“You look like you need a whiskey,” is all he says before taking my hand. “C’mere.”
He leads me to what used to be my father’s study. Not much has changed except there’s a distinct curl of smoke in the air. Cigars, maybe? I try not to think about what tying himself to me could mean. Wearing his rings. Sleeping in his bed. God only knows what he’ll ask from me next.
Am I willing to risk it all just to know what he’s been up to?
I take the glass of whiskey he offers and sip, wincing through the burn.
Yes. Yes, I am.
He sits behind the desk with his own glass, the only light a small lamp on a side table. It glints off his hair as he drinks, watching me.
“Well?” I prompt.
O’Connor seems to have come to a decision. “If you want to know what I’ve been up to, I’ve had Eamon tracking down the person who shot youradvisor. Broussard?”
I nearly choke on my whiskey. He stares over his, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement, until I can speak again. “You’re what? How—why…what?”
“You didn’t really think I was going to let you run off without someone watching over you? You should know better by now.”
“You followed me?” I rasp, wishing there was something other than whiskey to soothe the burn in my throat. “Who was?—”
“One question at a time.” A sip of whiskey. “Of course I followed you. You seem to think your little pink suits are made of Kevlar, but they’re not. I do what I have to in order to make sure you’re safe. And I don’t know who he is. At least not yet.”
I ignore his comment about keeping me safe. “But you must have some idea. That’s who shot Eamon?” The thought makes me drink the rest of my whiskey in one gulp. It burns going downmy throat. Probably not a good idea to mix with margaritas, but I can’t be sober for this.
I should call Reggie, tell him O’Connor has a lead, but my lips stay glued shut as O’Connor gestures to a chair across from him. “Sit.”
I plop down before I can think twice, my limbs heavy and warm. “What are you going to do when you catch him?”
His lip quirks. “I’m going to ask him a few questions.”
“Oh, really?” I say sarcastically. Then I pause. Do I really want to know the dirty details? I think of Mr. Broussard in a hospital bed, seeming so frail, hooked up to monitors and wrapped in white sheets. He’d done nothing to deserve this. Whoever had targeted him—us—deserved whatever they had coming to them. Yes, I decide. I do want to know. “You’ll tell me what happens. Who it is. Won’t you? We did make a deal.”
He nods. “Eamon got too close, and this guy’s trigger-happy. Running scared. But don’t worry, Eamon will find him. Probably by tomorrow.”
“Should he be doing that in his condition?”
O’Connor waves this away. “He’s been through much worse.”
I don’t know what to say about that, so I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Why would you do this?”
“You’re my wife.”
“So you’re going to hunt this man down and interrogate him?”
“I’ll do what I have to do.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t want you to interfere.”
“You’re my wife. Your safety is important to me. So if anyone threatens it, I’ll take care of them.”
“Are you going to make a habit of fixing my problems like this?”
He tilts his head, his smile sharp as the edge of a knife. “Probably.”
