by Leigh Morgan
Seamus stopped the car, in the middle of the road. This had to be the country because there was no other traffic. “That’s Magnus’s mate’s house?” Seamus gestured to the large yellow house with green shutters and white trim. “There’s a whole gaggle of old people doing some kind of fancy slow dance in the garden. Kind of an odd place for the lad to shack up.”
“They call it a yard here, dad, not a garden. What they’re doing isn’t a dance, it’s Tai Chi, and I doubt very much Magnus is ‘shacking up’ with anyone here. He said to look for this house. ‘The big house’ I think he called it. He’s staying just beyond this property.” Mari’s heart began to pound with anticipation. “I can’t wait to see him. It feels like he’s been gone weeks.”
“Aye it does.” Seamus smiled at her, his large body so like his grandson’s and so unlike her small frame. “But you have to let the lad find his own path. It’s well past time.” Seamus said.
His words fell heavy on her, making her feel an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. That was more common than not with Seamus these days. Sometimes he turned morose, like a man not pleased with his choices. Some days a melancholy cloud hung like a mantle on his shoulders, making him appear older than his sixty-four years. Some days he was a happy-go-lucky Scotsman who enjoyed wine, women and song but wasn’t going to do a damn thing to procure two out of three, choosing to hide behind age and habit, but doing it with a knowing twinkle in his eye for what he was missing.
Seamus had aged well. Her father was still vital and attractive and game for a holiday abroad, but he’d been lonely as of late. She’d caught him staring off into space, thinking of her mother no doubt. He seemed to lose himself in the sands of time more frequently and it took longer to pull him back to the land of the living. Mari hadn’t thought about it before now, but maybe she and Magnus weren’t enough for him any longer. That thought hit her upside the head with the savagery of a blind-side rugby tackle.
“I didn’t think he’d find that path thirty-eight hundred miles away. Let’s go find him, shall we? I’m dying to meet this new friend of his.”
Mari didn’t see the lanky man with long red hair walking among the oaks, nor did she hear his mirth filled words, although they resonated through her subconscious: You won’t be dying any time soon, fair Mari. The Goddess isn’t going to let you off the hook that easily, daughter of Danu.
…
Shay delivered Taryn to Sensei Schwartz. It was something that had to be done for her own good, but he took little joy in it. He didn’t like being the one to teach her her first two lessons on survival either. His world, Jesse’s world, and now Taryn’s, wasn’t one where women like her should be spending time. Unfortunately for her, there were bad people in the world and she’d had the misfortune to meet four of them who actively wanted to do her harm. That meant whether she liked it or not, she needed to be able to take care of herself, and Sensei Schwartz would ensure she had the tools to do so, quickly, and with brutal efficiency.
Shay threw a black t-shirt over his head, shrugged out of his sweatpants and put on a worn pair of jeans and running shoes. He wore his Walther in an ankle holster on his left and his fixed blade four inch Ka-bar in a sheath on his right. The ladies at Potter’s Woods did not like weapons in plain view unless they were ancient and Okinawan. It was simpler to accede to their wishes on the matter than to argue, and he prided himself on being a simple man.
Magnus had left already for his internship at the art museum, something Shay had Jordon to thank for, so the rest of the morning was his own. He didn’t actually have to be anywhere. Jesse didn’t want his help running down the white van and Reed, Henry, Jordon and Mary Campbell were locked away arguing about who or what was behind the attack on Taryn and how to deal with it. The only one besides him who had absolutely nothing to do was no-last-name-Merlin, who seemed to appear every time something momentous happened. Shay rubbed the back of his shaved head on his way to the kitchen. If he didn’t know better he’d swear Merlin was the reincarnation of his namesake, only with a perverse sense of humor and a bad sense of timing.
Shay opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bag of organic spinach, an onion, some organic free range eggs and some peppered goat cheese he purchased at the farmer’s market three days ago, a lifetime given the events of the past thirty or so hours. He chopped, cracked whisked and cut before going to the windowsill to pluck some fresh basil. He then cut that into ribbons and set it aside for top of his omelet. Shay took joy in the simple domestic art of creating fresh food. Simple man. Simple joys.
He turned on the cook top, medium heat, poured some grape seed oil into the pan, heating it, rotating the pan to coat the bottom, then he poured in the egg mixture. The door bell rang, which Shay thought was odd since everyone at Potter’s Woods knew the code to get in and he’d even given Magnus a slide key. Shay turned the heat to low and went toward the door stopping at the sideboard to grab another Walther. He chambered a round before placing it under his t-shirt in his waistband. Better safe than sorry.
Taking a deep breath Shay opened the door. He wouldn’t have needed any of his weapons, but she might if she got close enough to frisk him. Oh how he wished she’d try. Simple man. Simple pleasures.
Shay opened the door and was face to face with the woman who’d owned his heart and soul since the day they met. He wanted to strangle her and kiss her breathless at the same time.
“Hello, Mari. Fancy meeting you here, love.”
The look on her face as he said her name let him know that Magnus didn’t warn her. Mari had absolutely no idea he’d be standing behind this door. First something approaching joy sparkled in her moss green eyes followed by disbelief, finally and perhaps most satisfyingly, transforming into blood draining fear.
She fainted. Shay caught her before she hit the ground. Holding Mari close, smelling the heather and moss scent of her hair, feeling her heart beat, was a pleasure filled pain that wasn’t so simple after all.
“Still making the wee lass swoon at your feet, O’Shay. Nice to see ye haven’t lost yer touch.”
“I’ve missed you Seamus. Sometimes more than I’ve missed her. Come on in.” Shay said, making way for the bear of a man he loved like a father, kicking the door shut behind him. “I take it I have you to thank for Magnus tracking me down.”
“Tried to do right by the lass, but the lad’s a man now and a man needs to know his father.” Seamus lifted his head, sniffing the air. “What’s that smell?”
Great. There goes my breakfast.
“My simple life going up in smoke.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Training Day Three
Punch…front kick…upper-cut…hook…crescent kick-spinning back kick…back-fist…reverse punch…elbow…shuto…left hook…more, more, more…
Absolutely every part of her she could name, and even more she couldn’t, hurt from the tips of her ears to her blistered bare toes. She’d hiked the Rockies and the Brecon Beacons. She’d trudged through the moors. Hell, she even did a five kilometer run for arthritis research four times a year. Nothing she’d ever done had prepared her for the utter and absolute exhaustion she was feeling. Still, she managed to keep moving.
She was starting to visibly shake. Sensei Schwartz seemed blissfully oblivious to her plight as he called out yet another series of what he defined as basic moves which he expected her to learn the first time she was shown. Feeling hopelessly inept, Taryn seriously considered having herself tested for some as yet undefined learning disability. It was probably called dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks-and-twice-as-uncoordinated syndrome.
She felt weak and stupid. If bad guys with guns showed up she’d probably beg them to shoot her.
Front kick…hook kick…roundhouse…spinning back kick…land in zen…back-fist…reverse punch…shuto to the temple…repeat...
Breathing, something Taryn previously took for granted, became an exercise in burning pain as each breath expanded her swimmer’s lungs well past what had been their limit.<
br />
What she really wanted was to protect herself. Relying on anyone else, especially anyone in her newfound family, was so abhorrent that it kept her moving. That thought, and the thought of throwing Shay on his fine Irish ass, kept her going.
“Focus.” Sensei said.
One word, softly uttered. She focused on nothing but making her body move the way he showed her. She focused her mind on getting it right the first time. She abandoned all thought and did the next series of moves Sensei called out.
“Better.” He said. One more word. It was enough.
…
Jesse met MacBain at MacBain’s office in the museum, half hoping he’d spot a tail or some sort of surveillance. Jesse brought a four man team with him, at Henry’s insistence. Henry was right, his objectivity was compromised when it came to Taryn. And although it galled him to admit it, he wasn’t about to put Taryn at risk to salve his ego. That would just be stupid, and he wasn’t a stupid man.
He wasn’t a patient man either apparently. His heretofore legendary patience fled when it came to MacBain and MacBain’s claim on Taryn, being replaced by a more primitive and less thinking part of his brain.
MacBain didn’t stand as Jesse walked in, that didn’t particularly bother Jesse, since he recognized the beginnings of a pissing match when he saw one. Jordon had done more than teach him how to turn one dollar into fifty, he’d educated him in the fine art of the deal in ways most successful men couldn’t fathom. The tactics Jordon taught had more to do with the fine art of wielding a katana than wielding a golf club, but he ensured his stepson was equally adept at both. Jesse had also learned how to spot a fake. Lauren MacBain was no fake.
Jesse entered MacBain’s office after having been buzzed inside by an attractive woman of about sixty who looked like she could make love or war in a split second with the alacrity of a passionate or wrathful goddess, depending on her mood and circumstance. She treated Jesse with respectful disregard, for which he was grateful. She said nothing as the door opened, not even offering her name.
Jesse kept walking. MacBain didn’t look up from the papers he was signing with what Jesse recognized as a special edition Mont Blanc, the Tribute to Mont Blanc to be precise, white lacquer, platinum-plated fittings and 18k gold nib. MacBain opted for the platinum plated version, not the rose-gold, pristine white star on the cap. It was about twelve hundred dollars worth of fine writing instrument. Jesse carried a fine-point Bic.
Pretentious ass.
MacBain looked up, capped the fountain pen, placing it on a sterling silver stand with two balanced scales as the base and a smooth trough for the pen. There were four other fountain pens on his desk, similarly displayed, some he recognized, some he didn’t, but he knew the Mont Blanc was the least expensive of the lot. Jesse didn’t like many millionaires. Most he’d met were all show and little go, and at first blush, MacBain didn’t appear to be the exception to that rule.
MacBain’s green gray eyes focused on Jesse’s face with the kind of intense clarity of a reptile looking for food. Dangerous man. MacBain smiled and the moment of seeing into the man under his shell was gone.
“It isn’t pretense, Mr. Mohr.” MacBain said, as he stood, smoothing his linen jacket into line. “It’s love of the art of the written word.” He waved a hand in the air in front of him like some kind of regal ponce. “So much is done with the click of a button these days. It seems a shame to lose the intimacy of the handwritten word, does it not?”
Neither his white linen jacket nor his air of affectation hid the lithe and lethal warrior MacBain was. MacBain operated under the trappings of scholarly snobbery tinged with upper-class entitlement, things Jesse never felt. He doubted MacBain did either, but the man was a hell of an actor.
MacBain didn’t appear to be as broad shouldered as Jesse, but he was as tall, his hands powerfully built and scarred. The man was no virgin when it came to knowing what a blade can do to flesh. In a sign of pure bravado, Jesse plopped down into one of the high-backed burgundy studded leather chairs without being asked. If MacBain was going to play the loafered ponce, he could play redneck country bumpkin with equal aplomb.
“Do the ladies fall for your shtick, MacBain, or is it the gentlemen you aim to please?”
MacBain smiled and executed a perfect long-lashed blink Jesse’s Aunt Finn would be envious of before he crossed to the twin chair next to Jesse’s and sat. Jesse deliberately put himself at a tactical disadvantage by sitting as MacBain stood. Now MacBain not only did the same, but crossed in front of Jesse to do it, one-upping Jesse at his show me what you got, I dare you game. He was like a master of the sword, lowering it to give his opponent an opening, daring him to come and be sliced open like a piece of meat. MacBain crossed his legs elegantly before him, taking the old samurai taunting tactic a step further.
“Choice is by its nature so limiting, Mr. Mohr. I choose not to limit myself.”
Jesse’s lifted brow must have told MacBain he wasn’t going to bite, no matter the provocation. MacBain was no more bi-sexual than he was, and was no less a threat. That meant Jesse would never be careless enough to fall for the façade MacBain wore for the world.
MacBain’s false warmth faded but his arrogant condescension did not. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Mr. Mohr? Or should I say Bennett? I read your article last year on sustainable organics in Local Farm Today, but it was signed J. C. Mohr, I believe. Interesting take on compost.”
Jesse stiffened. Not only did MacBain know who he was, he knew details of his family down to the fact that he’d taken Reed’s first husband’s, Charlie’s, name as his middle name, a detail no one outside the family knew, and he’d never shared. Forcing himself to relax, Jesse tried not to show his surprise. Jesse hadn’t used the name Bennett to gain an audience with MacBain either, something he wasn’t above doing if the situation required it, but he didn’t think this one did. He was wrong. Not only was he wrong, he’d seriously misjudged the entire situation. He didn’t believe Taryn set him up, three days ago. She didn’t know he existed then, but it was obvious to him now that her boss sure as hell did. Was MacBain pulling Taryn’s strings without her knowledge, or was he just unusually well informed? Jesse didn’t know, but he was going to find out.
“Do you Google all your appointments?” Jesse said, looking at his finger nails as if they held the secrets to the universe, his tone light, his body straightening slightly in his chair, preparing for battle.
“Yes. I run them through the court database, INTERPOL, and NCIC as well.” MacBain seemed to relax as Jesse tensed. Since only law enforcement was supposed to have access to NCIC, and only a select few, INTERPOL, MacBain’s response raised more questions than it answered. It was as if MacBain was willing him to solve an invisible puzzle without the corner piece.
Jesse gave it up, sat up straight and stared openly at Lauren MacBain. “But that’s not where you learned of me, and since I made this appointment about an hour ago, I’m guessing you didn’t rely on any of those databases for your information.”
“The appointment was made fifty minutes ago and I’m mildly disappointed it took you seventy-two hours to seek me out. I hope you’re up to the task of guarding her. To answer your question, no, I didn’t rely on any of those databases to gain knowledge about you, Mr. Mohr.”
MacBain stood, straightened his silk hand-finished tie, and walked unhurriedly across the room to his door. He didn’t bother explaining what he meant by anything he just said. For the first time since he attended Reed and Jordon’s wedding reception, Jesse felt completely out-classed and out of his depth.
“I married her.” Jesse blurted, wondering why he said it.
MacBain stopped, turned toward him and this time when he smiled, the gesture appeared genuine. “As I understand it, she agreed to a four month contract, not a marriage.”
That stung more than it should have, especially since it was nothing but fact. MacBain nodded toward the papers he’d been signing when Jesse arrived, s
tacked neatly on his desk. The paper was textured and old, like onion skin only thicker.
“That is Taryn’s itinerary, a copy of her contract with me, and authorization for her to extend her stay or deviate from the filming schedule if she finds anything of archeological interest to the museum.”
MacBain was giving him exactly what he came for without Jesse having to ask, and now he was being dismissed by a man who knew way more than he should about Jesse, his family, and his reason for making the appointment in the first place than he should have. Jesse stood. Reaching for the papers on MacBain’s desk, he couldn’t help but notice the open royal blue velvet ring box, holding a high color cushion-cut solitaire diamond in an antique carved platinum setting. The box was old. The diamond’s large culet indicated the diamond’s age as well as its elegance. The ring was fit for a queen, or a blond titan who was probably cursing his name right now for putting her through hell.
Jesse folded and pocketed the papers without looking at them, crossed the room and brushed past MacBain without another word. He was beyond MacBain’s nameless assistant’s desk when MacBain’s casually uttered warning stopped him. He didn’t look back. After a brief pause Jesse exited the building, hands fisted at his sides, back rigid with expectation, and the odd feeling of having been bested, MacBain’s words echoing in his head.
“Guard her well, Mohr. I’ll be watching.”
Jesse signaled his four man team to stay. Tapping his right ear he asked his team leader, “Did you get all that?”
“Every word, boss.”
“Stay on MacBain. I want a detailed accounting of his every move. Tap his phone, his cell, his car, his office and every place he stops for more than ten seconds. Understood.” It wasn’t a question.
