We’re in the back of an armored Maserati SUV,and Wallace is staring out the window.
“Because you’re hunting down that Albanian scumbag?”
“That, and managing the family business,” he says. “The attack on my father is going to spook clients. I’ll need to make it very clear that it is business as usual.”
“What can I do?”
He gives me a quick, impersonal smile that tells me my offer of help to him is about as useful as when I offered it to his mother: as in, not at all.
He’s busy sending off rapid-fire texts as the SUV turns onto a beautiful tree-lined street. The houses here are clearly well over a hundred years old, the street is still paved with cobblestones. A tall, black iron gate opens majestically, and as we drive in, there’s a weird disappointment I can’t explain.
The house is certainly beautiful, white stone, several balconies look out onto the street, and the door is a glossy black. It looks like it should have a starring role inDownton Abbey. The front is filled with overflowing pots of flowers, braving the October chill, and the maple trees have a riot of gold and red leaves.
It’s perfect. And cold. Nothing like Wallace’s stone house in Edinburgh.
“Have you had this place long?”
Wallace helps me out of the car, still texting with one thumb. “I bought it when I went to Cambridge,” he says. “It was a good investment.”
“Oh.”
The front door suddenly swings open and I stifle a yelp. There’s a tall, pale man in a grey suit and tie, giving a slight bow.
“Welcome home, Mr. MacTavish-Taylor,” he intones.
“Thank you, James,” Wallace barely looks up from his phone. “This is my wife, Scarlett MacTavish-Taylor. I expect her comfort to be your priority over the next few weeks.”
If possible, Jeeves?Jameslooks even more despondent. “Of course, Sir. Madam.”
Gio steps up behind me, putting our bags in the black and white tiled hall, where James views them with the same enthusiasm one would reserve for roadkill.
“I’ll take these up to the master bedroom,” he says sadly.
“He’s a ray of sunshine, eh?” Gio murmurs to me. I stifle a giggle because I wouldn’t want to hurt James’ feelings and also, because there’s something about this house that doesn’t inspire laughter.
Wallace straightens his jacket and leans over,kissing my cheek. “I have to leave for a couple of meetings. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He’s clicking his lighter again. On and off.
“You haven’t slept in thirty-six hours,” I say quietly, holding on to his jacket. “Could you get some rest first?”
He shakes his head, his attention already back on his phone. “I’m afraid not. Ask James for anything you need. I have a chef come in and stock the fridge every other day.”
As the front door shuts behind him, I realize he kissed me on the cheek. Like a maiden aunt. He’s never not kissed me like he was barely keeping himself from devouring me.
Turning awkwardly, I follow James up the stairs.
My phone’s vibrating insistently against my stomach, and I realize I fell asleep on top of it. The streetlights are shining in the big windows and checking my phone, I realize it’s 2am, and Wallace isn’t back yet.
“Hello?”
“You sound groggy as hell,” Morgan says. “Or are you just shitfaced? Shitfaced sounds like more fun.”
“I wish.” Rolling over with a groan, I force myself to sit up. “You got my text about Wallace’s dad?”
“Yep. I’m guessing it was a rival mafia or something?”
“It’s complicated.” I walk into the bathroom and wince at my reflection. “What I’ve gathered is that his father was shot by The Gadfly, but he’s not the real villain. There’s somebody behind the scenes doing the real dirty work.”
