Page 91 of One Night in Glasgow
“Is that so, McCrae?” I teased, my voice a husky whisper as I rose on my tiptoes, my hands sliding from his chest up to tangle in his hair. “Are you trying to seduce me while I’m plotting a multi-million-pound takedown?”
“Absolutely,” he confirmed, his mouth hovering just inches from mine. “My support is multifaceted.”
The kiss, when it came, wasn’t tender. It was a collision. A raw, hungry claiming that felt like a release, like a battle cry. It wiped away the afternoon’s ugliness, replacing it with a clean, sharp, all-consuming want. My anger at my parents, my fury at Stewart, didn’t disappear. It transformed. It morphed into a different kind of fire, a passionate energy that I directed entirely at the man holding me, the one person who saw my fire and wasn’t afraid of getting burned.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, my head was clear. The cold resolve had returned, but now it was tempered with a potent heat. It wasn’t just about betrayal anymore. It was about taking back what was mine.
Sean leaned in for another kiss, but I stopped him with my hand on his chest. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said, and walked over to the table to pick up Sean’s phone.
“Babe?” Sean looked puzzled.
“Call Fury,” I told him, my voice steady and clear. “Let’s get Gianni on this. I want him to find out where every single penny of that two million pounds went. Every shell corporation, every offshore account, every luxury car, every tart he ever bought a diamond for. I want a forensic accounting of his entire pathetic life. I want to know everything.” I turned back to Sean, a wicked glint in my eye. “And then, I want to burn him to the ground with the truth.”
A slow, proud smile spread across Sean’s face. He pulled out his phone without a moment’s hesitation. I watched as he dialed, a surge of pure, unadulterated power coursing through me. I was no longer the pawn, or the victim. I was the one calling in the cavalry.
He put the call on speaker, and Fury’s voice filled the room. “Sean. How’s Glasgow? Any news?”
“Change of plans,” Sean said, his eyes never leaving mine. “Beth wants to follow the money.”
I took the phone from him. “Fury,” I said, my voice cool and controlled. “It’s Beth. Your man Gianni, how good is he at finding things people don’t want found?”
There was a low chuckle on the other end. “Let’s just say he could find a single grain of sand in the Sahara if it owed him money. What do you need?”
I laid out my request, my voice precise, detailing my need for a full forensic accounting of Stewart Beauchamp’s finances for the past three years.
“Consider it done,” Fury said, the protective warmth in his voice now mixed with a clear admiration. “Gianni loves a good treasure hunt. Especially when the treasure is stolen and the dragon guarding it is an asshole. You’ll have a preliminary report by morning.”
“Thank you, Fury,” I said, meaning it.
“Don’t thank me,” he replied. “Welcome to the family, Beth. We protect our own.”
I ended the call and turned back to Sean, a slow smile spreading across my face. I walked toward him, taking the phone from his hand and setting it on the table. I looped my arms around his neck, pressing my body against his.
“Now,” I whispered, my lips brushing against his. “Where were we? I believe you mentioned something about… multifaceted support?”
Sean’s answering grin was pure sin. “I believe I did,” he growled, before his mouth crashed down on mine, and for the next few hours, there was no thought of Stewart, or my parents, or the war to come. There was only us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SEAN
The Glasgow morningwas a wash of muted gray light, but inside our hotel suite, the atmosphere was electric with a nervous, humming energy. Beth was a coiled spring of righteous fury, a beautiful, dangerous thing pacing the length of the living area while I sat at the desk, my laptop open, waiting. We were a two-person army, waiting for our weapons to be delivered.
Last night, after the bombshell at the country club, after Beth had declared war on Stewart Beauchamp, the dynamic between us had shifted. The passion was still there, a roaring fire just beneath the surface, but now it was forged with something new: a shared, singular purpose. We were a team. Her fight was my fight.
My phone buzzed on the desk beside me, a discreet notification from the secure messaging app Fury had instructed me to download. It was a single message from an anonymous number.
It’s done. Check your email.
“It’s here,” I said, my voice low.
Beth stopped her pacing and came to stand behind me, her hands resting on my shoulders. I could feel the slight tremble in her fingers, the tension radiating from her in waves. I opened my secure email client. There it was. A single email from an encrypted address with the subject line:Asset Profile: Beauchamp.Attached was a single, password-protected file:Dossier.pdf.
I typed in the complex password Fury had given me, and the file opened. It wasn’t just a report; it was a digital autopsy of a man’s entire life. Page after page of financial records, email chains, text message logs, and high-resolution photos. Fury’s man Gianni wasn’t just a hacker; he was a goddamn digital archeologist, and he had just unearthed a city of lies.
“Jesus,” I breathed, scrolling through the executive summary.
“What is it?” Beth asked, her voice tight with anticipation as she leaned closer, her hair brushing against my cheek.
