Lachlan

by D. B. Reynolds

  Lachlan’s jaw tightened in inexplicable irritation, as she continued.

  “Of course, I was only six at the time, so I hadn’t met that many boys, at all.”

  He grunted something close to a chuckle, because it seemed appropriate, though he wasn’t all that amused.

  “Our families kept in touch through the years.” A shadow crossed her face. “Especially after my mom and my brother were killed.”

  “I’m sorry. How—?”

  “A car accident, when I was eleven.” Her gaze turned bleak for a moment, before she continued. “Anyway, Masoud had never known his mom—she’d been a much younger mistress of his dad’s—and while he had a bunch of half-siblings, they were all much older. So we stayed close. We saw each other on and off through prep school—”

  “By ‘saw,’ you mean dated?” Lachlan didn’t know why he asked the question. Wished he could take it back.

  She blinked at the interruption, then nodded. “I guess you could call it that. We weren’t always in the same country, much less the same city, but we were close enough that when it came to choosing a university, we both knew we wanted to go to the same place. Cambridge first, of course, since he was in London at the time, and two years older. And then, eventually, Harvard. Law for me, because I figured I’d do something in government, although I had no idea what. But Masoud, he was brilliant, and far more dedicated than I was. He’d always had to be, because his dad had expectations. The family was in private banking and investments, and it was assumed that Masoud would join them. He ended up with two master’s degrees—in finance and economics—though the second one was mostly so he could stay in Boston until I completed law school. When I moved to DC—”

  “Wait up, lass. You’re a barrister?”

  She shrugged. “I have a law degree, and I passed the bar. But I’ve never tried a case in court and probably never will. I’m an analyst.”

  “What do you analyze?”

  She met his eyes. “That’s classified.”

  He snorted. “Right. Because you’re with the American State Department.”

  “About that . . . I shouldn’t tell you this, but I think it’s why Raphael wants me there, and I don’t want you going in there blind.” She winced, seeming reluctant to continue, then spoke quickly, as if to get it out before she changed her mind. “I’m not State, I’m CIA. But I’m just an analyst,” she added insistently.

  Lachlan studied her for a long moment, trying to decide if it was good or bad that she worked for America’s spook factory. And then, he tried to decide if he cared either way. Finally, he asked, “And where’s Masoud in all this?”

  She stared at him for a long time, then said, “Masoud is dead.”

  Lachlan went perfectly still. Talk about burying the lead. He had a feeling Masoud’s death was central to Julia’s hatred of Erskine Ross. “How did he die?”

  “Erskine Ross killed him.”

  JULIA’S INITIAL reaction to Lachlan’s casual inquiry regarding Masoud’s whereabouts had been a burst of red hot rage. How dare he trivialize Masoud’s death, his courage? But in the next moment, she was glad the big vampire had interrupted her story. She’d gotten so caught up in the telling that she’d have bared her soul to him in a way she never had with anyone else. Sure, she’d shared her grief with others, shared even the terrible loneliness she’d felt after Masoud was gone. But she’d never told anyone about the horrible, gut-wrenching guilt. It was the same guilt that drove her now, that would guide her hand when she stabbed Erskine Ross in his black heart.

  “Like I said,” she continued quietly. “Masoud was brilliant. He’d always wanted to be a physicist, and he had the brains for it. But that wasn’t acceptable to his father, so he went the finance route. At least he got to work with numbers, which he loved. He was head of risk management for a very exclusive, very private investment firm. That sounds ordinary, but at that level, risk management is—”

  “I know what it is. He analyzed hundreds of daily transactions, maybe thousands depending on the size of the firm, looking for irregular patterns, missing pieces. Money that disappeared without a paper trail, market responses that didn’t add up, that sort of thing.”

  “In a nutshell,” she agreed. “I would have gone crazy, but he loved it. And it killed him. Your friend Erskine—”

  “Not my fucking friend,” he snarled.

  “Right, sorry. Masoud was convinced that Erskine was laundering money through the firm—presumably ill-gotten, although that’s just my opinion, not Masoud’s. He caught the irregularity and discovered the broker who’d handled the transactions had not only retired, but cashed out and disappeared. And when he pursued it further, he was murdered.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Know what?” she asked, feeling her temper beginning to rise again.

  “How do you know he was murdered, and how do you know it had anything to do with Erskine Ross?”

  She felt that flash of anger again, but swallowed it just as quickly. Lachlan’s questions made sense. But remembering that night, Masoud’s voice as he ran, the certainty that he wasn’t going to make it. And that his final phone call had been to her. To tell her he loved her. Tears pressed against her eyes and she looked away, not wanting the vampire to see. She had a feeling he saw more than he admitted. And it was too much. She took another sip of wine, waiting until she could talk without giving anything away.

  “He called me,” she said, giving him no more than a quick glance before lowering her gaze to her hands. “The night he was killed. He was running for his life, trying to reach the Saudi embassy. There was no time, and he was so scared,” she finished in a whisper. When she continued, her voice was flat, all emotion leeched out of it. It was the only way she could do this. “He told me about Erskine. Not the details, but that they’d just met and why. But mostly, he told me where I could find his files, proof of what Erskine had done.”

  “You think Erskine Ross killed your boyfriend—”

  “He wasn’t . . . That’s a stupid word. Masoud was far more than a boyfriend.”

  “All right.”

  He was studying her, his gaze careful, as if waiting for her to begin screaming. She was stronger than that. She’d had to be. But Lachlan didn’t know it yet.

  “Erskine’s a very powerful vampire. If he didn’t want you to know he’d killed Masoud, you wouldn’t.”

  “You’re defending him?” she demanded in disbelief.

  “Not at all. But I’m a vampire, too. And I know how easily people blame us for crimes we didn’t commit, especially when they involve murder.”

  She closed her eyes then, her heart throbbing in pain as she remembered every one of the three gunshots, the sound of Masoud’s final breath.

  “Julia?” Lachlan said softly, one big hand reaching out to cover both of hers, where she’d twisted them into a knot. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I heard him die,” she said dully.

  “When you say you heard him die . . .”

  Her heart broke all over again. How many more times would she have to relive the nightmare? “He was shot. Three times. I heard the shots,” she whispered. She looked up. “I hear them every night in my dreams.”

  “I’m sorry, princess.” He paused, then asked, “What’d the police say?”

  She rubbed her face with both hands. “Three bullets to the heart, point blank range. Death was instantaneous.” Her throat squeezed on the last sentence, but if Lachlan noticed, he didn’t show it. “The official finding was that it was a robbery gone bad. His wallet and watch were taken, to make it look good, I suppose.”

  “Did you tell them about the files? About what he’d told you?”

  She remained silent a long time, then, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She lifted her head and gave
him a cold stare. “Because I knew Erskine was going to get away with it. Money can make a lot of evidence disappear in my country and yours, and I want him dead.”

  Lachlan looked away, staring at the London skyline, as if in thought. “Erskine wouldn’t have done the hit himself. Vampires, especially the old ones, aren’t big on guns. And besides, he’d want to keep his own hands clean. He’d have brought someone in to do it for him. You know that, right?”

  “Of course, I know that,” she snapped. “But I don’t care who pulled the trigger. Erskine ordered it, and I’m going to kill him.”

  “Okay,” he said cautiously. “But let’s talk about this a bit. Does Erskine know you’re on to him? Does he know Masoud was on the phone with you, specifically?”

  She shook her head. “He shouldn’t. Masoud was one of the few who knew about my job and had my private number. Anyone running a trace would go back to a cut-out that would return a pre-paid exchange. Like one of those phones you buy at the corner store.”

  “And how long were you on the phone with him?”

  “I told you, they wouldn’t be able to trace it.”

  “How long?”

  She looked away and thought about it, avoiding the painful details and only focusing on the time. “Two minutes, maybe a few seconds more.”

  “And in those minutes, Masoud told you all this?”

  She scowled. “Look, forget it. We’ll go to Malibu, so you can meet Raphael. And when we come back, we’ll go our separate ways. I never expected you to be a part of—”

  “Hold up, princess. I’m not backing out of our agreement. I’m looking for facts. And one of those is that if Erskine killed Masoud to conceal his crimes, he’ll do the same to you.”

  “If?” she snarled, done trying to convince him of the truth. She gathered herself to get up, but Lachlan wasn’t finished yet.

  “I had a conversation with your erstwhile kidnapper last night.”

  Julia paused, waiting to see what he’d discovered, or at least, how much he’d tell her.

  “It was buried deep,” he said, meeting her gaze somberly. “But they were hired by Erskine, and he wanted you alive. My guess is he knows Masoud called you, and he wants to find out what you know, and whether you’ve shared it with your government bosses.”

  “He can’t know where I work. Maybe his contacts here are that deep, but not in the US.”

  “Aye, let’s say you’re right about that,” Lachlan agreed, but in a tone that said clearly he didn’t think so. “Why else would he want you?”

  Julia thought about it, then looked up and met his skeptical gaze. “Because I’m the executor of Masoud’s estate, his trustee,” she said in sudden realization. “The trust itself wouldn’t be public record, but there were many necessary transactions that would be. His home and most of his assets were held in the US, to keep his family away from them. The sale of the house, and the liquidation of certain investments, for example, would be in searchable databases. It would be a short step from that to discovering me as his trustee.”

  Lachlan nodded. “So Erskine’s fishing, trying to find out what you know.” His gaze sharpened. “What was in the file?”

  “File?”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me. You know which file. Did you look at it? Wait, first. Is it safe?”

  Julia drew a deep breath. This conversation had already gone much deeper than she’d planned. She’d told Lachlan more about Masoud’s final moments than she’d told her own father, much less Masoud’s. Why the hell had she done that? She looked up and found him waiting patiently. For what? For her to decide if she was going to fully trust him. This was so hard. But damn it, she wanted Erskine dead, and Lachlan might be—no, was—her best chance of seeing that happen.

  “Yes, I looked at it. But I’m no financial wizard. I trust his conclusions, but I couldn’t tell you how he got there, even though I have all the data. And, yes, it’s safe.”

  “I hope you’re good at covering your tracks.”

  “I am. It’s kind of my job, you know.”

  “Not really, but I believe you. Did you share it with anyone?”

  “No. I didn’t know whom to trust. You’re the first person I’ve told, and I don’t even know why I told you.”

  “Well, at least you know I won’t tell Erskine.”

  “Is that supposed to reassure me?” she asked dryly.

  “Hell, no. Just letting you know.”

  His straightforward response, and even more, the fact that he hadn’t demanded she turn the docs over to him, made her want to trust him. Or at least, made her believe they wanted the same thing, which was close enough.

  “So where do we go from here?” she asked softly.

  “Malibu. Where else?” he said with a grin as he stood. “Are you staying in tonight?”

  She stood to face him. “I guess. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well, think about it. And don’t go out without letting me know.” He turned and started for the door.

  “Excuse me?” she said to his back, waiting until he spun to face her again. “Don’t go out without letting you know? Who put you in charge?”

  “Erskine Ross, princess. You don’t stand a chance out there if he’s after you. And I need you to get me to Malibu tomorrow night.” He winked, then strode for the door and was gone.

  Julia stood there staring at the closed door. “Arrogant asshole,” she muttered, then shrugged. She’d planned to enjoy a long soak, then go straight to bed, anyway. She’d just been fucking with him, not wanting him to think he’d be calling all the shots.

  Turning away from the door, she flicked off the lights and went to run a bath.

  THE COUSINS WERE waiting for Lachlan at the hotel. They hadn’t been happy about him going off alone, but if it was up to them, he’d be wrapped in plastic and kept on a shelf. How the hell he was supposed to run a clan like that, he didn’t know. Much less destroy Erskine Ross and become Lord of Scotland.

  “Welcome back, my lord,” Lennon said, playing his role as the hotel’s night porter.

  “Lennon. Anything I need to know?”

  “No news. The cousins are both upstairs.”

  “Are they alone?”

  Lennon chuckled, apparently mistaking his meaning. It wouldn’t have been unusual for Fergus or Munro to entertain a lady or three, but that wasn’t what he’d been worrying about tonight. There was too much afoot right now, between the attempt on Julia’s life, his own maneuvering to destroy Erskine, and now the upcoming visit with Raphael, which was an important first step to his move against Erskine. His question to Lennon had been aimed at any unwelcome or unknown visitors, whether they were friend or foe. No one other than Lachlan and his cousins needed to know clan business, much less his personal comings and goings.

  The door to his suite was open when he stepped out of the elevator. Fergus appeared a moment later, gun in hand, but held down next to his thigh. Lachlan rolled his eyes. “A gun, Fergus? I just finished telling Julia how vampires don’t like guns much.”

  “It’s not my fault you lied to the lady,” Fergus said, sliding the weapon into the shoulder rig he was so fond of.

  “You watch too much television. Start acting like a vampire, for fuck’s sake.” He clapped Fergus’s shoulder as he walked by. “Get Munro in here. We need to talk.”

  “Shite. What now?”

  “Good news and bad. Get Munro.”

  Fergus crossed the hall and pounded on the door. “Munro, get over here. Lachlan has news.”

  The door was yanked open to reveal a disheveled Munro—his eyes sleepy and his hair looking like someone had been running hands through it. Lachlan studied him. “Lennon said there were no ladies visiting.”

  “I wish he was wrong. But no, I’ve been working my ass off on
these fucking financials. And you well know it.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Erskine’s hiding his money, but I’ll be damned if I can figure out where. I’m beginning to think he’s converted it all to gold coin and buried it beneath Ross Castle.” Munro tossed something onto the table behind him, and closing the door, crossed into Lachlan’s suite where he went directly to the bar. “So what’s the news?” he asked, seeming more interested in pouring himself a healthy four fingers of whisky.

  Lachlan tossed his suit coat aside and sprawled on the sofa facing the bar, shaking his head when Munro offered the crystal decanter with a swirl of the amber liquid within. “For one thing,” Lachlan said, “I think I’ve found someone who knows more about Erskine’s financial holdings that you do.”

  Munro gave him an evil look.

  “Unfortunately, he’s dead.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Lachlan nodded in agreement. “I might be able to access his records, though. Would that help?”

  “Aye. Give me a place to start, instead of trying to dig out of the hole I’m stuck in. Where’d you come by this bounty of data?”

  “Julia Harper.” He lifted his chin in agreement with the surprised look on Munro’s face. “I wasn’t expecting it either. I knew she was hiding something, but not that.”

  “And would that be the only thing she’d be hiding?” Fergus asked, his tone more skeptical than surprised. “There’s got to be more to it. How’d she manage to get it done?”

  “All good questions. Sit down, Fergus.”

  It wasn’t an order, but Fergus sat anyway, too accustomed to following Lachlan’s commands to do otherwise. He took the glass of whisky Munro offered him, looking at it in askance when he saw how full it was and setting it on the table untouched.

  “First, we heard from Raphael tonight, or his mate, Cynthia Leighton, anyway. She passed on our message, and Raphael has agreed to meet.”

  His cousins exchanged grins, with Munro toasting the news with a long sip of whisky. The vampire symbiote metabolized alcohol too fast for it to have any meaningful effect on a vampire’s senses, but some of them enjoyed the taste and the burn as it went down.