Oliver laced his fingers with Mairead’s. “I’m bringing my wife for protection.”
Derrick rolled his eyes and walked away. Oliver looked at his bride to see what thoughts she might be having on the madness at hand, but she only smiled.
“They love you.”
He shuddered, had a laugh for his trouble, then walked with her over to the door. They were invited out onto the front stoop beyond which sat two cars. One was shrouded in black silk. Oliver would have only been surprised to find that what itwasn’tcovering up was a very dinged-up Ford with mismatched hubcaps.
But the other …
Derrick gestured expansively toward the modest little Fiat on the left. It was a pretty powder blue color, not quite the color of his eyes, and there was a Ferrari medallion glued to the front of it. He suspected there was a second one glued to the arse-end of it. He looked at his bride.
“I expected this.”
“The car is new,” Derrick said huffily. “And those medallions are damned pricey.”
Oliver held out his hand for the keys. Derrick looked at him, snorted, then reached around him and held them out to Mairead.
“Your conveyance, my lady,” he said, with a small bow. “I’m sure your husband will splash out for something a bit larger later, but this is a good start.”
Oliver frowned. “Well—”
Derrick pulled a different set of keys from his pocket and tossed them at him. Oliver caught them out of habit, then watched as Peter pulled that silken sheet off the other car parked there.
He almost swooned.
Mairead squeezed his hand. “Does it go fast?”
“Extremely,” he wheezed.
His wife abandoned him immediately to go run her hands over and peer into the headlamps of what Oliver could scarce bring himself to name, though he could spell the brand well enough and it began with a B and ended with an I.
He considered the beauty before him—and not just his wife—for quite some time before he trusted himself to speak. He cleared his throat roughly.
“Thank you.”
“It’s just a car, lad,” Derrick said lightly. “No need to weep over it.”
Oliver glared at him and had a brief smile as his reward.
“Anything for a brother,” Derrick said simply. “And that’s not about the car.”
Oliver was half-tempted to turn and throw his arms around his best mate, the lad who had been there during that first interview with Cameron and listened to all of Oliver’s secrets, never mind a few follow-ups after a night at the pub, and had never once offered him anything but acceptance and the hand of friendship.
Derrick rolled his eyes, pulled Oliver into a tight, quick and very manly embrace, then shoved him away and followed that up with a brisk slap to the back of his head. Oliver returnedthe favor with an equally quick and brisk flick between Derrick’s eyes.
And balance was yet again restored.
“You didn’t really spend your hard-earned sterling on this, did you?”
Derrick snorted. “Are ye daft, lad? Of course not. Cameron bought it for you, likely used. I did you the favor of your MOT fees for the year and Peter bought you some special wipes to clean your greasy, post-chippy-run finger leavings from off the steering wheel. The petrol is up to you. You can also buy your wife something bigger once she masters that wee beast over there, though I’m imagining you won’t be letting her drive either in London.”
“I think we’ll stick to Scottish roads for a bit for her,” Oliver agreed.
“And for you?” Derrick asked with a smile.
“I feel a long trip to London coming on,” Oliver said, stopping himself before he purred. “Then a ferry ride to the Continent.”
“Germany’s going to change the laws there about tourists screaming down their motorways because of you, you know.”
