Page 69 of Stolen Rebel

“You’re a shit driver.”

“I am an excellent driver.”

“If you’re transporting eggs, maybe. Heads up. The car goes more than thirty miles an hour.”

He shakes his head as though I’m a weary child he’s on the cusp of disowning. “This isn’t a car chase. It’s an information-gathering mission. We don’t need to fishtail around every corner and top out at ninety on country lanes.”

I climb in the passenger seat. “Only ninety?”

The banter with my brother is helping to quell the anger rising in me. I have the time it takes to arrive at our destination to rein in my temper, or I’m likely to put the head of whoever put on that show for Rowan through the nearest wall.

I’m so close to the truth I can almost taste it.

The reception area buzzes with guests, and there’s a long line at reception of customers waiting to check in. I scan the lobby. Concierge. He’ll do. I head over, and I’m guessing I look murderous because the concierge does a double take, then not so subtly pushes his chair away from his desk as though preparing to make a run for it. I soften my face and force a smile. “Hi. I’m looking for Gina O’Halloran.”

There’s a marginal relaxing of his features. “Gina. Yes, of course. Let me see if she’s working today.”

If she isn’t, I bet I can get her home address out of this guy in less than ten seconds. I tap my fingers against my thigh while he makes the call. Turns out Gina is working today. He suggests we take a seat while we wait. I ignore him, pacing up and down the lobby while Darragh sprawls out in an overstuffed chair as though he hasn’t a care in the world.

Gina O’Halloran, a woman in her late thirties with dark brown hair styled in waves and precise, professional makeup, greets me with a tentative smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I believe you can.”

Lucky for me, Gina O’Halloran has an excellent memory. She recalled the job easily because she said it was so unusual. She never met the person who booked the job, and the money for the gig was paid in cash, delivered by a courier, but she did remember the name of one of the people she hired. Paul Baxter, a drama student over on a study visa from England. It took Darragh less than a minute to find his current address.

In France.

Fuck. My. Life.

Rather than driving all the way back to the house for our passports, I have one of our security team bring them to us. Ninety minutes later, we’re on a flight to France. Paul Baxter holds the key to the truth, and the cathedral of lies Murray built is about to come crashing down.

Chapter 32

ROWAN

A piece of popcorn flies at my head from the oversized armchair in the sitting room. Thank God Titan is snoring so loudly curled up next to me that she doesn’t even twitch at the projectile food flying overhead.

“Oy!” I pick up the piece and throw it into my mouth. “What was that for?”

Sorcha snorts. “Just checking you’re still alive over there. You haven’t said a word all night.”

I don’t look over at her, I can’t. If she shows me the slightest sliver of empathy, I’ll sing like a canary. And I don’t want to bitch about her brother-in-law. It’s not a fair position to put her in.

“Just tired.” I pick up a handful of popcorn from the bowl on my knee and shove it in my face before I tell her the truth. Liam disappeared somewhere with Darragh, and I’m frustrated at how we left things. There’s a rickety cage around the stupid thumping organ in my chest that feels like it’s a good gust of wind away from falling apart.

He’s gone and… I miss him.

I follow the popcorn with more popcorn, keeping my jaws working and my eyes fixed on the massive TV screen mounted on the wall. We’ve opted for girl’s night. Or rather, I was dragooned into it.

Sorcha rocked up with a bag on each wrist and a smile on her face. She bought us matching pj’s, slipper socks, more snacks than we could possibly get through in one night—especially considering her period’s just gone and mine’s not here yet—and she said we were watching a rom-com marathon.

I almost laughed in her face. She’s with the scariest, grumpiest fucker I’ve ever met, and she’s all googly eyed for rom-coms.

She throws another piece of popcorn at my head with freakish accuracy. “Do you hate the movie? If you hate this movie I might need to reevaluate our friendship.” She pauses, waits for me to look in her direction, then continues. “And your relationship with my brother-in-law.” She waggles her brows at me. “I don’t think I could be sisters with anyone who doesn’t love How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. It’s a fuckin’ classic.” She picks up her strawberry daiquiri from the coffee table next to her and raises it in my direction.

My body heats at the suggestion, the insinuation, and my mouth falls open. “It’s not like that.”

The racing pulse in my body is calling me a fucking liar. It used to be like that. Very much like that.