The Brit

Sometimes, I just want the pressure to fuck off from my shoulders so I don’t feel so heavy anymore. Then I remember who I am. What I do.

“Ringo took these photos.” Brad hands me a phone, and I look down at the faces of the dead men. I recognize none. “I had Spittle run the faces through his system—”

“Nothing,” I finish for Brad, handing back the phone.

“Nothing,” he confirms. “And Spittle was seriously pissed off.”

I bet he was. A bloodbath in the middle of Vegas will be a headache and a half. My relationship with Spittle is frosty to say the least. But the bent FBI agent owes me, and he couldn’t pay me back in three lifetimes. “Fuck Spittle.” I slip my hand into my pocket and frown, pulling it back out and looking at the blister.

“What the fuck did you do to your hand?” Brad asks.

“Argument with the toaster,” I grunt as we reach the rockery, where water tumbles down the ragged stone into the stream that leads to the pool. I watch the water for a time, thinking. It’s no good asking who wants me dead—the list is too long. But there’s someone who specifically stated that I was a dead man. Adams is in bed with someone else, and I won’t let him get out of my bed. Desperate men do desperate things, but would he ambush me like that to save himself? And with what cash?

“I spoke to Voladya,” Brad continues. “The Mexicans are lying low and the Romanians are still disbursed after Carlo’s last vacation to Romania.”

I chuckle at his dry wit. “Have a couple of men look deeper. I want answers.”

“Well, look what we have here,” Brad says, amusement in his tone. I follow his gaze to the garden house across the lawn, finding Rose’s back plastered against the wood. She’s as still as a statue. And before her? Two growling Dobermans.

My secret smile is wicked. “They just want a kiss,” I call, making Brad chuckle from beside me. “With tongues.”

“Asshole,” Rose manages to spit, without even moving her mouth, making my two girls snarl more.

I stroll over casually, my hands deep in my trouser pockets. Her eyes remain on my growling dogs. “Go on. Just a peck,” I tease.

“I’d take the mutts over you any day of the week.”

My grin is epic, and Brad snorts from trying to contain his laugh. “Wise. They’re less deadly than I am.” I whistle, the familiar sound gaining their attention. They know better than to take their eyes off a possible threat until they hear my call. “Heel,” I order, and they rush over to me, sitting at my feet. I smile and give them some love, encouraging them to start jumping up to try and lick my face. I laugh on the inside. Yeah, yeah, love you two too. “Away,” I order, gentle but firm, and they dart off toward the back of the grounds, barking as they go. Rose relaxes against the wooden garden house, her hand coming up to her chest, her eyes narrowed on me. My grin doesn’t falter.

“What happened to your hand?” Brad asks Rose, stepping forward and pointing at the bandage I carefully wrapped her wound in yesterday.

She looks down at it, stalling. Then she shrugs. “Had an argument with the toaster.”

I manage to hide my smirk, feeling Brad’s accusing stare rooted on my profile. He sighs. “Sounds like the only deadly thing around here is the fucking toaster,” he mutters, heading back to the house.

Rose purses her lips. “Did I say something funny?”

I shake my head.

“Then why are you smiling?”

I shrug.

She sighs, exasperated. “I have to go.” She passes me, following behind Brad. “I’m busy being bored in my ivory tower.”

I say nothing as I watch her stomp off, the bump of her arse quite the view. My lack of a retort must piss her off, because she halts abruptly and swings back to face me. Her expression is beautifully strained. Annoyed.

“Just how long do you plan on keeping me here?”

I shrug again, unable to stop my silly need to rile her.

“Oh my God, you’re infuriating.”

Another shrug.

She yells, frustrated, and steams toward me, her hand locking and loading. I catch her wrist as her palm sails toward my face, and she stills, her enraged eyes burning into mine. “If you slap me, I get to slap you back,” I warn.

She jars her wrist in my hold, her way of telling me it’s not a problem for her. “The person who I remind you of”—she breathes in my face, anger getting the best of her—“who is it?”

“The person who raped you,” I retort, moving in close, sliding my palm onto her hip. “Who was it?” I saw her face at dinner when it came up, heard her tone. I’m slowly figuring her out, and I know she’s doing the same with me. Should I mention that I want to kill whoever violated her? Should I mention that it would be the most brutal of deaths?