Page 88 of Oddly Fine

Beckett was more grateful than ever for Hayes’ presence. His mind was still reeling from the discovery that his brother wasn’t dead and he hadn’t lost his mind yet. But his reasoning abilities weren’t back to full strength, as much as he might wish they were, so he needed Hayes to lead the charge.

“He’s brought up the subject before. And there was an incident a couple of months back—I’m hoping I can get him to open up about that deal again—so he might confess certain things while you’re in the room.”

“And you don’t think he’d find our sudden appearance in your life suspicious?” Beckett asked.

“Well—if anyone asks I can simply point out that you came highly recommended by Mr. Kent.” His expression brightened—like he was holding back a laugh.

That name—it tickled Beckett’s brain. He knew that name, but from where? And then it all came back to him. A masked ball. Tight suits. A sexagenarian sitting in his lap.

“No!” Beckett said, as shock ran through him like a bolt of lightning. “Fuck no! Absolutely not!” he screamed in abject horror.

Matthew did laugh then. It was an impressive belly laugh that clashed with his sophisticated manner and perfect face.

“But how does that differ from what the FBI is doing? Wouldn’t you choose bodyguards from within your own organisation?” Hayes asked, refusing to be distracted by the mention of Mr. Kent’s name.

“Not necessarily. I generally outsource them. People within the organisation are always looking for ways to climb the ranks, and since bodyguards are privy to just about everything in my life—opportunities for blackmail arise constantly,” he explained casually.

“Nice mob mentality—really selling the whole loyalty thing,” Beckett mocked.

“In my experience, Agent Thérault, men are loyal to only one thing—money.” He downed his drink and saluted them with his empty glass.

“But I should be glad you’re involved with my brother, right?” Beckett asked sardonically, twirling the crystal tumbler around and around in his hand but never drinking from it. He wasn’t worried that Matthew had slipped any drugs into it; he was just being contrary.

“Perhaps you’re right—let me amend that—reasonable men are loyal only to one thing—money, but love makes fools of us all,” he corrected with a self-conscious smile.

Beckett wasn’t convinced Matthew was totally trustworthy or that his plan would work.

“So—just for clarification, you want us to pose as your bodyguards so that we could observe illegal activities and testify against your uncle,” Hayes summarized. He lifted his drink to take a quick sip and looked at the glass with a pleased expression, because using top shelf liquor does make a difference.

“Indeed, Agent Monroe,” Matthew replied with a nod. He leaned against the counter behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.

Beckett frowned thoughtfully as he contemplated Matthew’s plan.

“Call me Hayes,” his backstabbing, good-for-nothing boyfriend suggested with a friendly smile. “Why didn’t you offer the FBI the same deal?”

“I refuse to have a federal agent tailing me day in and day out for weeks—besides, even though you two are just pretend hires, I do expect you to watch my back and perform the duties of actual bodyguards.”

“And you don’t trust the FBI to do that?” Hayes asked with raised brows.

“No,” Matthew said, point blank. “While they might be willing to take a chance on this—association—a dead Rosario is a good thing in their book. Why would anyone risk their life for mine?”

“But you trust us to do so?” Beckett scoffed.

“Yes.” The strength of his conviction and lack of hesitation were startling.

“Why?” Beckett asked, smiling faintly, as if he’d already figured it out but couldn’t pass up the opportunity of forcing Matthew to lay his cards on the table.

“Because I love your brother, and your brother loves me back—and I don’t think you’d let him face that kind of grief if you could help it.”

Matthew’s inherent confidence rubbed Beckett the wrong way. Not because it was unsettling or unwarranted, but because Beckett was left with the distinct impression that he was being manipulated. Always. Constantly. Like Matthew’s words were working their way under his skin. Even his openness about the situation didn’t do anything to lessen his suspicions. He didn’t like being a pawn in someone else’s game. And this game stunk to the high heavens.

When Beckett failed to show any outward reaction to his confession, Matthew grinned smugly. Matthew 1, Beckett 0. Annoyed with the situation, Beckett forced himself to remain calm—using the same strategy he’d used in middle school whenever he popped an inconvenient boner in class—by visualizing his grandma’s dentures.

“Wouldn’t it be a little suspicious? Your bodyguard also being the brother of your therapist who just committed suicide?” Beckett asked, because he had serious doubts that this was a smart plan. He couldn’t shake the notion that it was flat out stupid and incredibly dangerous for all of them.

“It would be, except you already have false identities as bodyguards. Mr. Kent is an old friend of the family. He’s recommended various personnel to me over the years. If anyone looks you up, you’re Donovan Collins. You were born in Maine and briefly attended school in Montreal before you joined the Marines.” Matthew spoke confidently, as if he’d already covered all the angles and was ready to wrap up the plan nice and neat with a pretty bow.

“Are you telling me Mr. Kent is Mafia?” Beckett asked, because he couldn’t quite picture eccentric billionaire Jonathan Kent being part of such an organisation. One of the top-ranking fashion police maybe, but an active member of the Mafia? Bitch, please!