Page 4 of Love and Loathing

Her icy blue eyes fixed him with a look that brought Siberia bristling back into the room.

“It was a community garden,” she continued—inexorably. Black-clad assassin stalking its prey, closing on him, pulling a gun from a rather snugly fitting thigh holster.

He flicked his eyes back to her face just in time to catch the daggers from her eyes as she said:

“But the site’s been sold. Bulldozed by your friend Domnall White.”

Things didn’t really improve from there. Dinner was served, and Roscoe’s sister was thankfully well-brought up enough to eat it, make conversation with her brother and Poppy, and not leap over the table and murder him with the butter knife.Vegan-spread knife.

He could see she wanted to, though. Which was another thing about her that both amused and annoyed him. They were all the same, these moral crusaders, talking a good talk about love and peace, and then viciously hating everyone who happened to disagree with them. Whatever happened to tolerance? Free speech? The freedom to do a very nice job and earn lots of very nice money while never being particularly un-nice to anyone?

Oh well. She could hate him if she wanted. She was only a kid. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? A spoilt trust-fund princess living on her father’s money while protesting against everything that he worked for. Not that he was about to defend George Blackton. He had no love for the man. But he had no hatred either. They were both useless emotions that only clouded the judgement. Life was far better in the middle. Calm, unruffled, sane.

“Am I allowed to bring up work?” Poppy said towards the end of the meal, making an apologetic face at Roscoe then turningeagerly to Aubrey. “How’s your unicorn? I’m dying to know after all the effort we went to to catch him.”

Aubrey very carefully didn’t look at Evelyn. And also very carefully didn’t mention Domnall White’s name, he being the unicorn client Poppy was referring to.

“Barely got a hand on his mane. But we’ll get the saddle on eventually.” He reached for his wine glass, hoping that would signal an end to the topic.

But Roscoe, no doubt noticing the frowning way Evie was watching the exchange, said to her, smiling, “Technical finance speak, as you can see.”

Evie now directed her frown at Aubrey. He took a large mouthful of wine.

“Tell me, just what is it that you do at BlacktonGold, Aubrey? Are you a wealth manager, like Roscoe was? Is that what you do for Domnall White? Tell him how to invest his billions, so that he can make more of them?”

She smiled sweetly, all innocent curiosity. Assassin sharpening her blades. Aubrey left his hand on his glass, stroked a thumb up the stem, mentally taking a deep, resigned breath.

“Used to be. But I was fortunate enough to be promoted recently.”

“Oh?”

He laughed darkly to himself, seeing the inescapable doom his next confession would bring. He’d meant to keep his amusement private, but some of it must have escaped given the way Evie’s eyes narrowed.

“Now I’m in charge of tax strategy.” He met Evie’s rapidly fading smile with one of his own, bright and brilliant. “I spend my days helping Domnall White avoid paying tax on any of his many billions. Marvellously rewarding work. As you can imagine.”

He was vaguely aware of the fact that Roscoe groaned and that Poppy was looking between him and Evie, wide-eyed and stricken. But he refused to look away from Evie’s brittle, blue-eyed stare.Hate me,he thought.Go on. With those pretty clothes you’re wearing that your father’s money bought, and your white-rose skin glowing from the trips to Spain he’s funded. Hate me, when it’s people like me who put a roof over your head.

He’d seldom seen a person literally too angry to speak. It choked her for a moment—and he suspected it was the way he’d smiled as much as what he’d actually said. Her long, fine throat moved as she swallowed. She took a sharp breath, chin going up. Talk about manes and saddles, she looked like a thoroughbred horse refusing a jump.

“You do realise what you’re doing?” she said, voice trembling with righteous passion. “Literally stealing money that could help hospitals and schools and—”

“Yes, yes. Stealing candy from babies and all that. Luckily for me, I enjoy bathing in the tears of orphans every night before bed. Helps me get to sleep.”

The smile he flashed her was half-snarl, but he wrestled it back into something calmer as he let go his grip on his wine glass and stood up, collecting their plates.

“Tell me where dessert is, Poppy, and I’ll bring it out.”

It was Roscoe who came through to the kitchen with him, carrying another load of plates. The man gave him a look as he set the plates on the counter, his normally mild blue-grey eyes troubled, questioning.

“I know,” said Aubrey. “She’s your sister, and I will try harder.”

“You’re not normally so…”

“Antagonistic? Twattish?”

“Easily provoked?”

Aubrey unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up the sleeves before scraping off a couple of plates. He put the plates in the sink then wiped his hands slowly on a tea towel, grimacing internally before he spoke.

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