Alain rolled his eyes “Oui.”
“Sae dinnae tell them. As long as ye hae the information he needs, he cannae kill Mo.”
“He could tahrture hair. I’ve heard terreeble sings ahbout ze mahn.”
“He’ll come keekin fur ye. Don’t be hame. They’ll call yer phane. Don’t answer. If he cannae reach ye he cannae threaten ye. Delay them. Gimme time tae git them.”
Alain pressed his knuckles to his lips. “Fine. I can maybe delay him for twenty-four hours. After zat—”
Broch sniffed. “It wull be ower by then.” He glanced towards the door and made a decision.
“And ah’m takin’ Dez.”
Alain straightened, his eyes wide. “What’s zat?”
“Ah’m takin’ Dez. She’s goan with me.”
Alain shook his head. “No. Take Philip. Dez needs to stay with me.”
Broch grabbed the wee man by his shirt and jacket, lifting him to his toes. Alain let out a whoop of fear.
“Ah’m takin’ Dez wit’ yer blessings.”
Alain nodded.
Broch dropped him to the ground and strode to the door to open it. He looked back at Dez.
“Yer with me.”
Dez nodded and followed.
Alain made an attempt to protest, but sputtered only air. Dez held up a palm.
“Save it. I’m doing this for her.” She nodded once to Broch. “Let’s go. I know the address.”
Philip peered in the door. “Do you want me to go?”
“No.” Dez and Broch said the word in unison.
Dez disappeared into the back of the apartment and reappeared with a pistol, which she slid into the back of her pants and covered with a light jacket. Without pausing, she passed Alain and Broch and left the apartment to press the elevator button in the hall.
Without looking at Alain, Broch followed, entering the elevator as the doors opened
Dez and Broch stood beside each other, facing the doors.
“He’s not as tough as he pretends to be,” said Dez.
“Ah ken.”
“Mo’s tougher.”
“Ah believe that as well.”
She looked at him. “I don’t know Catriona well, but I know she’s tougher than all of them.”
Broch felt a wave of emotion crash against the back of his eyes and he sniffed, looking away to hide his leaking eyes.
“Aye.”
When the doors opened again in the lobby, Broch strode to the front desk.
“What are you doing?” asked Dez, jogging to keep up.
“Ah’m needin’ tae grab something.”
Broch dug in his pocket for his luggage ticket and claimed his bag. He opened it on the floor and pulled out his kilt, sporran bag and a sheathed knife.
“Jeezus, don’t let them see the knife,” said Dez stepping between him and the deskman’s line of sight.
Broch kicked off his shoes and began to unbutton his jeans.
“You can’t get changed in the lobby,” hissed Dez.
He wrapped the kilt around his middle and dropped his jeans. Taking a moment to adjust the fabric, he attached his sporran and knife to his side. He pulled his leather boots from the bag and jerked them on.
Stuffing his jeans back into the bag, he zipped it and handed it back to the man. The desk clerk showed no sign of shock.
Dez shook her head. “Lucky for you we’re in Vegas. I’m sure that’s not even close to the weirdest thing they’ll see tonight.”
Feeling complete, Broch huffed a quick deep breath and pounded himself once on the chest with both hands.
“If ah’m goan tae dae this, ah’m goan tae dae it right.”
He headed for the door and noticed his friend the magician. The mime’s eyebrows rose with recognition and he headed Broch’s way.
Broch raised a palm to stop the magician’s approach.
“Ah’m sorry, wizard. Ah cannae enjoy yer magic balls nae.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“It’s not that I don’t, that I didn’t, have feelings for him. It’s just...it all happened so fast. You know? He wasn’t in my life and then he was. I think I resisted him because of the timing, but seriously, who asks you to marry them after a month? But...in my heart...there’s something about him. From day one. It felt almost like we’d always been together—”
Catriona heard a snort. She stopped mid-sentence to turn from where she’d been staring at the floor deep in a verbal trance.
Mo had fallen asleep.
She sighed. Mo had asked her about Broch and she’d rambled through three months of sexual tension and giddy infatuation.
She couldn’t blame Mo for nodding off. It had been a long, rough day for a pampered, sixty-year-old fashion designer. Catriona found the woman’s light snoring preferable to the sobbing and complaining that had preceded it.
While Mo slept, Catriona stood and paced the room, listening at the door for sounds of life. The house had grown quiet since Volkov’s departure from their cell.
She’d run out of ideas for escape. The room had no windows. No opportunities. It was small and square and devoid of features that weren’t a wall, floor or ceiling. Even prison cells had beds. Where they’d been stored was more like an unfinished walk-in closet.
Maybe she could stand on Mo’s back and reach the light screwed to the ceiling. Pull the dying bulb from there, break it into a makeshift knife...
She chuckled at the idea of telling Mo she needed her to be a stepstool.
They had no tools other than two paper plates and a half-uneaten sandwich. Mo had eaten her lunch. After, Catriona had quizzed her about her stomach, mind and overall health. She’d seemed fine. Fine enough that she’d gone on to eat half of Catriona’s sandwich. Now, she slept like a baloney-filled baby. It could be something in the food made her sleepy, but there was no reason to think the woman wasn’t just exhausted.
Or really bored with the romance that almost was.
Catriona leaned her back against the wall and
