Page 72 of Ruthless Enforcer

"As you can see, I was indisposed," I reply with an easy, self-deprecating smile that doesn't reach my eyes. I lift a finger to signal a waiter. "A minor mishap on a mountain road. The concussion, cracked ribs, and surgeon insisted on complete rest. The timing was unfortunate, but politics is patient. The governor’s mansion will still be there in eighteen months."

The waiter comes over.

I can feel Whitlock studying me as I order another drink for him and a whiskey for me. Whitlock’s a rancher, but you don't run three hundred thousand acres of deeded Montana timber and cattle without possessing the instincts of a timber wolf. He knows something tore me apart, and he knows I survived it.

"I’m glad to see you on your feet," he says once the waiter leaves, though his tone suggests he couldn't care less. "Now tell me why you sat your ass down next to me."

"I came because I heard something troubling in town," I say, keeping my voice low, intimate, and entirely conversational. "And because I respect your family too much to let you operate in the dark."

His mouth tightens. "I'm not in the dark about anything that concerns me."

“And about your niece?”

The old man stiffens, his eyes sharpening. “What about Clara?”

Gotcha. "Gabriel Reyes has her."

The room seems to drop two degrees. Whitlock doesn't flinch, but the muscle along the curve of his jaw knots so hard I can hear the cartilage click.

"Of course he has her," Whitlock says evenly. "They were married. You're five days behind the news, Turner."

I don't argue. I don't scoff. I don't offer a dramatic gasp or produce a file of blurry photographs. I simply look at him, my expression mild, patient, and full of quiet sympathy. "I'm sure that's what she was told to tell you.”

The silence that follows is heavy enough to choke on.

Whitlock narrows his eyes. A direct contradiction would have given him something to strike against—an accusation he could refute, an insult he could throw back in my face. The absence of an argument unnerves him far more.

The waiter returns with our drinks, setting them in front of us. I pick mine up and pretend to survey the room as I take a sip.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Whitlock finally demands.

"Nothing." Shaking my head, I put my drink down. "Clara is an exceptional young woman. Intelligent. Composed. Loyal to the Whitlock name. I have no doubt she spoke to you with absolute conviction about Reyes."

The old man scowls at me.

“It’s just surprising, given the old enmity between your two families. Everyone knows about the bad blood between you.” I shrug, offering him a smile. “I guess love would heal that.”

Whitlock huffs and picks up his drink.

I tilt my head slightly. "I’m just surprised you’d let her date Gabriel Reyes."

For a fraction of a second, Whitlock pauses with the glass halfway to his mouth. "I didn’t,” he mumbles, taking a sip.

The pause is just long enough for me to see the doubt take root. I lean back in the chair, ignoring the dull throb in my ribs. "How long have they known each other? She couldn’t have mentioned meeting him, given your families’ animosity."

"Clara keeps her private life to herself."

"She’s a twenty-four-year-old heiress," I point out. "And she lives under your roof. If she’d been courting the most notorious man in the Pacific Northwest, you would have known within forty-eight hours. But you didn't. Because there was no courtship."

Whitlock shifts in his chair. "A sudden match is hardly a crime."

"And young girls are prone to believing in love at first sight, I guess." I shrug despite my ribs.

His eyes narrow. “You’re obviously here to make a point, Turner, so go ahead and make it.”

“I don’t trust the Reyes family,” I say point-blank. “When I hear news about them, I listen, and I’ve heard a lot about them and your niece the past few days.”

“Such as?”