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“Nose?”
“He can sniff out any detail, no matter what. He might like to have his secretary type out his reports—who’s his girlfriend, by the way, and he claims he can trust her like no one else to keep her mouth shut—but he uses every mode possible when on the hunt for his subject. The guy even knows how to use TikTok. And he’s seventy,” Winston says.
“It’s the twenty-first century. I thought we were a little more sophisticated than this,” I say.
“We have access to the best technology money can buy. This guy is better.” My brother’s firm tone is more like a taunt for me to argue with him.
I don’t bother.
Leaning forward, I snatch the folder off of Winston’s desk and flip it open. A black-and-white photo of Seamus McAsshole greets me, and I scowl when I recognize the building he’s standing in front of.
“Where the Lancasters reside,” Winston says for me. “He met with one of them.”
Alarm races through me and I brace myself for the answer. I almost don’t want to know. “Which one?”
“Not sure yet. Wasn’t Grant. He was in his office—he’s a workaholic like me. The youngest brother is away at boarding school. Louisa was in residence. So was Reggie.”
I stare at the photo, wishing I could scratch Seamus’s face out. “What about Finn?”
“Can’t figure out where he is yet. He’s mysterious, that one. Slippery too. Don’t think he was the one who met with Seamus though,” Winston says. “Pretty sure it was her dear old dad.”
Anger rises and I do my best to tamp it down as I read through the report. The investigator gives a nearly hour-by-hour glimpse into this asshole’s life for the last four days that we’ve been gone.
“He’s been busy,” I observe.
“I know. Meeting with various Morellis. A Lancaster. Surprised he didn’t fit a meeting with a Constantine into his itinerary,” Winston muses.
“What Constantine do you think he’d actually want to meet with?” I’d have a stern talk withanyfamily member who spoke to this piece of shit.
“The only one I can imagine him wanting to meet with is your wife.”
The anger blooms and I don’t hold back. “He can go fuck himself. There’s no way in hell I’ll let him near her.”
“You can’t always protect her,” Winston reminds me. “You’re at work and she’s at home and she’ll eventually grow bored. She might even entertain the idea of reuniting with an old flame.”
I slap the folder shut and drop it onto his desk with a plop. “Why are you trying to fuck with my head?”
“I’m not fucking with your head. I’m stating facts. And I’m hoping you’ll agree with me when I say we can’t trust her. Not yet.”
The anger is automatically replaced with dread. “I don’t trust her.”
I’m a liar. I started to. The first part of the honeymoon, I was still pissed at the fact that her lover made a surprise appearance at our goddamn wedding. But as time went on and I spent more time with her, I realized that I actuallylikeher. I’m definitely attracted to her. All that fucking in the hot Mexican sun does something to a person.
She told me how that asshole took advantage of her in Paris, and I trusted her with a story I’ve told no one else.
And that was a huge step for me. I don’t like talking about my street racing days. Back then I did some things I regret.
I wish I wouldn’t have shut her down when she was trying to open up to me. I was too selfish, too in my head to want to hear what she had to say when I should’ve remained quiet and listened.
Maybe she’ll tell me again—and hopefully confess more.
“Good,” Winston says, his expression grim. “For all we know she put Daddy up to meet with her ex and they’re plotting to run away together with Daddy’s permission.”
That would never happen, is what I want to say. Her father is her worst nightmare. She wouldn’t want to work with him.
“They don’t get along,” is all I say in response. “Charlotte and her father.”
“Uh-huh. She might get along with him for the sake of getting out of a marriage she never wanted,” Winston points out.
