Page 38 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Eh?” I look over my shoulder at him.

He points to the other side of the property, away from where I’m headed. “We’re going to the gardens.”

I catch up to him, taking his arm, and we stroll to the walled gardens behind the castle. We don’t get to explore them, though, because there’s a line of sleek, shiny, brand-new sports cars parked on the stone patio before the garden, blocking our path.

“Fredrick,” I say. “Is there a car show in town?”

“I thought you might like having a car here in Inverness. To drive around the property, of course,” he adds. “Pick whichever one you want. The others I’ll return.”

“I’ve never owned a car,” I say in shock.

“Freya Burnes? Big shot lawyer, no car?”

“No car. In fact—” He’s going to have a flippin’ field day with this one. “I never learned to drive one.”

“How oldare you again?”

“Eh? Twenty-and-none-of-your-business years young,” I snap. “We didn’t need a car on the island—we weren’t allowed to go anywhere the bus couldn’t take us. Then, Callum and the Kings were in Glasgow, now wealthy and buying bikes and cars. He always drove me to university. Besides messing around and driving Baynes’s Toyota truck on the farm, I’ve never driven.”

“Pick one.” His gaze scans the line of shiny new cars. “I’ll teach you.”

I picture the two of us in the red Ferrari, him trying to explain the mechanics to me, me running us off the road, us arguing all the while. “Och,” I laugh. “That’ll go over well.”

If my non-existent driving skills don’t do us in, we’ll probably end up killing one another anyway.

“You think we can’t work together well enough to maneuver a car? How are we to run an estate together once you’re my wife?”

“Easy. I’m nae going to be your wife.”

“Madam.” The easy grin creeps over his face. He’s so sure of himself, confident he will be my future husband.

I go to correct him. “It’s MAD—you know what? Never mind.”

“We will be married. Mrs. Freya Frisque. Has a nice sound, oui?”

“No!” Gah! “You are infuriating. And Freya Frisque, while having a lovely alliteration, is only a fantasy in your extremely addled brain.”

I storm away before I even get to fight with him from behind the wheel of one of the lovely vehicles,calling over my shoulder, “And the cars, while lovely, will not change my mind.”

And, of course, he follows me.

How we’ve gone so quickly from our peaceful picnic to this is precisely why we are not a match. “Freaky Freddie the stalker,” I murmur to myself, struggling through the grass as I aerate the lawn with the sharp points of my heels.

He rushes to my side, slipping an arm into mine. I would reject it, but the alternative is slipping the heels off and going barefoot, and that’s not the look I’m going for. I allow him to assist me to the paved walkway.

“We still need to tour the wine cellars and the horse barns; you haven’t even met Joyeux Halloween,” he says.

At the word Halloween, I stop in my tracks, turning to face him. “Did you just say Happy Halloween in French?”

“Oui. Or, aye.” He grins. “My Joyeux.”

“Who,” I add, remembering the wee bit of French I learned in Paris, “or what, is your Happy Halloween?”

“Mon chat.” His tone fills with adoration. “My kitty.”

My jaw drops. “You have a cat?”

“I do. He rode all the way here from Glasgow right in my lap. Unfortunately, Morvan has horrid allergies, and she’s banished him to the barns. She says everyone at Inverness has a job, and Joyeux’s job is to catch mice. I don’t have the heart to tell her he’s no mouser and that the only gift he’s ever left on my doorstep was a moth.”

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