Page 62 of Forbidden Bond

There would be worse ways to wake up than with your smoking hot boyfriend chaining you to a bedpost. Mm, something they should try. It had been a while since they’d got any kind of freaky freak on.

“Niall didn’t say anything about going out.”

“Do we need him to micromanage?” she asked, tossing open the front door. “Do we have a car or will I call a cab?”

Her phone was back in her purse. The new clutch she’d selected from a range in the closet. She’d ignored the one abandoned in Conn’s car before the drama. Every McDade location she visited had a brand-new wardrobe for her, accessories and all. Who did that? Knowing it came from Conn’s order was hot. He wouldn’t care about things, he cared about her comfort, her belonging.

When her head turned and her eyes reacted to the daylight, she blinked, and there it was, the Bentley. Her Bentley, parked with a couple of other cars at one side of the driveway.

“Bluebell, can we—”

“What more permission do you need?” she asked, gesturing at the car, hurrying down the stairs. “My car is right there. Why would it be there if not for my use?”

“It’s a family car.”

“You think it’s parked out here waiting for someone else?” She opened the back door. “Do others use it?”

On the other side of the door, Daly’s mouth opened, but a few seconds went by before he answered. “Not as long as you’re here.”

Not as long as ever, she’d talk to Conn about that. Though, huh, was that kinda divaish? That she expected no one else totravel in her car without her? Where was Whisper when she needed a dose of you-know-what?

“I’m safe in the car and I have my guys.” Hock and Snuff lumbered over, not far behind Daly. “No shootouts or bank heists, I swear.”

Her bodyguard didn’t laugh. “So no fun for the rest of us is what you’re saying,” he said. Man had a sense of humor, that was the spirit. “Where are we going?”

“Chronicler first, Stag after, maybe my brother’s,” because she had to tie him down for answers. They’d be easier to extract from Lachlan than Conn. Unless her guy specifically told her brother not to share… Would that stop him? “Sound safe? If you’re worried about protecting me without Strat looking over your shoulder, I can ask Conn to—”

“No one’s worried, Bluebell.” With a tug on the top of the door, he took it from her. “Get in and sit nice. The door shit is my duty.”

Life wasn’t so bad. On the way to work, she did a quick search for recent news she might’ve missed. And for clues on what happened at Hustle. Gunshots, fire, injuries, two bodies, no IDs yet. Hmm.

Her obit ran, no surprise, so most of the world probably assumed one of those bodies was Evander Manzani. Except nothing in the paper, or anywhere online, stated that categorically.

Maybe her boss knew the obit was more about the message than the content. She’d ask but may not get a straight answer. From her side of the fence, the threat of her boyfriend was a useful tool. However, if said boyfriend was colluding with her boss, Steeple may be under orders to keep quiet.

Hadn’t Conn been convalescing? Where had he found the time to threaten all these people into silence? Didn’t have to doit himself. Her man knew how to delegate, or Niall did, the latter was usually the one dishing out orders.

Daly stuck with her in the elevator ascent. At the top, Paolo was in his booth, Lucy perched at the desk.

“Sersha!” Lucy called and leaped up. “Oh, hi! Gosh, we haven’t seen you forever! How are you?”

“Good. Isn’t it the weekend?”

“I love my job.”

Was that an answer? The young woman didn’t seem that sure, and she kept glancing at Daly. Hmm, she didn’t know much about Lucy’s life, anything about it, actually.

“It’s busy.” Lucy wasn’t the only unexpected person at their desk. “A lot of people in.”

“There was a big thing, I don’t know, an incident at Manzani—but…” Lucy’s laugh wasn’t genuine, though the trepidation she pinned on Daly definitely was. “I don’t have to tell you—you know the, about all the…”

“All the what?” Daly asked, provoking clear terror. “Who told you we know something?”

“Stop it,” she said, using her whole body to push him. “He’s kidding, he’s being an idiot, just screwing around.”

“I, uh,” an exhale of a laugh, “didn’t know they did that.”

Like every thug attended the same training seminars on good goon etiquette. Better to give the woman a break than delve deeper into that stereotype.

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