“Well… no. My job was to get information for my books, Tate, not spy for you.”
She’s right. I exhale.
“Go on.”
“Aisla has the inside scoop with the Welsh, which is a good thing.”
I growl. “Good if you’re a romance writer looking for dirt.”
“Precisely.”
“Bad if you’re a high-ranking member of the mob trying to keep his family safe.”
She winces and gives me a sheepish look. “Yes.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Must be Bryn. Stay there.”
I leave Fran sitting on the sofa, while I go to answer the door. By force of habit, I look through the peephole to see who it is.
“Not Bryn. Islan’s come.”
Fran sighs. “I was afraid of that.”
What?
I open the door before I can ask her to elaborate.
Islan gives me a bright smile. Too bright. She’s positively glowing.
“Brought you clothes from Bryn,” she says with a smile. “She’s occupied with the children, so I told her I’d do her a favor.”
“Thanks.”
She looks over my shoulder, looking for her friend. "Need anything else?"
"Nope." I go to shut the door, but she shoves her foot in between the doorframe and door. Her eyes grow serious, and her voice gets stern. "She's my friend. Remember that."
“Oh, aye, I won’t forget.”
I gently but firmly put my hands on her shoulders and shove her the hell out.
I slam the door.
“So dramatic,” Fran says, but I can tell by the smile on her face that she’s pleased. Then the smile fades, and she grows more serious.
"I don't think she came here just to bring me the clothes."
"And what gives you that idea?" I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice but fail miserably.
She doesn’t smile or look at me, but stares at her hands. Her voice is a whisper. “She’s afraid I’ll tell her secrets.”
Jesus. This is something to pay attention to.
“What secrets?”
I sit beside her on the couch, and she begins to wring her hands, an uncharacteristic move for her.
