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Esther pushes the laptop across the island, looking wary, and I take a seat next to Beau, scanning the limited names in the spreadsheet. There’s all of the obvious ones, all of the men, Goldie, Doc, us. Then I see Derek and Hilary. “Who’s Turner and guest?” I ask, looking at them for an answer. Both shrug. I go back to the list. “Jerry?”
“Oh, that’s the lad Leon hired to help run the boatyard,” Beau pipes up.
Talk about scraping the barrel. “Kenny Spittle?” I frown.
Beau yanks the paper toward her. “What the hell?” she says, her lip virtually curling at the sight and sound of his name.
“Why did they have a picture of him?” I ask. I can only assume it’s because they want him dead, and I’m pretty sure he can’t be if he’s down to attend our wedding.
“He manages a bank. The one where my mom kept a safety deposit box. He gave the information inside to The Bear, which is how he knows who James really is. That box is why my mother was killed.”
“Oh, Beau,” Esther says on a sigh, shaking her head in dismay.
I get it. I hear her. But . . . “You can’t go off on manhunts like that, Beau.” Good lord, these people are dangerous. “Not on your own.” Not at all, actually.
She drops her bagel and dusts her hands off, exasperated. “Why does everyone keep forgetting that I used to be a cop?”
Okay, fair enough, she did. I won’t remind her she no longer is, and I won’t remind her she’s still not completely physically healed. I’m not stupid. “Still, it’s dangerous.”
She rolls her eyes, and I reluctantly go back to the list, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle. This isn’t only Danny and James’s war. “Who the hell is Detective Higham? What is this, a police gala? This is ridiculous.” I throw my hands up in the air, looking at Esther. “I hardly know these people.”
“Um . . . you know this one.”
I look at Beau. Her blue eyes are alarmed. “Who?” I ask, going back to the list. “What?” My eyes land on Perry Adams’s name, as well as his wife below. “He’s got to be joking.” I drop my head. “Why would he do that?” And something comes to me. I look at Esther. “He’s planning something.” I throw my stare to Beau. “They’re planning something. Have you spoken to James?”
Beau laughs. “No, I told you, we’re not talking.”
“This is supposed to be a happy time, for goodness sake,” Esther cries, pouring tea. “And at the risk of annoying you”—she slams the pot down and divides her attention between Beau and me—“you both know the men you’re in bed with very well, do you not?”
“Too well.” Beau takes a piece of her bagel and pops it in her mouth, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. “I know what he’s capable of, his moods, his drive, and I still haven’t figured out if knowing is a good thing or not.” She blinks a few times, falling silent momentarily. “I need to burn off some steam.” She snaps to life, hops off the stool, and kisses my cheek. “It’s going to be a lovely day,” she says. “And tonight is going to be great too.”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“Your bachelorette party,” she sings, backing out of the room. “Last night as a single woman.”
I laugh out loud, as does Esther. I’m far from single. And far from being in the mood, constantly worrying and wondering when I’ll get my husband back.
And if he’ll be in one piece when I do.
* * *
Hiatus is pumping when we arrive. We’re escorted to the front of the queue by Fury before being let past the red velvet rope by Nolan. No one calls out an objection. No one kicks up a stink. I feel like I have a sign on my back telling the world who I am.
We’re shown to an area near the back, away from the rest of the club, with a personal waiter and more ropes holding the public back. I glance up at the blacked-out window spanning the back wall as I tail Beau. I know he’s up there. Watching me. Not only because I can feel his arctic stare pinned on me, but because Tank is back at the house babysitting Daniel with a few other men, and there’s no way I’d be allowed to leave the mansion without Tank. Also, the atmosphere in the club is tense, people looking and whispering. So yes, he’s here. My husband. The Brit.
How I wish he wasn’t The Brit, and yet my reasonable side accepts that without his name and reputation, we wouldn’t have met. And we wouldn’t be surviving now.
I lower to the plush velvet seat and follow a waitress’s journey to our table, a bottle of champagne in one hand, glasses dangling from the other by the stems held between her fingers. She lowers the bucket and smiles brightly as she sets a glass in front of Beau, Esther, and Zinnea. She must feel my eyes drilling into her, because she glances at me nervously, giving me an apologetic smile.
