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“Aye. I get it.” He’d come to that conclusion all by himself. Although, he was sure the women in front of him hadn’t been much of a help in protecting Donna from those who wanted to take advantage. No, it looked like they’d encouraged her wild plans instead. “Clear the building out while I deal with my housekeeper.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Agnes snapped. “We’ve been trying to clear the building out. Nobody pays any attention to us.”
“Is that right?” He turned on his heels, stalked back into the ballroom and headed straight for the stage. When he climbed up and snatched the mic from the lead singer’s hand, the band behind him stopped playing, plunging the room into silence. “This ball is over. Get your stuff and clear out.”
“Hey, who do you think you are?” A young guy in a three-piece suit got to his feet. “We paid good money for this ball. We’re not leaving until we get what we were promised—a party until midnight.”
He glared at the young man, ensuring he could see that Duncan had run out of patience. “Who do I think I am? I’m Duncan Stewart, the mansion’s owner, and this ball ends when I say it does. If you want your money back, see the women from the institute. This is their problem.” He looked around at everyone else. “Get your stuff and leave. Now!”
As people jerked to their feet and rushed towards the door, Duncan strode back to the three women who’d helped Donna get into this mess. “Grab every member of staff you can find, including the waiters, and get them to sweep the building to herd people out.” He looked at Agnes. “Tell the guy in the library he has ten minutes to pack up and get his bull outside, or I’ll take an axe to it.” He looked at Grace. “Inform the casino that if they’re not gone in the same time, the house is going to confiscate their takings.”
“What about me?” Mairi said. “What should I do?”
He turned to the youngest Sinclair sister, who was prone to causing more damage than good with any task she was given. “Take photos of every bastard who gives us trouble. We’ll hand them over to the cops later.” She nodded happily, making him wonder, yet again, what planet she lived on.
“What are you going to do?” Grace said.
“I’m going for my woman.”
He walked away from the shocked look on the three women’s faces and stalked down the corridors to Donna’s office, telling everyone he met to get their arses out of his house.
He heard voices through her open door as he approached, and he slowed his stride to listen.
“The whole of Campbeltown is laughing at you,” a callous male voice said. “Donna Sinclair can’t say no, she’ll give money to anybody with a sob story. She’s probably bending over for her boss while she’s at it, giving him a pity fuck because she’s too timid to refuse. Look around you—three old women walked all over you to take over the building. You’re the laughing stock of Kintyre. You always have been.”
“No.” Donna’s voice trembled.
“Aye,” the man snapped. “Now get out of my way.”
“No!” she shouted. “I’m not going to let you take that painting. It’s mine. Duncan gave it to me.”
“For services rendered, no doubt. Now back up or I’ll make you.”
Duncan had heard enough. He rushed to the open doorway. Donna stood with her back to him and her arms spread, trying to stop their ex-gardener from leaving with her painting. The one he’d given to her. The one that belonged to her.
Hell no!
“Put that down, you bastard,” Duncan roared.
“Duncan!” Donna screeched, and the colour drained from her face.
“Go to hell, cheapskate,” Bill snapped. “I’m leaving with this, and neither one of you can stop me.” He pushed Donna aside, making her stumble and fall into the desk.
She cried out, and Duncan saw red.
“We’ll see about that.” His fist reared back before he launched it at the gardener’s head.
At the last second, Bill lifted the painting to use as a shield. Duncan’s fist ripped through the canvas, hitting the man on the jaw, and he crumpled to the floor, taking the ruined painting with him.
“No!” Donna’s wail cut through his anger.
She fell to her knees beside the man, and for a second Duncan thought she was checking to see if the gardener was still alive rather than out cold. Instead, she lifted the ruined artwork and cradled it to her like a child. Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at him.
“It’s ruined,” she whispered, the torment in those big eyes ripping right through his anger, leaving him just as broken as the painting in her hand. “It’s gone. The only thing I have of you is gone.”
What the...? His anger fled at the sight of her. He crouched beside her, brushing the tears from her cheek. “What are you talking about, Angel?”
The pain that twisted her face was one of the worst things he’d ever had to witness. He never wanted to see her beautiful features that tormented again.
