“Oh my God, Rave. No way!”
“For work, of course. I mean, I’m sure.” Raven was sure of nothing. “He wants to look at the whiskey barrel artisans we admired outside Dublin. And,” before she lost her nerve, she spewed out the rest, “he wants to meet Nan.”
“I think shit just got real.”
“Really real.”
Really real about summed it up. Holy shit. She was flying to Ireland with Bran. On a private jet. In one week. Raven didn’t know the itinerary. Honestly, she didn’t know a whole hell of a lot, but she did know this— Bran asked her to go to Ireland. Just her. And she said yes.
10
Look at that— the good-old-boy gang’s finally under one roof. It was exhausting surveilling three men and their families. When necessary, he also had to watch any women they dated if it seemed a potential relationship was blooming. Rare.
Such a lovely treat to have them all together. Minus that bastard O’Connor’s ex, Jane. Good work that. It was almost too easy to break them up. At least he still had opportunities to twist the knife in James’ back by sending pics of Jane with her ‘other men.’
Chortling to himself, Sam had to admit, though he wasn’t a braggart by any means, that his photoshop expertise was without peer. He’d fooled experts in the field before. Fooling the Three Amigos was child’s play. Sam’s strengths lay not only in digital graphic sleight of hand. He knew how to plant bugs and tracers— that he built himself.
He changed his appearance as easily as other people walked through open doorways. Hell, he had part-time jobs where the pieces of shit spent time— he couldn’t work full time, obviously, if the majority of his days were filled with listening, watching,and following the three people he hated most. Actually, Sam’s hate for Hugh O’Faolain was unmatched. Why go after Hugh directly, though? Hurting his family would hurt the most.
He lived for bussing their tables, topping off their water, bowing and scraping in a ridiculously obsequious manner. There was no room in his life for pride, nothing beneath him, because, in reality, his own opinion was the only one that mattered.
Everything he had once held dear had been taken by the O’Faolains.
His father, God rest his soul, had been a once devoted employee, a high-powered accountant for the family— and been discarded like trash. The perjurious heathens had slandered his father as an embezzler— no court hearing to uncover the fraudulency of the charges— just tossedout. Sam was sure Larry Delton never crossed their minds again. Well, the O’Faolains crossed Sam’s mind.
His mother left them within months. Horrible woman, and good riddance. She never appreciated the level of intellect he and his father were burdened with. That, he could handle... his father being murdered less than a year later... he could not.
The coroners pronounced it suicide. Not true. His father was depressed, and from this oppressive abyss, he was forced to take a cocktail of prescription medications to cope with the injustice of losing his position. Taking too many was simply an accident. His dad would never have chosen to leave his only child.
Sam had been a classmate of the O’Faolain brothers and of James O’Connor. They’d gone to the same damn private Catholic school. The fact that they didn’t recognize him, that he served them now, turned their sheets back, and plumped their pillows, might infuriate a lesser man. Not Samuel Delton.
No. He held on to the mere idea that one day his plans would come to fruition. That he would be there to bask in their despair. He would wait and watch. He would destroy every relationship they attempted to create.
It was glory. It was vengeance. It was justice.
Good thing Samdidn’t allow any detail to slide. He’d had the O’Faolain jet’s numbers for months and periodically checked the family’s traveling schedule. Usually, they were business trips, but when a trip appeared on the flight schedule right after that dinner, Sam knew there was a possibility that this was a pleasure trip. He was glad he’d followed his instincts and staked out the airport.
Sam watched Bran O’Faolain and his ‘possible’ current amour board the family’s private jet through night vision binoculars. He’d already entered the jet’s tail number into his FlightAware app and knew it had a scheduled trip to Ireland.
He also discovered from the dinner the other night that the woman accompanying Bran was Raven Byrne, one of the owners of Triskelion Territory Designs, an interior design firm in Eufaula. Absently, Sam made a mental note to set up cameras in the offices there.
Typically, an overseas trip, usually business related, wouldn’t have pinged Sam’s radar. However, Bran had shown an exorbitant amount of attention to that particular Byrne. So, here he was, doing his due diligence.
Through the app, he would know when the jet made its return flight. He’d be waiting as they disembarked. Body language usually spoke much louder than words. If his intuition were to be believed, and it rarely failed him, Branwas getting serious with a woman. His first. Butterflies erupted in Sam’s stomach, imagining the budding relationship’s implosion.
11
Raven spent the day working from Jo’s family home. The O’Connors’ parents were in Florida overseeing the final touches on a restaurant opening. Jo assured her she was welcome whether the rest of the family was in residence.
Bran wanted to leave in the middle of the night or early morning, really— 3 o’clock. He said it was the best time. They would be exhausted by the time the jet lifted off, sleep for several hours, get some work done, and eat lunch. It sounded terrible, but he assured her it would help with the time difference once they landed in Dublin. She and her sisters had always just lounged around in pajamas for a day, so he might be on to something.
Jo had the family’s personal driver take her to the airport in the wee hours of the morning to meet Bran.
Bran. A private jet. Ireland. Bran.
He was right. She fell fast asleep, covered with silk sheets and her head cushioned on a pillow cloud. She’d slept for hours in the down feather, silk, and leather cocoon. Now, a gorgeous salad with grilled chicken, nuts, and cranberries sat next to an even lovelier double shot of Bushmills Black Bush.
“Okay, Bran. You’ve won me over. I’m going to suggest at Triskelion’s next meeting that my sisters and I purchase our own private jet. For business, obviously. I’m sure we can make little, tiny, monthly payments and own it outright in eighty years or so.” Facing her, Bran was digging into his own salad, his with thin slices of steak and a fan of ripe avocado.
