Page 1

Chapter 1

Bronson

“Thank you,” I say to the waitress when she places another bourbon in front of me.

I pick it up, swirl the ice in the glass, take a sip, then glance at my watch. Nothing pisses me off more than someone who can’t show up on time. Where the fuck is he?

I’m ready to make the call and pull the pin on the entire deal, because time is money. I’m doing him a goddamn favour; the least he can do is be punctual.

I reach for my phone, which is lying face down on the tabletop, when someone approaches. I glance up, expecting to see him. Instead, a dark-haired woman with a sharp bob and blunt bangs steps up beside me. “Brendan, I presume,” she says, extending a hand.

Brendan?

My eyebrows knit together as my gaze shifts from her outstretched hand to her face. Who the hell is this woman?

For a moment, I wonder if Justin Rathborn II has done me dirty and sent this pretty raven-haired beauty to sweeten the deal, and my irritation flares. The fact that she called me Brendan instead of Bronson only adds fuel to the fire.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Tardiness isn’t exactly a habit of mine, but the traffic was horrendous.”

Tardiness?

How old is she? From where I’m sitting, she looks to be in her mid-twenties at best. Who talks like that in the twenty-first century?

Her arm is still extended, and I’ve yet to take hold of her hand, because my brain is still trying to make sense of what’s happening here. “Rose,” she says.

I arch an eyebrow. “Rose?”

“Yes, that’s my name. Rose … like the flower.”

She lets her hand drop by her side, finally giving up, as she moves to the seat opposite me. My eyes track her every move as she slides out of the grey blazer she’s wearing and drapes it over the back of her chair.

She’s wearing high-waisted grey slacks cinched with a thin black belt and a white silk blouse tucked neatly into the waistband. The tailored slacks hug the curve of her hips, hinting at the feminine figure that I’m now imagining lies underneath. “It’s old-fashioned. My Mum named me after my Grandmother. My real one,” she says, taking a seat.

“Your real one? You have a fake Grandmother?”

She smiles at my question. A smile that lights up her entire face, and when it steals all the air from my lungs, I sit up straighter in my seat. I can’t deny this woman is beautiful, with the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, but I’m not about to let a pretty face distract me from why I’m here.

“My biological Grandmother,” she replies. “She died when my Mum was eight. She was murdered.”

“Your biological Grandmother was murdered?”

“Yes. By my Grandfather.”

I rear back slightly. “Your Grandfather murdered your Grandmother?”

“I know, right?” she says, her eyes widening as she speaks. “Shocking. He pushed her in front of a tram because she refused to put giblets in the soup.”

I glance at my bourbon and, for a moment, I wonder if someone slipped something into it. “Giblets?” I find myself asking, despite the absurdity of everything she just said.

“Yes. I had to Google what they were when my Mum first told me the story. Apparently, it’s an organ from the inside of a chicken. Sounds gross, if you ask me, but my Grandfather obviously didn’t think so if he was willing to commit murder over them.”

“Obviously,” I agree, reaching for my drink. Maybe the waitress did put something in it, but I’m going to take my chances. I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot of alcohol for this conversation.

“He got twenty years for her murder. That’s not nearly enough in my opinion,” she says, rolling her pretty emerald eyes as she reaches for the folded linen napkin in front of her. She shakes it out and drapes it across her lap. “I’ve always wondered if he regrets what he did. If he wishes he’d just eaten the soup, sans giblets, and realised a bowl of soup isn’t worth twenty years in the slammer.”

I place my closed fist over my mouth and cough, trying to hide my amusement. I get the feeling this woman is a tad kooky, but I can’t deny she’s entertaining.

“I agree. His actions seem a tad aggressive.”