14. A Time to Kilt
A TIME TO KILT
CALLUM
The midsummer Seattle evening stretches long and lazy as I pace the deck of my yacht, the Fidelity.
It's only been four days since Karina fled my hotel suite after our unexpected... encounter.
Four days of catching her eyes across the office before she quickly looks away.
Four days of watching her bite her lower lip when she thinks I'm not looking.
Four days of pretending I haven't been reliving the taste of her mouth, the sound she made when I?—
"Mr. Abernathy?" My captain interrupts my decidedly unprofessional thoughts. "Car's approaching the marina now."
"Thank you, Craig." I straighten my tie, adjusting the MacTavish tartan pin Fiona had insisted I wear tonight. "Enemy colors," she'd called it with a wink. "Keep your enemies close and your tartan closer."
July's warm breeze carries the scent of saltwater as I watch the black town car pull to a stop at the dock.
I've spent the past hour rehearsing what I'll say to Karina. Professional. Reasonable.
Absolutely focused on our mission to infiltrate Duncan MacTavish's annual "Shipmates and Shellfish" gathering at his waterfront estate in Tacoma.
Not at all focused on the fact that kissing her felt like finding something I'd been missing.
The car door opens, and there she is.
My carefully rehearsed speech evaporates.
Karina emerges in a sleek emerald dress that hugs curves I've been desperately trying to forget.
Her dark hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
She spots me and hesitates, uncertainty crossing her face before she squares her shoulders and begins walking toward the yacht.
"Permission to come aboard, Captain Broody?" she calls, one hand clutching a small handbag, the other steadying herself on the dock railing.
"Granted.” I extend a hand to help her onto the deck. "You look..."
"Professional. Appropriate. Suitable for infiltrating the lair of our primary suspect."
"That's one way to put it."
She steps onto the polished deck, her heels wobbling slightly. I reflexively grab her waist to steady her.
We both freeze at the contact.
"Sorry," I say, dropping my hands. "Wouldn't want you overboard before the mission begins."
"That would be unfortunate.” She grins. “Though I'm sure you could execute a very efficient rescue. You seem like the type who'd insist on certification in water rescue just to be thorough."
"First aid, CPR, and advanced nautical rescue," I confirm. "My instructor said I was pathologically prepared."
Her laugh ripples between us, easing some of the tension. "Did you frame the certificate?"
"It's laminated in the emergency kit below deck."
Craig clears his throat from the bridge. "We're ready when you are, sir."
I gesture toward the rear seating area. "Shall we? It's about forty minutes to MacTavish's place."
"Perfect. Just enough time to review our strategy." She moves toward the back of the yacht, her dress catching the last golden rays of evening sun. "And to discuss our other... situation."
My mouth goes dry. "Other situation?"
She turns, brown eyes steady on mine. "The fact that we nearly devoured each other Saturday night and have been awkwardly pretending it didn't happen for four days."
I'm grateful Craig chooses that moment to start the engines, the rumble masking whatever strangled sound just came out of my throat.
"That's... direct."
"Life's too short for circumlocution," she says, settling onto one of the cushioned benches. "Especially when we're about to face Duncan MacTavish and whatever nefarious plan he's hatching."
I take the seat across from her rather than beside her. Safer that way.
"You're right," I concede. "What happened was?—"
"A mistake. Obviously."
"Obviously," I echo, ignoring the inexplicable disappointment her quick agreement causes. "I'm your boss."
"And I'm your brother's ex."
"And we're in the middle of a corporate crisis."
"And still haven't identified who's feeding information to MacTavish."
We stare at each other, a cascade of perfectly reasonable objections between us.
"So we agree," I say finally. "It can't happen again."
"Absolutely not.” She crosses her tanned legs. The movement draws my eyes before I can stop myself. "What?"
"Nothing," I mutter, looking away as the yacht pulls away from the dock. "Alana sent over the guest list. Fifty of Seattle's tech elite and their plus-ones. Duncan always uses these summer gatherings to forge alliances and scout acquisition targets."
She leans forward, all business now. "And what are we looking for exactly?"
"Any hint of who he's working with inside Abernathy. Anyone he speaks to with unusual familiarity. The IT team confirmed the security breaches came from someone with internal access using sophisticated relay techniques."
"Someone technically skilled," she muses. "But not so obvious that we'd immediately suspect them."
"Exactly."
The yacht cuts through Elliott Bay, skyline gradually receding behind us.
We spend the next twenty minutes reviewing names, relationships, and potential suspects, settling into a professional rhythm that almost makes me forget the lingering awareness crackling between us.
Almost.
"What about Richard?" she asks suddenly.
My jaw tightens. "What about him?"
"Could he be helping MacTavish remotely? He still had system access, you said."
"Possible," I admit. "But from what I've gathered about his Iceland adventure, he's been too busy learning the finer points of Nordic knitting to orchestrate corporate espionage."
Her lips twitch. "Yarn-based alibis aside, we should consider all possibilities."
"Fair point." I study her face, searching for any sign that mentioning my brother causes her pain. "Does it bother you? Talking about him?"
She considers this, head tilted. "Not as much as it probably should. Is that terrible?"
"Not from where I'm sitting."
The double meaning hangs between us for a moment before she clears her throat.
"So," she says briskly, "what's our cover story for tonight? Besides the official 'checking out the competition' angle?"
"I thought we'd go with the truth. I'm investigating who's leaking information to MacTavish, and you're helping me."
"Hiding in plain sight," she nods. "Bold strategy."
"The best deceptions contain elements of truth," I say, then immediately regret it when her expression flickers with something like guilt.
The yacht slows as we approach a massive waterfront property lit up like Christmas against the darkening sky.
Strains of classical music drift across the water, mingling with bursts of affluent laughter.
"Looks like the party's already started," Karina murmurs, rising to join me at the railing.
"Duncan always did enjoy making an entrance.” I nod toward the dock where a uniformed attendant waits to secure our mooring lines.
As Craig navigates us into position, Karina turns to me, suddenly serious. "Whatever happens in there—whatever we discover—we're in this together, right?"
"Absolutely," I say, meaning it more than I expected to. "Partners in corporate espionage."
She grins. "I think that should go on my resume."
"Let's see if we survive tonight first."
We disembark, Craig confirming he'll wait with the yacht for our return.
The path to MacTavish's sprawling estate is lined with tasteful solar lanterns that illuminate without detracting from the emerging stars above.
Karina's hand finds the crook of my arm as we walk. "Ready to face the enemy?" she asks.
"Born ready."
She narrows her eyes. "You rehearsed that line, didn't you?"
"I practiced several options. That tested best with focus groups."
Her laugh bubbles up, soft and throaty. "You're ridiculous."
"Strategic," I remind her, enjoying her amusement more than I should.
We approach the main entrance, where a stern-faced security guard checks our names against the guest list.
Inside, MacTavish's home is a cathedral to wealth.
Soaring ceilings, priceless art, and enough rare antiques to fill a museum.
Duncan himself appears almost immediately, materializing from a cluster of tech executives with the predatory timing that's made him a fortune.
"Abernathy," he booms, clapping me on the shoulder with aristocratic familiarity. "And Ms. Peters. What a delight." His accent thickens dramatically for effect. "I wasn't certain you'd brave the lion's den."
"Lions are just cats with volume control issues," Karina replies smoothly. "And I've always been fond of cats."
Duncan's bushy eyebrows rise. "Sharp tongue. No wonder you've kept her around despite the... unpleasantness."
I feel Karina stiffen beside me but before either of us can respond, a commotion near the bar pulls Duncan's attention.
"Ah," he says, eyes glittering. "Speaking of unpleasantness. Look who's returned from his Nordic sabbatical."
I follow his gaze, and the bottom drops out of my stomach.
Standing by the bar, champagne flute in hand and looking inappropriately relaxed for someone who committed felony embezzlement, is my brother Richard.
Beside him, a willowy blonde decked in what appears to be hand-knitted couture nods enthusiastically at whatever he's saying.
"Did you know?" Karina whispers, her fingers digging into my arm.
"No," I answer honestly, anger rising like bile. "But I'm about to find out what the hell he's doing here."
Richard hasn't noticed us yet.
He's laughing, gesturing with his free hand, the picture of carefree privilege.
The blonde—presumably Anka the knitter—gazes at him adoringly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she's attached herself to a corporate criminal.
My blood pressure spikes.
After everything he's done…
The embezzlement. The chaos he left behind.
The pain he caused Karina—he has the audacity to show up at our primary competitor's gathering, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world.
And that's when his eyes meet mine across the crowded room.
His smile freezes for a split second before transforming into something calculated and smug.
He raises his champagne glass in a mock toast.
"Callum," Karina murmurs, her voice tight with tension. "This is a trap."
I nod grimly. "And we just walked straight into it."