Page 50 of No Lies No Promises

Men. Can’t live with them, and it’s illegal to shoot them.

In the limo, the city fades into the suburbs, where sheep dot the moonlit fields. I use the time to fall into character—the arm-candy assistant to the son of a successful investor.

The brightly lit estate on a rolling hill is the exception. Like something out of a Regency romance, the stone structure looms large and imposing. Instead of horse-drawn carriages, well-dressed attendees exit limos or expensive sports cars, similar to those in my father’s garage.

A man in a black suit coat, no doubt hiding his holster, greets us at the front door. “Names, please.”

“Sean Clark. Lillian Fisher Boyle.” My date glances up at the security camera where facial recognition verifies our identities.

“I don’t see you on the list.” When the guard pretends to search his old-fashioned clipboard, a predatory grin spreads across Sean’s face.

“Call your boss. Believe me. We’re invited.” Voice threatening, his hand hovers near where he’d normally have a weapon holstered.

Dante, who’s been quiet for a while, speaks over the comms. “Let’s see if our gamble paid off.”

In a James Bond moment, Pearson, now playing the evil nemesis, opens the front door. He says something to his subordinate, who nods and lets us pass.

Holding onto Sean’s steady arm, I manage to climb six stairs without falling on my ass. By then, our host has disappeared into the crowd.

Above us, candles light the centuries-old ballroom, casting dancing shadows over the hundred-plus guests.

The caterers wear eighteenth-century livery. The investors wear suits, boobalicious young women at their sides. There are a few suited matrons, who converse in tight circles.

Sean’s eyes dart everywhere as he speaks under his breath. “East side, all windows. Exits to the north and south.”

Leaving logistics to him, I saunter to the bar and order two martinis. By the time they arrive, Sean is at my side.

Clinking my glass to his, I mutter, “Lots of legit fund managers… and some less scrupulous ones… Oh, shit.”

Before I can explain, a gray-haired man wearing a Rolex and a custom-fit Italian suit offers his hand.

Plastering a fake smile on my face, I take it. “Why, James Fitzpatrick. What a surprise. Let me introduce you to my fiancé, Sean Clark.”

The Irishman lowers his gaze to my cleavage, his accent thick. “What game is your father up to now?”

Apparently, he hasn’t heard about the jungle incident. With any luck, I can use his ignorance to my advantage.

“Just checking out the competition… for Dad.” Leaning in, I whisper, “Investing in Rehabo? Hardly sounds… profitable.”

Sean shakes his head, his voice cold and condescending. “Anything AI, dear, is pure gold.”

My perfectly manicured nails flick in his direction. “Unless they can make my breakfast, pour my coffee, and drive me to work, robots hold no appeal. I can’t imagine why the Russians want in.”

“Not just them, but the Iranians and North Koreans.” Fitzpatrick winks. “We’re all gonna make a load of dough. You might want to tell your father ta invest.”

My smile stays in place, but my fingers tighten around the stem of my martini glass. Information like that is exactly why we’re here. Now I just need him to keep talking.

“Come on now, we both know the numbers don’t add up. What is Rehabo really manufacturing?”

Grinning, he leans in. “Drones.”

Holy fuck. “Okaaay.” Face masked, body language controlled, every inch my father’s daughter, I nod. “I’ll call him… later.”

Leaning in, he studies my face. “Why not just meet up with him later tonight?”

Sucking in a breath, my jaw drops. Not a huge tell, but enough for a guy like Fitzpatrick to notice. “Ya didn’t know yer father was here? How is that, now?”

Dammit. He pulls a gun. “Feck! What are ya up ta, now?”