Defiant Queen

by Meghan March

  Did he scare the frigging hell out of me? Yes. Did it piss me off that people kept threatening people I love? Absolutely.

  He laid out his plan and I promised to comply because, hell, I’ve already sold my body for them, what was giving up money I didn’t even know I had? At this point, it seemed there was nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice to save them, not that they’d ever know.

  When Brett left, it was with a sickening laugh before he shut the door.

  “Too bad you were so fucking awful at running a business. I would’ve stuck around longer if that place hadn’t been going down the tubes. Then again, you were a terrible lay. Not sure I could’ve stomached sticking my dick in your frigid pussy again.”

  I wanted to scream. Rage. Tell him that the only reason I’ve done the most impulsive thing of my life—eloping with him—was because I thought he was the one to give me everything I ever wanted the night of the masquerade. But I didn’t. He was already unstable, and I wasn’t about to make it worse.

  I just wanted him gone, and now I want to know if he’s gone for good.

  “Did you kill him?” I put the question to Mount point-blank.

  He lowers himself back into his desk chair, laces his fingers together, and rests them on his desk. “Haven’t you realized by now that I will never answer that question, no matter how many times you ask it or who it is you ask about?”

  My spine stiffens at his non-answer, and I stalk across the room again until only his desk separates us. “Don’t you think I deserve to know if I’m really a widow this time?”

  He looks down at the desk, and I follow his every movement. His thumbs tap together three times before he raises his head and meets my gaze.

  “I could take you before any judge or preacher in this city, and you’d be my wife in less than ten minutes.”

  I rock back on the skyscraper heels, my mind spinning at his answer, and sputter out a retort. “Because you probably have something on all of them, and they’d do whatever you say. Isn’t that how life works for the infamous Lachlan Mount?”

  He unlaces his fingers, presses both palms to the desk, and rises out of his chair just enough to bring us eye level. “You’re exactly fucking right about that.” His voice is deep and rough, as though daring me to challenge him again.

  I open my mouth to snap something back, but he keeps speaking.

  “Don’t question me when I tell you that if I married you today, you’d be legally mine.”

  It’s not the implication that he killed my husband or had him killed sometime between last night and this morning that sends me stumbling back a step. No, it’s the very thought of Mount dragging me before a judge or priest to marry him that scares the living hell out of me.

  I find my balance and my backbone, squaring my shoulders. “Good thing we both know that will never happen.”

  That familiar smug smile tugs at the edges of his mouth. “Never say never, Keira.”

  I tear my gaze away from his and spin around, needing to get out of the room as fast as humanly possible on these skyscraper heels. When I reach the doorway, he speaks again.

  “Your clothes for work are in my closet. Keep the plug in for another hour, and don’t stay at the distillery too late. I’ve got plans for you tonight.”

  Mount

  Keira slams the office door behind her, and the grin I’ve been fighting spreads across my face. No closing the door with a quiet and meek click from my Irish hellion.

  I reach for my cell phone and scroll through the messages I’ve missed and my secure emails, but I can’t concentrate on a single fucking word. My gaze keeps dropping to the floor where she knelt before me, and then shifts to the surface of the desk I bent her across.

  Keira’s scent still hangs in the air, and my concentration is well and truly fucked. I shove out of my chair with a disgusted grunt before crossing the room to engage the lock on the door—which I still find laughable she tried to pick with a hairpin—before turning to the left to trigger the hidden exit.

  As soon as I step into the interior hallway, the tension riding me lessens a few degrees. I force myself to head for my other office since my library is out of the question because of her.

  I’m almost to the entrance when I spot J heading in the same direction.

  “Is everything okay, boss? You haven’t been answering your messages.”

  “What do you want?”

  “There are some very angry Mexicans who demand you call them immediately. The situation from last night has turned into a mess.”

  I use my thumbprint to disengage the lock. When the interior door to my office slides open, we both step into the room. “I don’t need to explain shit to them, and they don’t get to make demands. This is my city.”

  J takes a seat across from the desk. “How long do you think you can keep them under your thumb? The cartels aren’t going to let you maintain control forever.”

  “Let me maintain control? Is that what you think is going on here?”

  “They’re gaining even more power. No one else has kept them in line like you, but what if the balance shifts?”

  I curl my hands into fists and plant them on my desk. “The balance isn’t shifting. I keep them in line because no one else has the leverage on them that I do. The fact that they don’t make a move without my say-so isn’t a fucking accident. You know that.”

  J has been with my crew long enough to know more about the secrets I keep and the resulting blackmail than anyone, except possibly V.

  “I’m just saying, we need to be smart. Maybe not pissing them off by hanging up on them after you killed a lieutenant might be a good plan next time.”

  “And you think kowtowing to them would do more to show that I don’t give a flying fuck what power they think they have? This is my city. I make the rules.”

  J leans back in the chair. “Don’t take this the wrong way, boss—”

  “You know I kill most people who start a sentence like that.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be the loyal friend I am if I didn’t tell you that you’ve been distracted lately.”

  The distraction being referred to is Keira, and it pisses me off that J dares to bring her up. “Tread lightly.”

  With both palms in the air, J attempts to placate me. “I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m just saying . . . she’s got a hold on you. I’m worried she’s fucking with your head. The others, it was like they didn’t exist once you moved on, but this one seems different. If I see it, who else sees it? You’ve stayed on top because people don’t just fear and respect you, but because you’ve made sure you have no weakness to exploit.”

  I narrow my eyes on my second-in-command. “I still don’t have a fucking weakness to exploit, and this subject is closed.”

  J nods, respect in the movement. “Yes, sir. When you have some free time, there are several decisions waiting for you to sign off on. Let me know when you want to go through them.”

  The implication that I’m not staying on top of my business because of Keira infuriates me. “Right now. Let’s knock it all out. Neither of us is leaving this room until every single outstanding item has been covered. You think I’m distracted? You’re fucking wrong. Nothing has changed.”

  Even as I say the words, I know I’m lying.

  Everything has changed.

  Keira

  I still have exactly one outfit from which to choose, but the only difference this time? It’s in Mount’s closet. I suppose I could attempt to turn one of his custom-tailored shirts into some kind of fashion statement, using a fancy tie for a belt.

  The thought crosses my mind for all of two seconds before I take the black-and-white striped dress from the hanger and slip into it. Once again, it’s designer, expensive as hell, and fits like a dream. Oh, and the accompanying lingerie actually includes a thong and a beautiful lace bra this time, so that’s a plus.

  When I open the door to Mount’s suite, V is waiting outside. He silently delivers me to work—sans hood—
and I keep the plug in for the prescribed hour before sneaking into my bathroom to remove it. Then I bury myself in work and deal with one thing after another until I can almost forget this morning.

  Almost.

  I’m a widow.

  It shouldn’t be a startling realization considering I’ve believed that for months, but knowing that it’s only now true is a completely different situation.

  I should feel sorrow, or something, for the fact that Mount “took care of” Brett sometime after he left last night and before I woke up this morning. But, truthfully, all I feel is relief.

  How terrible of a person does that make me?

  I can’t even blame it on Mount’s influence, because after my first encounter with him in this office, I remember thinking that if Brett were still alive, I’d kill him myself for putting me in this situation. And last night, when he was describing how he’d kill my family, I wanted to rip the gun from his hand and unload every bullet into his chest, except for maybe saving a single shot to put right between his eyes.

  I brace my elbows on my desk and drop my head into the cradle of my hands.

  Who am I?

  I suck in a wild breath and lift my gaze to the ceiling. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m sitting in my office, the one I’ve dreamed about having since I was a little girl, wearing clothes selected for me by a man who murdered my husband or had him murdered, and instead of going to the police to tell them what happened, I’m thinking about how badly I wanted him to fuck me on his desk this morning.

  What is wrong with me?

  It’s a question I can’t answer, so I go back to my pile of work, pretending I’m not being torn apart by a moral crisis I’m pretty sure is going to land me in hell because I can’t drum up a single bit of remorse.

  I lose track of time, probably because my last conference call drones on for an hour longer than necessary as I negotiate the preliminaries of a supply contract before turning over the details to the lawyers to draft.

  “So, we’ll see you in Dublin in a couple days to celebrate the deal in person at GWSC?” Roy asks. He’s a premium organic-grain supplier I need as a backup to my primary so I’m not sole-sourced.

  GWSC is the Global Whiskey and Spirits Conference, an event I’ve wanted to attend since my dad went with my grandfather when I was twenty. After that, Dad said it was an expense the company couldn’t justify, and since I’ve taken the helm, that’s continued to be the case.

  “I was hoping to get a ticket last minute, but the event I’ve got coming up is going to change those plans.” My answer is complete bullshit. I haven’t even attempted to register because it would be the height of irresponsibility to jaunt off to my dream conference when I can’t make payroll. At least, I couldn’t before Mount intervened.

  Regardless, I’m not about to admit that Seven Sinners is having money issues to a potential supplier.

  “That’s disappointing. They’ve got some heavy hitters coming in. We’re really excited to attend because we’ve doubled our grain output this year and have a lot of interest on the supply side.”

  I read between the lines of his comment. “I hope that’s not your way of telling me you’re going to play hardball on these negotiations, Roy. You know we made a deal.” I say it with a smile in my voice but grip the pen in my hand, using it to make a stabbing motion toward the doodle-edged notepad on my desk.

  Roy guffaws. “Of course not. You know me. Man of my word.”

  “Good to know that there are still men like you who have unquestionable credibility. That’s such a rare commodity these days. Hopefully, I’ll see you at GWSC next year.”

  We hang up, promising to get the lawyers going on the drafting of the contract, and I look at the doodles on my notepad around the contract terms.

  I’m getting a good deal, as long as his lawyers don’t screw it all up when they draft it. I swear they love to make simple things complicated.

  My mind rewinds the last few minutes of our conversation about GWSC, and I let myself dream for a minute. I pull up the registration website on my computer and read over the details.

  If I could go, I would have a shot at some of the best networking of my life. It could be the difference between Seven Sinners thriving like I want, or continuing to eke out an existence. My father would say I’m an idiot for even considering it, but he came from a different generation. Work hard. Play hard. Move on.

  I don’t want to continue the family tradition that way. I want to build a whiskey empire.

  God, listen to me. I sound like Mount.

  I shove away from my desk and stand, my shoulders, neck, and back protesting how long I’ve been sitting, and my stomach growls.

  Good thing I own a restaurant. I step out of my office to find Temperance striding down the hall in my direction.

  “Oh, good. I thought you forgot.”

  My mind races to figure out what she could possibly be talking about. “Forgot what?”

  “Shit, you did forget. That’s okay. It’s fine. You’re not late. I was coming to get you so you wouldn’t be.” She leads me in the direction of the elevator, and I still don’t have a single clue what she’s talking about.

  “What am I missing?”

  The elevator door opens and we step inside. Temperance hits the button for the top floor. “Your meeting with the head of the tourism board.”

  “Oh crap!” She’s right. I completely forgot.

  “This is kind of a big deal, Keira. I was hoping you’d be excited instead of writing it off completely.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that my life has been a little chaotic ever since Lachlan Mount decided I was sufficient payment for a debt. And then there’s the whole he killed my husband thing that I’m apparently not upset about, which also threw me off my game. I snap my teeth together with a clack, because there’s no way in hell I can tell her any of this.

  I can’t tell anyone, except maybe Magnolia. She lives in the world I’m partially inhabiting, and would understand more than anyone else.

  “I’m not writing it off. Truly. It’s just been a crazy few days.”

  “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. It totally falls in line with the thing I’ve been telling you we should do,” she says.

  “What thing?” I ask, acknowledging to myself that I’m basically a shitty CEO today, but I’m giving myself a pass.

  “The tours and the gift shop. We need to bring more people through. Get them personally invested in Seven Sinners. If they see how we make it, meet the people who are responsible for bringing the world’s best whiskey to life, and then taste it right afterward, they’re a hell of a lot more likely to become customers for life. It’ll be the experience they never forget. The one they post about on social media with awesome hashtags. We need this, Keira.”

  She hands me a printed sheet of paper, and I stare down at the bullet points.

  “Oh. That thing.”

  I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly, because I know there’s merit to what she’s saying. She’s absolutely, one hundred percent right. But my dad went ballistic after he found out I started a construction project to create the restaurant as soon as he signed the company over to me. If I start bringing tour groups through the facility and showing them exactly how we make our whiskey, he’ll lose his goddamned mind and be out of retirement so fast, my head will spin.

  Our process isn’t crazy unusual, because all whiskey is made in a somewhat similar process, but we have several special steps that are proprietary. Bringing tours through would put the secrecy surrounding them in jeopardy.

  “You know I’m right,” Temperance says as the elevator door opens on the restaurant level, and holds the button to keep it open as I step out.

  “I know. But my dad—”

  “Your dad isn’t in charge anymore. How many times do you say that to people on a weekly basis?” My silence is all the answer she needs to continue. “You took on a massive construction project without his approval because you bel
ieved in it. This isn’t even that big of a deal.”

  “But our intellectual property—”

  “Will be safe. We can structure the tour in a way that everything works.”

  “What about liability? The lawyers would lose their shit.”

  Temperance rolls her eyes. “Stop giving me excuses. Go wine and dine the head of the tourism board, and tell him all the reasons this upcoming addition to the Seven Sinners distillery is going to be one of New Orleans’ newest and most memorable attractions.”

  “And I thought I was the CEO here.” I shoot back the reply with a grin as she releases the elevator button and the doors slide to close.

  “Oh, and just because I know you forgot, the new president of the board’s name is Jeff Doon. He said you two know each other?” Her voice goes quiet as she disappears from sight.

  She also misses my mouth dropping open.

  Jeff Doon was my high school boyfriend. The boy I lost my virginity to down by the levee after senior prom. The experience was the world’s biggest cliché, and just as underwhelming as one would expect.

  I haven’t seen him in years, but he sent a card and flowers to the memorial service for Brett, telling me he was around if I ever needed anything.

  I’m two steps into the restaurant when I catch sight of him. He sees me at the exact same moment, practically bouncing off the seat of the booth to stand with his arms outstretched.

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  I don’t even want to think about what Mount’s going to do when he finds out.

  I’m going to have to lie. There’s no other option. Or Jeff might be “taken care of” by tomorrow too.

  Mount

  Mount: Where the hell are you?

  V: Still waiting on the package.

  Mount: Where the hell is she?

  V: Inside.

  I pull up the app on my phone to double-check the location of the tracker built into Keira’s necklace, which surprisingly, she hasn’t tried to remove with bolt cutters yet. Maybe she realized its utility when we were able to find her in her apartment.