Page 47 of A Figure of Love

Declan blinked as his pickled brain translated Gareth’s words. That was when Gareth realized just how drunk his friend was, and he probably should not even be speaking to him when he was in such a condition.

“I’m saying that I know you don’t need me—I serve no purpose in this business.”

Gareth gave a huff of disgust. “You are cupshot, Declan. Go to bed and sleep it off.”

“You’re off, are you?” Dec’s expression was sly and ugly. “Where to, I wonder?”

Gareth closed the gap between them in one long stride. “Say it.”

Declan sneered. “You say it! Say the real reason you have no time for this discussion. Not because I’ve had a little to drink. It’s because of her.”

Gareth’s head pulsed. “What about her? Just what is it? Why do you dislike her so?” A thought hurtled from the dark recesses of his mind and exploded like a fireworks display. “You’re angry because she might prefer me to you.”

Declan’s face became even redder, which Gareth hadn’t believed possible. He appeared to struggle to find the breath to speak. “I am not angry,” he yelled. “But if I were, it would not be about a bloody woman! It would be about you, and how you are too fookin’ naïve to know when a woman is using you.”

“Using me? She is my employee, Declan. How is that using me?”

Dec gave him a look of loathing; a look he’d not turned on Gareth in over two decades.

“You’re the one whose brains are addled and you’re behaving like a dog in rut and her—well, she is like a bitch spreading—”

Gareth’s fist made the decision all on its own, connecting soundly with the right side of Declan’s jaw. The heavier man reeled back, his arms wind milling for balance and not finding it. Instead, he staggered drunkenly and collapsed, luckily, into the chair a few steps behind him. Pity and anguish surged inside Gareth for his friend. His hand hurt like hell, but not as badly as his conscience. Declan had put back the better part of a bottle of port during their play, not to mention the wine he’d drunk at dinner and the whiskey right before. Not only that, but he was bigger and slower and far less fit than Gareth.

He was also out cold.

“Declan?”

A loud, raspy sigh greeted his question.

Gareth went closer, but not too close. Declan fought dirty and Gareth wouldn’t put it past the other man to lure him close and then attack. But the Irishman’s head lolled in a way that was too boneless to be feigned, and his stertorous breathing was that of a man deep in a drunk.

Gareth kneaded his throbbing temples, the chaos of his thoughts more painful than the headache he felt brewing. He could not recall the last time he’d fought with Declan—surely back when they were both in short pants—nor could he recall the reason. Not that he knew the reason for this argument. Could the other man really believe he was not an integral part of their mutual success? Had Gareth done or said something to make Declan feel less than valued? He could not think of anything, but, then, dealing with others was not an activity he was comfortable with, even when the person was his best friend.

He wished now that he had told the other man how Declan was the one who held it all together, that without him—his strength of character, wit, charm, and foresight—Gareth and all their bloody enterprises would fly apart, just as Gareth’s thoughts were prone to doing. It was true Gareth saw the potential in the businesses they rescued and resuscitated, but he often lost interest after the endeavor was sleek and healthy, and it was Declan who saw to such matters as selling or operating the resultant businesses. No, Gareth was not the one responsible for their success, they were a team. And without each other? Gareth did not want to travel down that path.

“Bloody hell, Dec, what has happened with us?” Gareth whispered, shaking his head.

But there was no answer.

Gareth filled his lungs with as much air as they would hold and then slowly expelled it. His friend was in trouble—in pain—and for whatever reason, Gareth seemed to be at the heart of it.

Chapter Twelve

Gareth was reading the last of the ledgers when there was a light knock on the door. Actually, he was staring at the pages but seeing Declan’s face again as it had been the night of their argument—the last time he’d spoken to his friend, who’d left without warning early the following morning. Gareth’s concentration—usually as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar—had been non-existent in the days since.

“Come in,” he called.

The door opened a crack. “Mr. Lockheart?”

Gareth removed the spectacles he used in order to read the cramped columns of numbers. “Come in, Oliver.”

The boy entered and closed the door. “I hope I’m not interrupting, sir.”

Gareth closed the ledger. “No, you’re not interrupting anything—at least nothing important. What can I do for you?”

“I wondered—” he broke off, his round cheeks—so like his mother’s—darkening. “Well, sir, I was wondering if you might wish to go fishing.”

Gareth’s eyebrows shot up. “Fishing?”