Weston was becoming a problem. Liam pushed through the building’s outer doors and turned left, crossing the street. Liverpool station was humming. People poured out onto the street. It would be so easy to get lost, to join the crowd and disappear. He’d done it more than once. He stared out at the throng of humanity that made up London on a Saturday night.
They hustled. They bustled. They slept. They didn’t sit around wondering exactly who they were because they just fucking knew. They didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. They took the gift with both hands.
Liam sighed because he knew damn well he was probably giving the people on the street way too much credit. They flooded the side street beside the pub, pints and wine glasses in hand, each one in smart dress. They’d finished their week at whatever bank they worked at and now they were set on forgetting how fucking dull their lives were.
Not a one of them had been balls deep inside the sweetest thing to walk the face of the earth.
He was the only person on earth who knew what it meant to make love to Avery Charles. No other man alive had done it.
That was something to hold on to.
He was crossing the street when he saw him. Simon Weston was walking toward him, his eyes purposeful. He walked like a man who knew exactly where he was going.
Liam swerved down the side street, turning to see where Weston was going. Obviously to Avery’s, but he wouldn’t be allowed in. Before he’d left, he’d made sure Avery’s phone was on vibrate. She was out. She wouldn’t wake up and let the fucker in. Would she?
Liam tried to blend into the crowd, but Weston turned down the same street.
He just kept coming. Liam stopped. He was caught, and he’d been fucking right. He’d known there was something wrong with Simon Weston. The big blond man stalked right up to him.
“Are you going to come quietly or do I need to pull my gun?” Weston asked. “I have a few questions about your relationship with Avery Charles. We can go to my safe house or I can take you straight to Scotland Yard, Mr. O’Donnell.”
Liam sighed. The fucker was MI6, and he was screwed.
“I’m on an op. I know you won’t believe me, but I’m trying to help.” It couldn’t hurt to try.
Weston gave him a slight smile and didn’t reach for his gun. “Do you know you’re working for the CIA?”
Liam stared.
“Yes, I rather thought not. Ian Taggart doesn’t tell you a damn thing, does he? Follow me if you want the truth. If you don’t then I can have Scotland Yard pick you up. I know some people in Ireland who would love to talk to you about the murders of six university students. I believe G2 thinks you’re dead. You can be sent back to Ireland, you know. I happen to believe you didn’t have a fucking thing to do with that shit. My car is just up the road.”
Liam stood there, thinking about Avery safe and sound in her bed. If she woke up, she would wonder where he’d gone.
He hurried to catch up with her would-be lover. He’d gotten the prize, but Weston knew the truth.
Chapter Eight
Liam sat at the table across from an empty chair. It was a bland, featureless room in a suitably boring house that no one would notice in a suburban neighborhood just outside London. The small room was dominated by a mirror that ran along the opposite wall. MI6. Whoever was watching behind that mirror was MI6, and he was right in the belly of the beast.
He shouldn’t have gotten out of her bed, but then he wasn’t known for making good choices when it came to women. He sat in the chair, utterly unmoving. They’d offered him food and drinks, but he wouldn’t touch a fucking thing. He wouldn’t risk the food being tampered with. The very least they would do would be to deny him access to the loo after he’d had a couple of cups of tea. It was the way these things went. Torture could come in small ways.
So he waited.
The door opened, and Simon Weston walked inside carrying a file folder. He was still dressed in his smart suit, still looked every inch the English blue blood even at fucking two o’clock in the morning.
“You’re not being held here, Mr. O’Donnell. If you want to leave, you should. I’ll drive you back myself,” Weston offered, gesturing back toward the door. “I would like to point out that I haven’t taken your phone nor was that door ever locked. I merely wish to have a talk with you.”
So pleasant. So polite. “You did threaten to hand me over to Scotland Yard.”
Serious blue eyes stared back. “I needed a little leverage, otherwise you would likely have told me to fuck off.”