Page 47 of End Game

“Zeke’s steady. The most solid man I know. Nothing rattles him.” Except leading the family business. But according to Rohan, Zeke had conquered his earlier fears of failure. “But when we spoke, his knee bounced like a jackhammer the entire time and he kept checking the time, as if he were anxious to get back home.”

“Maybe he had another appointment. Or his nerves at having to ask you for a favor were getting the better of him.”

“When it comes to me, the only visible emotions Zeke reveals are anger, disappointment, and, on really good days, irritation.”

“What happened between the two of you?” She could recall being in the same room with the two brothers at the Blackwell estate, also known as the Friary. It was last year, when they were all searching for Lena Kamber’s family while devising a plan to extract a confession from a killer, and the two had swapped dagger stares during the entire meeting.

Lena’s situation hadn’t been the first time Kayla and her connections had helped the Blackwells, and she hoped it wouldn’t be the last. She enjoyed removing bad politicians from office through political activism, but there was something especially exhilarating about assisting the Blackwells take down dangerous criminals.

Her thoughts traced back to that day. There had been tension between Ash and Zeke, but nothing combustive. Nothing overtly hostile. Just a crackle of discontent in the air.

But everyone had been charged. Ash had just delivered some life-altering news to Lena, and Sheriff Kingston, Lena, and Kayla had gone rogue on the guys, and they hadn’t liked it much. Especially Rohan. She imagined Lena had sent Rohan’s heart into hyperdrive more than once since that excitingly terrifying day.

“Don’t try to distract me from the reason I’m here,” Ash said.

Back in familiar territory, Kayla resumed her former relaxed position and took a drink of her chamomile and honey tea. “I’m curious if Joyce Ann mentioned to your aunt that she’s been trying to discredit Dee Rhodes ever since she caught Dee and the superintendent in flagrante delicto?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Are you suggesting Ms. Carlson fabricated the entire story about the artifact?”

“Joyce Ann isn’t sharp enough to craft something so delicious.”

The muscles on his face solidified before her eyes. “I’m not one of your politicians who gets off on your mindfucks,” he said in a savage voice. “Stop wasting my time. Did you, or did you not, loan a Celtic artifact to Lyle Rhodes?”

She could’ve given him an answer in a few short words. Had made up her mind to do so while upstairs, getting “decent.”

But all of her life she’d had to put up with men trying to control her actions, her thoughts, her freedoms. Do women need advice, from time to time? Absolutely. But so does a brother, a nephew, or a husband.

What they don’t need are orders, overprotection, and mansplaining.

Kayla rose and strode to the patio door, opened it, and settled an uncompromising look on her guest. “You can inform Zeke that you have fulfilled your familial obligation.” She opened the door wider. “As for the rest of it, I never give petty gossips a stage on which to perform. I suggest you do the same.”

He rose with chilling slowness and stalked toward her, pausing near enough that she could feel the wisps of his angry breaths against her cheek.

“Speaking of performance,” he said in a low, thoughtful voice. His gaze dipped down to her mouth, lingered there long enough to hike up her heart rate by a hundred BPM. “Your Houdini act yesterday was just short of magnificent. I wonder what was so important, so secretive that you felt the need to lie to your employees.” His eyes met hers for a breath-stealing moment.

How had he found out? Phin hadn’t let on that he’d been aware of her vanishing act. Had Mason said something? She dismissed the idea. He might not have liked her scheme, but he never would have betrayed her trust.

He straightened and walked away, but not before tossing a veiled threat over his shoulder. “Something worth investigating.”

Kayla’s hand trembled as she shut the door.

22

Ash sat on a hard-cushioned chair that looked like it had been plucked out of a Jane Austen novel.

Every time he moved, the wooden frame squawked beneath his weight. He wondered if his hostess positioned him here, knowing he wouldn’t be able to snoop around without alerting her.

The chair wasn’t the only piece of ancient furniture. The room had an Old World feel. Hunt scene paintings lined the walls, a chaise longue, similar to the Krownes’, but gold and gaudy, rested inside the bay window. Striped wallpaper surrounded him on all four sides, and when Joyce Ann Carlson entered a few seconds later, she carried a tea service, silver tray and all.

The metal clattered against the low coffee table when she set it down. Tiny, hand-painted pink roses covered the teapot and dainty porcelain cups and saucers resting beside it.

Ash flexed his hands, imagined himself snapping the handle off as he tried to maneuver the puny drinkware to his lips. He now regretted his “Whatever’s easiest” response to her earlier inquiry of “Coffee or tea?’’ and gained a new appreciation for Kayla’s quirky mugs.

Ms. Carlson asked, “Sugar or cream?”

Cream? He wouldn’t be surprised if she started speaking in the King’s English next.

“No, thank you,” he said.

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