignore the breathtaking hypocrisy of this statement. The high whine of a bullet hitting the wooden shutter behind us sent the two of us ducking behind a shrub.
“Why aren’t ya hollering for them to stop shooting, then?” Fintan said, “Aren’t these your people?”
A spray of gunfire made us duck and roll away from our cover as an automatic rifle tore the bushes to shreds.
“I don’t think thesearemy people,” I admitted grimly. “They’d take one or all of you hostage to get my location, but none of my guards would be peppering the farm with bullets without securing me first.”
“Then who are these arseholes!” He stood up, firing off a couple of shots before I yanked him down again. We both heard a howl that meant at least one of the bullets found its target.
This was a terrible area to defend. The front of the cottage was decorated with the occasional shrub and not much else. The goat pen was to the left of the house and they were bleating up a storm. The rolling pastures of select, organic crops would do fuck-all to use as cover and the ancient barn was behind the farmhouse with no way to get to it without being shot while dashing across the clearing.
I heard Fee cursing as she fired back from the kitchen window.
Bloody hell. I hoped they didn’t kill Martin, he’s the only family member I liked at this point.
Two men, professionally geared up in black tactical suits and bristling with weapons, rose from the shaky cover of the wheat field, racing for the farmhouse.
