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“What are you wondering?”
“I’m wondering how the fuck we get out of this mess and get Nolan back, because it sounds to me like King will only take Pearl intact”—I shudder—“and she’s no longer that, thanks to Brad.”
“Brad mentioned someone looking for her at the club.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, my head getting busier.
“King wouldn’t be so stupid to send someone into our club looking for her.”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“So who did?”
My eyes narrow on my desk. So many fucking questions. The door knocks, and Beau pops her head around. “She’s awake.” Then there’s a high-pitched shrill cooeee coming from the hallway. “And Aunt Zinnea just arrived.”
“Great, I need a bit of color in my life right now.” I rise from my chair as James collects Beau and leads her out of the office back into the hallway.
“Darlings.” Zinnea claps her hands, but her painted lips purse when she obviously reads the room. “Is now a bad time?” she asks, reaching back and dragging forward a man. He looks like he’s stepped off Phileas Fogg’s hot-air balloon. So this is the one I’ve been hearing about.
“No, now is the perfect time.” I step forward and offer a hand, smiling like a madman. “Danny Black. Welcome to Hell.”
“Umm . . . Quinton,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose as he accepts. “Lovely house you have here.”
“Yes, beautiful, isn’t it?” I reply, just as Goldie passes carrying a new rug on her shoulder.
“Doesn’t look much like hell.”
I laugh, head thrown back. “You just got here, Quinton. Give it time.”
“He’s just playing,” Beau says, muscling me out of the way.
“Am I?”
She rolls her eyes as Zinnea, still reading the room and concluding a shitstorm is brewing, takes Quinton’s arm, clearly ready to haul him out of here.
“Quinton, this is my husband, James.” Beau points to James. Problem is, he isn’t James right now. He’s The Enigma. I chuckle when Beau jabs James in the ribs and he forces a smile. “The others are in the kitchen. I’ll take you there, introduce you.”
“No, no, no.” Zinnea starts moving toward the front door with Quinton hanging on to her arm. “It’s obviously a bad time. We’ll get out of your hair. I just thought it was about time he met the men.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Zinnea,” I say, taking the handrail on the stairs and leaning on it, crossing one leg over the other. “We’re on lockdown.”
“God damn it,” she says, quickly looking at Quinton and apologizing for her blue language. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” Beau rushes to tell her. “Everything is fine.”
“Yes, except someone just tried to kidnap my daughter, kill my wife, someone has kidnapped Brad’s son, Pearl’s upstairs with endless broken bones, the spa’s been blown up, and Brad fucked a virgin worth one-hundred-million-dollars, which might mean the Russians, Mexicans, and a psycho cunt from England could attack us imminently.” I take a drag of my cigarette and finish my Scotch. “But other than that, everything is tickety-fucking-boo.”
“Good Lord,” Zinnea murmurs, as Quinton blinks repeatedly, and Beau scowls at me.
I bare my teeth at her, and she flings me a look to suggest I should pack it in. It’s fine. I’m done.
“Brad’s son?” Zinnea asks. “A virgin?”
“I’ll explain.” Beau gives me one final scowl before ushering her aunt and the boyfriend off into the kitchen.
“Where the hell is Brad?” I ask, looking up the stairs.
“Esther cooked. You should eat.” James follows Beau, and I trudge after them, scanning the room when I make it there. No wife. No daughter. I find Mum spooning stew into a bowl and passing it to the Vikings. I can see the guilt still lingering in them. Mum nods toward the garden, so I head there. I find Rose at the back near the summer house pushing Maggie in her stroller, a Doberman flanking each side. Guarding her. They sense the looming danger.
