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“And?” I challenge, not jumping to command.
Connor pauses from rearranging his too tight tie and looks at Cian and Rory. “Yer fathers are lookin’ for ya.”
This is a not so subtle hint that they’re to leave.
Nodding discreetly, I give them the okay that I’ll be fine. They both leave, knowing better than to argue with Connor.
Once they’re away, Connor steps close so no one can earwig. “Tonight is very important. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Aye,” I smartly reply, folding my arms. “It’s the day ya married the love of yer life, so ya did.”
“Quit yer gurnin’. I won’t have ye runnin’ yer smart mouth, ruinin’ this,” he warns, not appreciating my sarcasm. “I don’t need to remind ya what happens if we make an enemy of the chief constable.”
The chief constable should be the least of his worries. He needs to sort out his men first because it doesn’t matter who’s on our side if we don’t have a side. But that’s how arrogant he is. He thinks everyone is blinded by his bullshit.
“I’ll not tell ya again.”
He leads the way, expecting me to follow, and I do ’cause the quicker I get this done, the sooner I can find Babydoll and apologize. Guests greet us as we walk through the castle, talking utter bollocks, but I nod and smile, pretending to give a fuck.
Connor’s ability to shit talk still amazes me because you’d think he cared if you didn’t know any better. When the chief constable, and who I’m presuming is his wife, appear up ahead, Connor quickly excuses himself and casually makes a beeline for them.
He gestures that a waiter is to follow him, which is my opportunity.
“Chief Constable Moore,” he says, snaring two glasses of champagne from the server’s tray, offering them to the chief constable and his wife. “And you must be Mrs. Moore.”
Both accept the glasses, but I can immediately see the chief constable doesn’t appreciate lickarses.
“Mrs. Moore is Donovan’s mother. I’m Lana,” his wife says, extending her hand, which Connor kisses the back of.
Reaching for my own glass, I throw it back in one gulp, needing to wash the disgust from my bake. I notice Donovan watching me closely. This is the first time he’s seen me, but no doubt, he’s heard a lot about me.
I’m known for being a bad wee rip, and that’s why the peelers have left me be, but I think that’s about to change. Donovan Moore is no friend. He is foe.
“This is my son, Puck Kelly.”
Smiling without enthusiasm, I grab another glass of champagne, not interested in making small talk. It seems Donovan feels the same way.
“I know who he is,” he says, sipping his drink.
“Ach, I’m flattered,” I reply smartly, while Connor glares at me.
“I’d love to speak with ya later on,” Connor says, wishing to change the subject.
“Grand,” Donovan replies, not fooled by Connor’s charms. “How’s business then?”
Connor smiles, but it’s strained. “Always busy in the manufacturin’ business.”
That’s his cover story. That the Kellys earn what we do because Connor is the CEO of a company that manufactures aluminum casting products for the automotive industry. This is how we’re able to import and export our product—which has nothing to do with cars—without detection.
Everyone knows it’s bullshit, because although this business does exist, it makes little to no money operating legally. It’s just a front, and it’s worked until now.
Connor reaches for a glass of champagne, clearly sensing this for the dog’s dinner that it is. When he takes a mouthful, I zero in on the glass because I want it.
Thankfully, Cian’s da appears, who Donovan seems to take a liking to more than Connor. When Connor places the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, I don’t bother excusing myself and follow the waiter through the room.
When he turns the corner, headed for the kitchen, I stop him. “I’ll be havin’ this.”
I don’t give him a chance to ask why I need an empty glass as I walk away with Connor’s glass in hand. I head toward the bathroom and lock the door when I’m inside.
