Page 53 of No Lies No Promises

While they search pricey rentals and hotels, Mace turns in his seat. “Why is Liam so keen on Lillian? Why not her siblings?”

I scoot forward so he can hear me over the Land Rover’s engine. “He wants an heir. Only Lilly is his.”

“And Becca? Why keep her around?”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. The man’s got it bad.

“Leverage.” I scratch the growth on my chin. “To keep Lillian in line.”

While I speak, shards of memories from the jungle resurface from somewhere deep in my subconscious. Me on a motorbike. Lillian glued to my back. Fierce dogs snapping at our heels. An airstrip. A helicopter. An escape worthy of a blockbuster movie.

Too many. Usually, I can keep them buried, but tonight, probably due to the stress, they break free.

Still talking, Mace waves a hand in front of my face. “Bro, you with me?”

“Yup. When we find Boyle, he’s mine.” Last time, I let him slip away. Won’t happen again.

Lil, listening in, pauses her conversation long enough to punch my arm. Hard. “There are laws, Rambo.”

She tilts her head, like I’m going to agree, but I won’t. Liam has the resources to flee the country before the ink dries on a warrant.

No doubt sensing I’m about to say something stupid, Dante intervenes. “Give it a rest, Clark.”

“Good copy.” Hand inside my suit jacket, I sleep lightly, never fully surrendering.

About an hour later, the vehicle bounces over ruts in a dirt road. In front of us, a cottage, probably medieval. No hedges. No trees. Sheep. Long, rolling hills. Dogs. No chance in hell anyone rolls up without us knowing.

Impressed by his choice, I tap Dante’s shoulder. “Going old school, pal?”

He chuckles in the mirror. “Except for the cameras, motion detectors, and a drone. Got a team out there, too.”

Lillian, head on my lap, stirs when the motor stops. “Are we safe?” Her lashes lift, eyes latching onto mine.

“Yeah. For now.” My throat tightens. Sucks she has to ask.

While we wait, armed men pile from the lead Range Rover. Once they clear the building, they allow us inside.

Open space. Fireplace. Modern kitchen. Medieval arrow slits covered in glass. Hallway. A couple of doors, probably bedroom-bath combo. Couch. Dining table. Chairs.

Not much to trip over if a fast exit is required.

Coming up behind me, Dante claps me on the shoulder. “I’m taking first watch. You two get some sleep. Save the fucking for home.”

I toss him a middle finger. “Says the single man who hasn’t had sex for a decade.”

“You two are the worst.” Inside the bedroom, still chuckling, she removes the mic from her chest, followed by the tiny speaker in her ear. Then she’s the one who presses me against the wall. “How about some post-traumatic-stress sex, Mr. Balls?”

“PTSS? Is that even a thing?” Smiling, I remove her ruined dress. As it drops to the floor, my throat dries at the sight of her mouthwatering, naked body. “No underwear? All night?”

She unstraps a knife from her inner thigh. “Panty lines. Can’t have that.”

“Copy.” My cock has officially taken charge of this evening’s agenda. Shrugging off my clothes, my gaze drops to her scratched legs and muddy feet. “When did you lose your shoes?”

“Not just any shoes. Jimmy Choos. I was hoping to keep them.” She slides aside a transparent rice-paper screen, revealing a claw-foot antique tub, sized for two. “Whoa. Check this out.”

“Excellent idea.” I lift her in, running warm water until she’s covered. “Let’s see those feet.”

Once I’m sure they have only a few scratches, I remove my comms, then slip in behind her. Soap in hand, I slide it over her body. Her nipples harden as I pay them extra attention. Resting back, she groans, lifts her legs, and dangles her heels outside the tub.