Page 74 of Sweet Revenge
“Because it’s a syndicate wedding, a family wedding. We both know that’s important.”
“You’re important.”
She reached for the glass, setting it on the table before sliding onto his lap and pressing her cheek against his. “This is more important. I’ll be fine here, and Maura will understand. Besides, I’d hate for anything to upstage her on her wedding day.”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “Just make sure you bring me a piece of cake.”
He laughed, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Just the cake?”
“Mmm, maybe a flower arrangement from one of the tables. They sound lovely.”
“Deal. I don’t like the idea of you being here by yourself all day.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. He was trying not to think about it. Brogan had been diligently working on tugging those leads, holed up in his lair since last night. It was best not to disturb him when he was in the zone.
Declan knew when Brogan had something he would let them know, but the waiting was killing him. He wanted all of this to be over so he could get on with the next phase of his plan. He didn’t want anything hanging over their heads when he asked her to marry him.
“Richard Feinman.” Brogan hurried onto the balcony, eyes bright with excitement.
“What?” Evie said.
“Peter. His real name is Richard Feinman.”
Evie shoved off Declan’s lap, snatching the paper Brogan held out. “How can you be sure?”
“Your buddy Ahmet. Turns out his real name is Demir Yavuz.” He handed over a photo of a man with bright green eyes and a stubbly beard. “He received a series of payments a little over a year ago from a Richard Feinman, an American expat living in Naples.”
“Naples,” Evie murmured, glancing at Declan when he stepped closer to peer at the photo.
“Yeah. A week before you arrived in Morocco, the payments switched to coming from our buddy Peter, so Richard got wise to his paper trail, I’m guessing.”
“And where is Demir now?” Declan wondered.
“Dead. He died in a tragic bike accident two days after you left Marrakech.”
“Tying up loose ends.”
“My thoughts. This”—Brogan pulled another photo out of the stack and passed it to Evie—“is Richard Feinman.”
Evie sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s him. I’ve only ever known him as a brunette, but that’s him.”
The man that stared back at them from the photo had sharp features and a tight-lipped smile, but he resembled Evie’s drawing perfectly. “He looks just like your sketch. Who’s the woman?”
“His wife,” Brogan replied.
As if noticing her for the first time, Evie studied the petite blonde with straight hair swinging to her shoulders. She looked the opposite of Feinman in every way, including her wide, genuine smile.
“I know her,” Evie murmured.
“How?”
She looked up at Brogan. “You said they lived in Naples?”
“For about five years. No kids, but she was an interior designer, and he owned a bunch of real estate.”
“I did a job for her. About ten or so months before Morocco.”
