Chapter Eleven
In which Scarlett is interrogated in the nicest possible way.
Wallace…
I’m not concerned.
Not a lot, at any rate. I was a wee bit surprised Uncle Cormac was so keen to meet Scarlett immediately. I thought I’d have a day or two to ease her into things, maybe have her meet a couple of my cousin’s wives so she’d feel less overwhelmed.
The estate looms up ahead of us, intimidating, magnificent. But Scarlett was raised in her expensive Beacon Hill mansion, so she merely nods. “It’s beautiful here. They must throw fun dinner parties.”
“Aye, though not the kind ye think,” I chuckle. “There’s too many bairns tearing around now for anything aristocratic.”
“Bairns… kids, correct?” she asks.
“Ye have it right.”
Putting my hand on hers, I squeeze it gently, aware of my rough, calloused fingers. “The Chieftain isn’t going to be cruel to ye, there’s nothing to be concerned about. If there’s something ye dinnae want to answer, ask for some time to think it over.”
“Is this a fact-finding mission about the Banner Syndicate?” Now, she looks concerned. “Because I didn’t even know about what that idiot Kyle did to your family. I have no knowledge of the inner workings of the business.”
My attempt at giving her a reassuring smile makes her frown harder. “Ye might know more than ye think. Your safety, though, is not contingent on that.”
“Okay…”
She watches the guard step crisply up to the car as we wait for the gate to open, still following protocol.
“Hey, Wallace.” Rory gives me a big grin. “How was your time in the States? A proper holiday, then?”
“Oh, aye. Ye know how it is. Autumn in New England. Sights to see.”
He bursts out laughing and pats my car reverently before stepping back.
More guards are patrolling the estate grounds and two stationed by the side entrance that leads to Uncle Cormac’s home office suite.
I think he prefers working here to that tall, intimidating building downtown, with his big, intimidating office.
He may be my uncle, but the Chieftain is already intimidating as feck. He dinnae need any window dressing.
Miss Kevin’s waiting for us, impeccable in a Tom Ford suit, face lighting up as they look at Scarlett. “How lovely to meet you at last, Miss Banner.”
“Scarlett, please,” she says, thrusting out a hand to shake.
“Miss Kevin, the Chieftain’s personal assistant.”
“I have a feeling that the job title encompasses a very wide range of duties,” Scarlett says wryly.
Miss Kevin laughs, a real, hearty laugh. Almost boisterous. I dinnae think I've heard more than a polite chuckle out of them before. “You have no idea.” They snap back into business mode. “The Chieftain is ready for you.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Kevin,” Scarlett whispers as we’re ushered into Uncle Cormac’s office.
He’s scowling at some paperwork scattered across his desk and I canna blame him. No one builds a mafia empire just to get stuck going through shipping manifests and expense reports.
“Ah, good. An excuse to leave this shite behind for a moment.” He comes around the desk, “Let’s go sit by the fireplace.”
Such a tease. His office fireplace is a grand thing, elaborate two-hundred-year-old tile with an iron surround. It’s empty, and dark. A waste, that is.
Uncle Cormac is the embodiment of all that is MacTavish, tall, sharp green eyes, and a firm jaw. Fortunately for Scarlett, he can leave off the stern demeanor when he likes, and he’s capable of making people feel at ease.
“Scarlett Banner,” he shakes her hand gently. “I did business with your father once or twice when we moved our operations into Boston. He was a good man.”
“He was a good father, too,” she says. “It’s nice to hear people speak well of him.”
I exchange glances with Uncle Cormac. Kyle and Marlena have been bad-mouthing her late father, trying to put the blame of the failing family fortunes on him.
They’re wasting their time, the crime world knows exactly who’s responsible for the chain of feck-ups and disasters that are bleeding the Banner Syndicate dry.
“Have a seat,” he says. “I know my nephew will be wanting a whisky. What can I get ye, lass?”
“Just water, please.”
Clever girl. She’s keeping her head about her, too cautious to drink.
The image of what she might look like after a couple of glasses of wine invades my imagination.
Her pale skin flushed, blue eyes brilliant.
She might be a giggler. Would she be passionate in bed, or more like a pillow princess? I enjoy both sorts.
And now I’m sporting a stonner like a spotty teenage boy who canna control himself.
Discreetly crossing my legs, I take the glass from Uncle Cormac. There’s a bit of a smile on his bearded face, damn him.
“Ye had a tumultuous twenty-four hours, Scarlett,” he says, settling himself in one of the big leather armchairs across from us.
I’m sitting on the couch with her. In case she needs me. Uncle Cormac is certainly no threat, but I can feel every muscle tighten, alert, ready for trouble.
What in the hell is wrong with me?
“Yeah, talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she chuckles weakly. “Though I appreciate Wallace risking his life to come back and get me out.”
He looks at me, brow raised. “I’ve seen enough of your work to know there’s no ‘going back in.’ Ye took a tremendous risk.”
I dinnae mention that the chain of misfortune started when he suddenly needed those files downloaded, knocking me off schedule.
“A MacTavish never hurts an innocent,” I say. “Scarlett shouldn’t have been there, cleaning the office building like a servant. The night watchman alerted me.”
“That’s what the family’s been making ye do?” He frowns.
“They’re not my family,” she says sharply. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. They took on my last name, but it doesn’t make us family. I may not know much about the business, but I know they’re running it into the ground.”
“Tell me why ye stayed after your father passed.” He’s leaning back, swirling his drink and, deceptively casual.
Scarlett’s full lips press together, like she’s trying to block the words wanting to come out of her mouth. “Because…” She rubs her hands on her thighs. “Because it was still my home. I had nowhere to go.”
“Two and a half years since the accident. Ye spent three weeks in the hospital. Your injuries were severe. Your arsehole stepbrothers call ye Scar.” He sounds utterly calm, like he’s reciting statistics from that paperwork on the desk.
She flushes pink. “How do you- never mind, it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter why I stayed. Can I ask where this is going?”
He leans forward. “We dinnae have a spy in your house, if ye were concerned. When you’re not working like a servant at home or the office building, you’re searching for something, aren’t ye?”
Scarlett stands up, and I put my hand on her wrist. “Do ye need some time to think it over?” I remind her of our conversation in the car.
“Yes,” she smiles at me gratefully. “Could we please not have this discussion right now?”
“Of course,” Uncle Cormac rises, seeing her to the door. “I need to speak with Wallace for a moment, there’s a comfortable seating space by Miss Kevin’s desk.”
“Of course, thank you.” She looks over her shoulder at me, like she dinnae want to be separated and it warms me.
She wants to be with ye because you’re all she has right now.
“Ye gave her an out,” Uncle Cormac sits down again. “Why?”
“I know you’re remarkably skilled at getting people to spill their guts,” I say. “Sometimes, literally.”
“Aye, it can be quite a mess,” he agrees.
“I dinnae think she knows anything about the Frostbite files. Has Xenia had any luck so far?”
“No,” he says sourly. “And I’ve seen that woman disable the encryption codes for six military satellites in orbit in less than an hour. You’re sure Scarlett couldn’t help us with the files?”
I take a big swallow of Macallan, giving myself a moment. “I think she was there in the office building, searching for dirt on her Wicked Steps.”
“There was a lot of speculation about the car crash that took her da,” he says. “They might be holding something over her head. She comes into a rather large inheritance when she turns twenty-three, it makes sense that they’d want to keep her pinned down. I think there’s more to it, though.”
“Ye look concerned,” I say, frowning.
“We just discovered that Kyle’s making an alliance with the Kholodov Bratva,” he says heavily, rubbing his eyes. “The fecking eejit dinnae realize that the Russians will crush him and take anything of value from the Banner Syndicate.”
“Does that include Scarlett?” The flame’s growing brighter inside me, looking for more fuel, trying to take me over.
“Ye know how the Bratvas are with arranged marriages. Kyle signed an agreement to marry her off to the Pakhan. It’s good ye brought her here. She needs protection. And…” he admits, “this holds off any alliance between Banner and Kholodov, it gives us time to strengthen our base in Boston.”
“Ye are the most cunning of Chieftains,” I compliment, even though that blaze twisting around my spine is urging me to punch him in the mouth for thinking that Scarlett’s only value is strategic.
Hold back. This isn’t the time.
“You’re fine with taking care of her?” He’s being polite, Uncle Cormac, but I know he sees past my bland expression.
“I saved her life,” I say tonelessly. “It is now mine to protect forever.”
There’s silence for a moment. I wish there was the crackling of flames in the fireplace to fill it.
“I understand,” he finally says. “I do, Wallace. There are some things a MacTavish canna change about his fate; this seems to be one of them. Introduce her to the cousins, they’ll make her feel welcome.”
“Aye,” I stand, hoping this meeting is over.
“One last thing,” he says, rising from his chair. “Are ye going to tell her about Kholodov?”
I remember the terror on her face when I burst into that burning office. I never want to see it again. She’s been through enough. “She dinnae need to know as long as she’s under my protection.”
“Very well.” Uncle Cormac puts his hand on my shoulder, “Go look after your lass.”
My lass. Mine. My Scarlett. I like the sound of that.
I know exactly what I need to do.
Stonner - Scottish slang for an erection