Page 27

In which Arabella impresses the hell out of her in-laws.

Logan…

“You’re really parading me in front of your Chieftain?” Bella is frantically smoothing her hair and straightening that tight pencil skirt and it’s all I can do to not rip it off her with my teeth.

Five fecking days away from this woman was far too long.

“Ye look beautiful, relax.” My hand is sliding lower and she smacks it away.

“This is not an arse-grabbing occasion, ye bampot!”

“Ye must be Arabella, a pleasure to meet ye.” The study door is open and Uncle Cormac is standing there.

She freezes in horror.

“Of course, I already know ye must be a saint if you’re putting up with the likes of my nephew.” Uncle Cormac’s barely suppressed grin tells me he heard our little exchange and from her pained expression, she’s aware of it too.

“Thank ye, Chieftain, your family has been very kind and welcoming to me.” My wife quickly regains her poise and graciously shakes his hand.

“Logan here thought ye might be able to assist us.”

Xenia clicks the recording back on, she’s even zoomed in to catch the men in the background more clearly.

“The one in the white suit is Marcos Costa, he’s the second son, traditionally, this means he’s second in line for his father’s position. Adriano Costa runs one of the largest cartels in South America. We intend to end his expansion into Europe,” Uncle Cormac explains. “He’s involved in the Red Trade and that, we canna allow in our ports.”

Arabella looks at me. “The Red Trade?”

“Human trafficking,” I explain. “Primarily young women for the sex industry.”

“Aye, ye need to burn him and his cartel to the ground,” she’s instantly vehement and furious. “How can I help?”

“Costa is the one who sent his men after ye as retribution for Lachlan torching his warehouse today and taking the girls to a safe house,” Uncle Cormac explains. “The girls are considered valuable cargo, so losing the shipment-” he spits the word like it’s poison, “is a fairly expensive loss for Costa.”

“I was watching Marcos during the conversation,” I explain. “He’s an arrogant one, and not known for his caution. Can ye get some sense of what he was saying?”

Arabella’s already moving closer to the monitor, effectively dismissing Uncle Cormac and me. Her eyes are narrowed and she’s soundlessly moving her lips. “There’s three men in this conversation, but the one in the blue suit is doing most of the talking, who is he?”

Xenia and I look at each other. Within the next two minutes in the recording, he will be the man who gets his head blown off by Costa.

“He’s one of Adriano’s top advisors,” Uncle Cormac steps in.

“The advisor is trying to reason with Marcos. ‘It’s not the right time. Ye have to wait until-’” She groans as a guard walks in front of them for a moment. “‘Your father will… never… Your father will never agree to the port change. The overland route to… the client.’ He says it’s too long. Too many… variables.”

She looks at Xenia. “Can ye rewind it? Thirty seconds back.” Uncle Cormac is looking at my bride in admiration and pride swells my chest.

“Marcos is saying something about, ‘just the test run… cargo not important,’ I think? This man is ridiculous. Dinnae he not know ye were using a wide-angle lens? They’re all just blathering on while his Da is doing business?”

“Apparently not,” Xenia snickers. “I will never fail to be amazed at the arrogance and stupidity of men. A conversation like that, out in the open.” She looks at Uncle Cormac and me. “I mean, the arrogance and stupidity of some men. Some.”

We’re at the point in the recording when Benicio is about to be shot. “Sweetheart, I need ye to look away, this is going to be bad.”

She dinnae even take her eyes off the screen, I’ve never seen my wife in hardcore professional mode like this and it’s hot as feck. “I can handle it. Their body language is changing, something’s going to slip, aye? I’ve… I’ve seen death.” Cocking her head, she watches Marcos abruptly lean nose to nose with Benicio, his body tight.

“Marcos is threatening the advisor. He’ll… something… his family? He’ll kill Benicio’s family. See how his body slumps?” She points at the advisor. “He knows he’s going to die. Marcos is putting his hand inside his jacket, so are two of his guards. It looks like he’s ready to kill Benicio to shut him up if his father dinnae do it.”

My wife might be tough, but she staggers back, her hand over her mouth when Adriano takes the shot.

“We can stop love, that’s enough.” I kiss her forehead, the bridge of her nose.

“No, I can do it.” She sucks in a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Adriano is focused on ye, Chieftain, trying to butter ye up. He’s not aware of anything going on behind him. Marcos is talking to the third man. He’s saying…” Her face pales. “He’s saying, ‘the next shipment of men and guns will end these… these Scottish fucks. We get their ports and we get…’ Ach, he’s lighting a cigarette! I canna tell…” Her brow furrows for a moment and then she nods. “The other man is saying something about getting MacTavish ports and then owning the UK trade.”

The video cuts off and everyone in the room is staring at my wife with admiration.

“Arabella, that was extraordinary, thank ye, it is an honor to have ye in the family,” Uncle Cormac says warmly. “What you’ve given us here is invaluable.”

“They’re planning on bringing in guns and men to kill ye,” she says doubtfully. “It dinnae feel like a celebratory thing.”

“Sweetheart, it isn’t the first time, and it’ll not be the last.” I slide my arm around her waist, kissing her. “But ye gave us advance warning, and now we know that Marcos is acting behind his father’s back. Treachery can always be exploited.”

I cup her bonnie face, kissing her again. “But your gift! What a thing to watch, my bride. Reading lips is your superpower.”

“Exactly so,” Uncle Cormac agrees, “a true superpower. How much of your receptive communication is based on lip-reading?”

“It’s more like… filling in the blanks,” Bella explains. “Body language plays a huge part, as ye could see. I realized how important it was to me when Covid hit and everyone started wearing masks.”

Rising with a bit of a groan, Uncle Cormac nods toward the door. “Logan, take your bride and her superpowers to dinner and send in your father and Lachlan, aye? Have the guards keep an eye out for Cameron, he should be here any moment.”

Xenia heads out too, marching toward the kitchen and once we’re in the hallway I scoop up my bride, covering her face with kisses. “Wonder Woman? The Black Widow? They’re got nothing on ye, lass.”

“You’re getting carried away.” She laughs as I bounce her in my arms.

“I borrowed something from Kenna.” I pick up a bag I’d left sitting on the table and hand it to her. “I’m gonna miss ye wearing that tight skirt because it outlines your arse so nicely, but go put these on, aye?”

She glances in the bag. “Is there a reason, then?”

Running my hand lightly up her throat, I squeeze, just a bit. “There’s always a reason, baby.”

Arabella…

I’ve put on my borrowed jeans and boots, thank god Kenna is just a shoe size smaller than mine, or these boots would hurt.

Logan’s pulling me through the back of the house and into the garage, where there’s a long row of beautiful cars, like there is in our garage at home. A Ferrari 250 GTO, cherry red. A Bugatti. An Aston Martin in roadster green. Several black SUVs, which still makes me laugh. Then we round the corner into another section and there it is.

A motorcycle.

Not just a motorcycle. “An Indian Challenger.” I sigh rapturously. “Can I touch it?”

“Feck, this conversation is already making me hard,” he groans. “How do ye know about motorcycles?”

“My oldest brother, Finn. He was a fanatic, ye know how most boys have posters of topless girls in their room? He plastered his room with motorcycle pictures. He liked the Harley-Davidson bikes, but his one true love is the Indian. I was forced to hear more than any one human should know about every Indian brand on the market.”

“Interesting.” Logan leans against the bike, watching me. “So, if I were to say…” His voice drops to a porn star worthy growl, “The PowerPlus 112 delivers 126 horsepower, liquid-cooled, 60-degree V-twin engine with overhead camshafts, how would that make ye feel?”

Drawing in a shaky breath, I ask, “Can ye say overhead camshaft again?”

He laughs boisterously, taking my hand. “Climb on.”

“Logan, no! Dinnae this belong to your Da?”

“It does,” he lightly bites my neck. “That’s why taking it is gonna be so much fun.”

“Isn’t that actually called stealing?” I look longingly at the bike. It’s a matte black and gleams seductively under the low light in this corner of the garage.

“Borrowing, baby. We’re just borrowing it.” He puts a helmet on me, fastens it under my chin before lifting me lightly onto the seat and swings a leg over, stabilizing the bike and pulling me flush against his back. “Hang on.”

The engine’s roar is so loud that it vibrates through my bones and for once, I’m grateful the helmet masks some of the noise. Logan lets out a genuinely unhinged laugh and revs the engine as we shoot out of the garage, tearing down the long driveway. The guards get the big iron gate open just in time and we slide through the narrow gap and we’re gone, the mansion just a scatter of lights behind us.

Somehow, everything conspires to make my husband even sexier, which I dinnae think was possible; his competent hands handling the throttle, the thick thighs that mine are gripping desperately, the rumble of the engine under me, acting like the world’s most intimidating vibrator.

Everything tears past us in ribbons of light, blares of neon and pools of shadow as we race along the M8 Motorway. Logan finally slows, turning into Port Glasgow. It’s mostly shipyards and old docks, but he pulls into a little beach, surrounded by trees.

With a flourish, my husband pulls out two bottles of Tennent’s Lager from the saddlebags and we tap the bottles together. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a beer, and it’s surprisingly crisp and tasty going down.

“The last time we did this, we ended up getting married,” I warn. We’ve finished the first bottle and he’s already presenting me with another.

“And it was the best Drunk Logic I’ve ever had,” he says, dropping a careless kiss on my shoulder. “The last time I drank a Tennent’s was when I stole a cooler full of them from Kai. He was trying to get Luna to warm up to him after he dragged her down to the Registrar’s office for a quickie wedding.” His smile is fond, reminiscing about the day. “I was there as a witness and possibly to catch Luna if she tried to bolt.”

“That’s sounding mighty familiar, then,” I say dryly.

“So, your brother Finn. Which Indian motorcycle did he end up with?”

“Ach, well. He dinnae get one.” I’m peeling the label off the bottle, looking out on the water. “He got a girl pregnant - Maureen, nice lass - and that was the end of his motorcycle dreams. Their bairn is adorable, Freddie’s his name, he’s five now.”

“Do ye see him much?”

“Once at his christening, I went home for a quick visit. My family is more of a ‘phone call once a year on Christmas’ sort.” I’m looking down at the bottle because I dinnae want to see his eyes. To see if there’s pity there. “Your family is so close, it’s lovely. Mine is… I’m a bit of a disappointment to my folks. There was a lot of finger-pointing when I got my diagnosis. ‘It must have come from your side, Kent! Oh, no, Moria, the weak genes are all from your people.’” I give a little laugh because it’s better to think it’s funny than really sad and terrible.

“So ye did all this on your own, then? Leaving Linlithgow, making your own way through Uni and becoming a teacher?” His voice is warm and deep, I wish I could settle into it like a blanket and wrap it around me.

“Dinnae forget becoming a catering server,” I add, bumping his shoulder.

“How could I forget?” He kisses my shoulder again, pulling the neckline of my shirt down. “I love this little constellation of freckles on your shoulder, love, the shape of a crescent moon.”

“I used to connect the freckles with a pen when I was bored, pretending it was a tattoo.”

“This wee crescent moon is as pretty as ye are.” He traces my freckles with the tip of his tongue and the cool night air hits my skin, making me shiver. “You’re waxing, Arabella MacTavish, my little moon. Growing brighter every night.”

I canna say how it happened, but he’s tearing off my borrowed jeans with a clumsy haste that is unlike him, straddling the bike and lifting me over him.

“Hold my cock,” he grins, pulling out a condom from his pocket.

His thumb is circling my clitoris and suddenly, I am desperately, greedily wet for him. I squeeze his shaft, feeling it throb in my grip. His pupils flare as I help him roll the latex down to the piercing at the base of him. He notches himself inside me and my thighs are shaking. “Slide down, Bella. Ride me.” He nips my crescent-shaped freckles and I do, moaning at the stretch of him as he pushes in inch after thick inch.

“Look at ye, my greedy wife,” he growls in my ear, “fecking yourself on my cock, getting yourself off. Be selfish, baby. Take what ye want.” His hands leave my waist for a moment and I barely notice, sliding up and down on him. “That’s right, ye rub that clit against my piercing, it’s yours. Make your wet little cunt come for me.”

I feel the rumble of the bike starting up and I freeze, my feet backwards on the foot pegs. His booted feet are braced on the ground as he squeezes my breasts, then my arse. “Hang on. We’re going for a ride and I’m not stopping until ye come all over me.”

“Logan!”

My shriek is lost in the roar of the engine as he takes off, our helmets knocking against each other as he kisses me. The dirt road is bumpy and it’s doing all the work, bouncing me up and down on him and the seat vibrating against my arse and we’re probably gonna die and it’s hard to care because the only thing in the world is this thick, hot muscle inside me and the engine between our legs and we dinnae make it far before I throw back my head, screaming into the night.

I hear him groan, his cock swelling painfully, impossibly wide and he stops the bike and the jolt pushes him deeper inside me.

The wiring for pleasure and pain in my head get crossed and I dinnae know there could possibly be any more room to fit him as he comes, growling and squeezing my arse and slapping it pink and I come again, maybe more than once but all I know is this reckless, unhinged man inside me, arms wrapped around me, his tongue in my mouth and my name on his lips.

Blathering - Scottish slang for chattering.