Page 89 of The Biker's Brother

“Yes. What is it?” Michaels used a practiced tone to let the man know he was aggravated.

“Mr. Bartholemew had another meeting this morning and is running late. He sent a car,” Arnold waved toward the limousine at the curb waiting with passenger door open, “and asked me to convey his request that you lunch with him on the yacht instead.”

Michaels didn’t hesitate long. “Oh, well, alright.” He got into the backseat and fiddled with his tie as the Arnold lookalike smiled and closed the door behind him.

At the same time, Mr. Bartholemew received a call from someone identifying himself as Michaels’ assistant, saying that he was extremely sorry but Mr. Michaels couldn’t make it and would have to reschedule. Bartholemew thanked the caller, but was inexorably irritated.

When he called Brandon’s office to deliver the news, he was transferred to his assistant, who’d been told to say that he was in tele-meetings all day, the one exception being Henry Bartholemew.

“Yes. Mr. St. Germaine is in. Just a moment.”

“Yes?” Brash answered.

“It’s Henry. Michaels cancelled. No reason. He didn’t even do it in person. Had an assistant call to say he was busy and would reschedule.”

“Well, I’m sorry you were put out, Henry,” Brash said, trying to minimize his drawl, as New York ears were sometimes sensitive to regional dialect differences. “He must not be very interested in doing business with us.”

“That’s my take as well.”

“Stay and have lunch anyway. Have them put your bill on my tab.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Let’s play golf the next time I’m in Boston.” He chuckled then added, “In the summer.”

“Definitely.”

The limousine stopped at the sailing club. Arnold had made arrangements to park the speedboat for a short time. After a short walk down the pier, Arnold jumped into the boat and began untying knots.

“What is this?” Michaels said. “You said we were going to a yacht.”

Michaels’ eyes followed where Arnold pointed out the super yacht anchored about three hundred yards east. Arnold felt a little satisfaction when he saw Michaels’ eyes widen a little. A guy like him was hard to impress, but Brandon had managed to do exactly that. He stepped down into the boat and looked around, deciding where to sit.

“Sit there,” Arnold instructed. “I’ll try to go slow enough so that there’s no spray.”

Michaels nodded.

The ‘garage’ had been left open so that they were able to pull right in, under the yacht. When the boat came to a stop, Arnold began tying it off at the toe rail.

Michaels looked like he was about to get up.

“Hold on. Don’t get up yet. Let me help you. Sometimes we get a sudden wake.”

Without analyzing that statement for sense, Michaels stayed seated.

“Okay. Now you can get up.”

Michaels rose and turned to make the step up to the walkway, but Brandon was waiting for him. He took pleasure in watching the progression of dawning realization that paraded across Michaels’ face.

First there was confusion.

Then recognition.

Then realization that Brandon St. Germaine was tied to Sanctuary Security.

Arnold grabbed Michaels from behind and pinned his arms to his sides.

Brandon smiled. “Cami has a message for you. It’s not about the money.” He forced a washcloth that had been soaked in trichloromethane over Michaels’ nose and mouth so that he had no choice but to breathe in.

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