Page 5

In which Logan wagers Arabella is a 32C up top, but that’s nobody else’s business.

Logan…

“The lass has spirit, I knew that when she tried to warn me tonight, those big brown eyes looking up at me, so worried. But holy shite, she’s tougher than most of the men who work for me.”

I’m perched on top of the building across from the girl’s flat and ignoring most of what’s coming out of my brother’s gob. We’ve been going at this on the phone for an hour now.

“If you’d messaged me instead of trying to handle it all yourself, I would have sent someone for her,” Kai says.

“I should have been there sooner,” I admit. “I should have known those gobshites would figure out she’d warned me during that tray episode and go after her. When did they message Anselm? I’d killed them both within minutes after their feeble as feck ambush. In fact, I’m a wee bit insulted that Danish prick dinnae send someone with more experience to take me out.”

“It’s disrespectful,” Kai agrees, which is a rare thing.

“Plenty of time, I thought. Dispose of those two arseholes and swing by her flat to pick her up. I knew Anselm would target her as a potential weakness. Just not that fast. The bastard does hold a grudge, that’s certain.”

It’s my fault she was hurt.

Kai’s pulling something up on his iPad. “Arabella Blair. Twenty-four, teaches British Sign Language at the Wallace School for Exceptional Children, server for various catering companies, and lives alone in a bit of a dodgy part of Glasgow. Degenerative hearing loss. The MacTavish hackers can dig up everything from someone’s childhood nickname to their underwear size within fifteen minutes,” he says approvingly.

I’d wager she’s a 32C up top, likely a small on the knickers. But that’s none of my brother’s business.

“The detective is finally leaving her flat,” I say. “What’s her name? Is she one of ours?”

“Detective Inspector Christie, I’m told. She’s sharp, but unfortunately, not on our payroll,” he says. “If she keeps after ye, we’ll see if that can be changed.”

“Bad enough that I couldn’t get Arabella out tonight,” I groan. “I dinnae have time for an overzealous detective.”

“Looking on the positive parts of tonight, ye locked in Ian Abercrombie’s transport agreement at the fundraiser. Job well done.”

Grinning, I say, “That hurt ye to say it, dinnae it?”

“Not true!” Kai protested, “I knew ye could do it. You’d get Abercrombie to agree in some unsettling or unorthodox way, but I knew you’d have it done.” There’s a pause. “Ye know I’m aware you’re no feck-up, aye?”

I hum lazily, spotting Arabella’s windows through the scope on my sniper rifle. If anyone comes after her, I’ll see the bastard first. “Ye have brought that up in the past, brother.”

“Never a feck-up! Reckless, aye. Unhinged? Certainly. Do ye get the job done in a way that makes Mum and Da’s hair turn grey? Aye. But ye get it done, every time.”

“Well, this time, the retaliation is targeting an innocent, and that is not the MacTavish way,” I say grimly. “I’ll have to protect her.”

“Agreed,” Kai says, “we’ll relocate her somewhere, her preference. Though I’m thinking Canada where Aunt Aria and Uncle Lachlan can watch over her. Get her set up. Do ye want me to send a couple of men to relieve ye? They’ll keep her safe.”

Why do I dislike that idea so much?

“I’ll stay here for the rest of the night. Let’s talk in the morning.”

“Night, brother,” he says. “Try to avoid gutting anyone else this evening, aye?”

“I make no promises.”

I can see Arabella moving through her postage stamp-sized apartment, dragging a chair to put against her door, checking the locks on her windows. I get a glimpse of her frightened face as she’s pulling the curtains shut and again, that unfamiliar feeling hits my gut, tightening all my muscles. Guilt. I recognize it now, it just took a while. Guilt is not an emotion I entertain much. She risked her safety to try to save me, and such a clever wee thing. Reading lips is an amazing skill, invaluable.

Would she be interested in working in our organization?

She’s pulled the curtains on all her windows shut, but my position on the rooftop and the excellent scope on my rifle still gives me a view into her bedroom. The moonlight filters over her skin and that mass of black hair, it’s thick and when it’s down, it tumbles over her shoulders. She’s curled up tight like a potato bug, back against the headboard and her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.

The pubs down the street have closed for the night so it’s mostly quiet, just a few cars passing by. Every time her head nods toward her knees, I think she’s finally asleep, but then she stiffens, looking around her room again.

My poor lass is terrified, and I’m thinking she’s clever enough to know that attack was no random snatch and grab, especially when I stepped in. A police car cruises slowly down the street, flicking on the high beam to scan the alley and the street. Good. Detective Christie’s got an eye on her, too.

Adjusting my position with a groan, I pull up the hood on my jacket and settle in. Both of us awake and alert, Arabella and I, keeping watch together.