“We moved to Italy when I was ten,” I say. “It seems I’ve missed out on my natural birthright to become a vengeance-seeking Annie Oakley.”
“That’s all right,” Sloan says graciously. “With this family? There’s plenty of time to hone you into a mysterious, deadly assassin.”
Arabella ruffles her long black hair, yawning. “Not every MacTavish bride has to become a gun-toting menace, ye know.”
“Aye,” Maisie reaches over, snagging another bottle of Riesling out of the little wine fridge. “Some people just let gravity do their dark work.”
“That was one time!” Arabella says crossly. “Though she definitely deserved to be thrown off the ship. That whole organ trafficking idea was her plan…”
Surrounded by the MacTavish women who have opened their circle to include me, I settle in for another story of a magnificent rescue and defeating the bad guys against all odds. I look up at the sky, smiling. The moon smiles back down.
Chapter Seventeen
Michael…
The next morning…
It was not the first all-nighter I’ve had to pull, dealing with yet another disaster. But it is the first time I’ve had someone waiting at home for me, and it’s surprising how satisfying that thought is.
Is Sophie asleep in my bed? The image of her curled up, hugging a pillow to her chest is making my dick sit up and take notice. The little bastard dinnae care that I’ve not slept in thirty hours or that I just navigated a shite night of damage control.
Cracking my neck, one direction and then the other, I step out of the car. There’s a light thread of melody drifting through the garden behind my house. Looking up, I see Sophie, perched in the open window of her bedroom, her delicate fingers moving along the silver line of her flute. The sight is so unexpectedly lovely that I lean against my Maserati, enjoying the music until she looks down.
Sophie pulls the flute away from her lips and calls down. “You’re back! I’ll be right there.” She must have galloped down the stairs, already in the kitchen by the time I unlock the door. “Have you been up all night?” There’s a worried crease between her brows that I sometimes see when she’s watching her mother. “I can make you some breakfast.”
Pulling off my tuxedo jacket, I flex my shoulders in relief. “Formal wear is not meant for all-nighters,” I sigh. She’s wearing soft lounge pants and a tank top, and she’s even more beautiful than she was last night in that expensive evening gown. “Ye haven’t lost your touch, ye play beautifully.”
“Thank you,” she flushes, looking pleased. “After we talked about it the other night, I realized how long it’s been since I played. It was nice to get a feel for it again.”
“Did ye find the right spot to hear your acoustics?”
“Not yet,” she says, “my bedroom isn’t quite right.”
I’m appreciating the sight of her, here in my kitchen. I always looked forward to coming home before because it was blessedly quiet. No one badgering me, no problems to solve. This, though, it feels good. Having her here feels welcome.
“Um,” she tucks a glossy strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe you’d like to get some sleep? Or I could make you breakfast while you shower and get into something more comfortable than Christian Dior?”
“The latter,” I agree, rubbing the back of my neck. “Xenia and Georges have nothing in their offices but stale takeout and energy drinks.”
“Oh, and terrible candy,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Does Georges still have that weird obsession with candy corn?”
“He does. There’s a giant jar of it on his desk,” I say. “Dinnae ye get him hooked on those wee bastards?”
Laughing, she pulls a copper pan off the rack hanging by the big Aga stove. “I gave them to him once! He’d never had them before and wanted to try the ‘offputting American candy,’ he said. Nowit’s my fault? I promise that there will be no candy corn in your pancakes.”
“I’m trusting ye,” I warn. As I head out of the kitchen, I catch a glimpse of her smile, vulnerable and warm before I realize what I said.
Trust.
It takes seconds to strip off what’s left of my rumpled tuxedo and step gratefully into the shower. My leg is on fire, but heat usually helps. Head bent under the stream of hot water, I try to wash away the fury of the last twelve hours.
When we went through the Morozov security breach last night, Xenia asked me, “Does Sophie have access to your study at home?” She bit her lip, looking uncomfortable about asking. Da’s green gaze went to me, waiting for the answer.
“No,” I’d said sharply. “My study door is always locked, and I dinnae keep encryption codes anywhere but here in my office.”
“Good,” she nodded quickly, seeming relieved to get the awkward question over with. “That’s good. One less variable.”
I wanted to snarl at her that she should be looking atherdepartment’s internal security, because these breaches - mistakes, slip-ups, compromised intel - seemed to be hitting us faster than we can patch up the last problem. But a Chieftain dinnae condemn others when the last line of responsibility lies with them. Da never shifted blame, and neither will I.
