Chapter Twenty-two
Twenty-two
Amara had just finished filling in Finn about what she’d learned at the stockyards.
Annoyingly, Bree was still there, occupying the same seat at the table.
Although Finn’s coffee was empty, and he’d moved on to water, the food was gone, the table clear of crumbs, and Finn’s maps were spread out, as if he’d been in discussions with Bree.
What did she miss?
‘Go on, Constable. What else.’
‘Brodie heard someone say the Ironbark Ball was going to be a smugglers’ meet-and-greet.’
‘That’s what we heard too, Duchess,’ said Stone, strolling through the open door with Craig.
‘What did you two learn?’ Finn asked the men, as they dragged out their chairs, and dropped their hats, brim down, onto the spare chairs.
‘We checked out a few roadhouses and spoke to a few truckies,’ said Craig. ‘They did drop—’
‘Slyly,’ said Stone with a wink.
‘—that the ball was going to be some sort of meet and greet.’
‘A stockmen’s meet and greet. Isn’t that what you said, Duchess? Rustic charm, dusty denim, and a few questionable cologne choices?’ Stone’s grin was all bait.
She tried not to bite—but of course he’d twist her words just for the fun of it. ‘A smugglers’ meet and greet, Stone. You know—criminals? But thanks for playing deaf and dumb for the audience. Try listening next time instead of rehearsing for your cowboy comedy set.’
You’d think Stone would get mad, but he was just like Porter, always up for the schoolyard taunts and foolish jibes, that had him grinning at her. ‘I think hanging out with Porter is rubbing off on you, Duchess.’
If he dared to pat her head like a kid, she’d wallop him one.
‘What Stone is saying is that the Ironbark Ball is the meet and greet for everyone within the industry,’ explained Craig, the office peacekeeper. ‘Are you going, Bree?’
‘We have a table for the Riggs brothers and their entourage. You?’
Craig’s grin ripped wide. ‘I don’t get enough chances to see my wife all dressed up, so of course I’m looking forward to it. Stone and Romy are on the same table as us.’
‘Yep. I’m brushing up the Armani for the occasion.’ Stone flicked imaginary lint from his shoulder like he was centre stage at Fashion Week.
‘You? In a suit?’ Amara arched a brow. ‘I had to buy you a clean shirt just to meet the commissioner—and even then, you struggled with the buttons like a toddler learning to tie his shoelaces.’
Stone grinned. ‘You never asked if I owned a suit, Duchess. You just assumed I’d show up in my crocodile boots and charm.’
She rolled her eyes at the loud, grinning excuse of a helicopter-flying rash. The cretin was impossible. Loud, smug, and somehow still loveable, and as persistent and hard to get rid of as fungus.
‘Are you going, Amara?’ Craig asked.
‘No.’ Hmph, it hadn’t even been on her radar, because she’d been so consumed by her job, moving houses, and settling down a horse that wasn’t hers anymore. All she had was her job, and her need to do it properly.
‘You should,’ said Bree.
As if it was Bree’s business what Amara did.
‘Finn, are you going?’ Bree asked.
‘I hadn’t planned on it, but it looks like I’ll be dragging out my suit from one of the boxes.’ Finn then nodded at Amara. ‘Constable, find yourself a date—you’re going, too. Because I doubt you’ll want to be seen with me as your date.’
‘Ooh, wouldn’t that stir up the crowds.’ Bree sounded far too pleased, like a gossip queen stirring sugar into someone else’s drama. ‘It’d be positively scandalous. You should absolutely do it. Just for the reaction. I’ll take photos. Heck, I’ll sell tickets.’
Amara wasn’t sure if Bree was joking, daring them on, or preparing blackmail material for later.
Possibly all three.
But it’d be her nightmare activated it if happened.
‘Leave off, woman,’ muttered Finn.
But it only made Bree laugh, with Stone and Craig chuckling like a pair of knuckleheads from the sidelines.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Finn pushed off the table and headed for the open doorway. ‘Porter. Got a second?’
‘Sir? What are you doing?’ Oh, no.
Porter’s well-recognised boot steps carried down the corridor. ‘What’s up, Finn?’
‘What are you doing on the night of the Ironbark Ball?’
‘I’m rostered on for road patrol.’
‘Not anymore. I want you to take the constable to the ball.’
‘What—’
‘Sir!’
‘Like as Montrose’s date?’ Porter may have kept a straight face, but his eyes sparked with mischief.
‘Sir! No.’
‘Yes. And that’s an order, Constable.’
‘But, sir, we’re housemates, people will—’
‘I don’t care. Don’t worry, Porter, I’ll clear it with Marcus. Do you have a suit?’
‘Nope.’
‘I’ll lend you one,’ said Stone, with a nod.
‘I must protest, sir. I could help watch from outside—'
‘I want all of us doing soft surveillance within the ball. Let the cattle community see we’re all present and paying attention.’
‘Finn’s right,’ butted in the redhead. ‘As the Stock Squad, your presence should be on show for everyone—stockmen, landowners, and especially rustlers and them black-market drovers.’
‘Oh, really…’ Finn sat back beside Bree. ‘With your local knowledge as an ex-black-market vendor—’
‘I never sold livestock, or anything stolen.’
‘Just illegal gin.’
‘Please, not in front of the children.’ Bree patted her baby bump.
‘Pfft, I’m sure Stone and Craig know.’
‘I always knew,’ said Porter, leaning his shoulder against the door. ‘Hey, it was good gin.’
But to Amara this was new. Was Finn’s ex-wife a criminal? Well, Finn did go to prison…
‘So, Bree,’ Finn’s tone a low rumble, seemed to break through the redhead’s barriers, ‘what do you know about this ball?’
‘Like I said, the Ironbark Ball is the perfect place for the meet-and-greet, and for off-the-books catalogue sales, the kind that only happen after midnight.’
‘Midnight specials,’ hissed Amara, glancing at Porter. ‘That still doesn’t mean I’m going on a date with you. It’s a job, not a date.’
‘So… a fake date, then.’ Porter gave that irritating, self-satisfied grin that made her want to throw something at him.
‘Hope you’ve got a dress, Montrose. I can’t be seen with just anyone, you know.’ With a wink, he slung his utility belt over his shoulder like some kind of outback James Bond and headed for the back door. ‘We can argue about it when I come back.’
‘Where are you going?’ she snapped out.
‘To sleep. I’m back on night shift later.’
Sleep?!
Not when she needed to talk him out of this.
Porter didn’t own a suit. The rev-head probably thought a new pair of thongs were formal wear. So, the man would need elocution lessons, a crash course in manners, and possibly a handler to get through the Ironbark Ball without causing a scene.
And Finn was sending her with him?
Hell’s bells, this was going to be a disaster in cufflinks.