“I’m not becoming your in-house whore,” Rose yells, jumping out the other side and glaring across the car at me. “Your piece of ass to fuck when you need to let off steam after a hard day killing whoever the fuck needs killing.” She storms off up the steps, and the men wisely move from her path.
“Fuck me,” I breathe, blindly pushing the door shut. Yeah, The Brit is back. And he’s bought his impertinent woman with him. Trying to get this balance right might kill me with stress, if Rose doesn’t kill me first.
I take one step, and the men around me move too, becoming more alert, more aware, some starting to look around, scanning the walls that surround the mansion. I freeze and cast an interested look their way. “Am I missing something, or has the national news announced my resurrection?” I ask.
“We’re taking no chances.” Ringo appears at the top of the stairs and, fuck, it’s good to see his ugly mug. “Welcome home, Mr. Black.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I laugh as I round the car, this time ignoring the moves of the men around me, my arms lifting, beckoning him to me. His chest meets mine hard, and his big, murdering hands slap my back with force. “Good to see you, you ugly fuck.”
“Is it?” he grunts, pushing me away, assessing me up and down. “St. Lucia suits you.”
We start taking the stairs to the mansion side by side, and when we enter, Brad is emerging from the corridor that leads to my office. He spots Rose first, who’s halfway up the stairs. “Rose,” he sings.
“Fuck off, Brad,” she spits over her shoulder.
“What did I do?”
“Breathe,” she yells, and he recoils, looking my way.
I shake my head mildly as I go after her, ready to calm her the fuck down. I catch her wrist. Haven’t I learned? She swings around, landing me precisely on the jaw, and I hear the men’s gasps. Their horror. This woman is braver than any one of them.
I close my eyes, breathe in deeply, and exhale calmly. “Are you fucking determined to push me off the cliff of patience?”
She’s trying so hard to hold back her tears, her jaw clenching fiercely, her waning strength pushing through. Her dainty shoulders push back, her eyes passing me, taking in our audience. She’s smart and sophisticated enough to rein it in before it gets really out of hand. Her gaze travels the room and comes back to mine, and I reach for my jaw, making a point of cracking it, my burning glare spelling out my mood.
Fuming.
Our spars, all of them, verbal, physical and sexual, should never be aired in public, especially not in front of my men. “You done?” I ask tightly. She looks away from me, pivots, and hurries up the stairs, keen to escape the peanut gallery. Oh Rose. My fiery, savage, vulnerable Rose.
I turn and take the stairs back down, noting Esther has wandered into the foyer, wiping her hands on a tea towel. It seems she’s the only thing that’s changed around here, her body no longer carrying an insipid gray uniform, and is now adorned in bright garments that do her complexion wonders. I’ve seen her since we left, of course, but always in St. Lucia when she visited. It never quite hit me how far removed she looked from the woman Pops found all those years ago. But now, here at the mansion, my past catching up to me, the backdrop as it always was, she looks out of place. “Danny,” she breathes, and it’s half-hearted, almost cautious. Worried.
“Hello, Mum.” I go to her, dipping so she can get her arms over my shoulders, but not before I take the tea towel from her hand and cast it aside. Her hug is fierce. “I want to say it’s good to have you home.”
“Then say it,” I reply, letting her cuddle the shit out of me. I can feel her unease. It’s one more woman to try and appease. I have a feeling my mother might be easier than Rose. She breaks away and collects the tea towel from where I tossed it. I frown. “Give me a moment with my mum,” I say to the men over my shoulder, and they all disperse, heading outside. “Come with me.” I sweep an arm out for her to lead, and she does, although obviously curious.
I open the door to my office for her, and she heads straight to my desk.
“The couch,” I say, and she stops, looking back. “This isn’t a business meeting, Mum.” They say old habits die hard. They really do. I need to break her habit. Redirecting to the couch, she lowers. “What’s this?” I ask, taking the tea towel from her again and holding it up as I join her on the couch.