“Darling, are you all right?” Derek asked.
I blinked. “What? Yes. Fine. Good. Dalton, I’m so happy to meet you.” I wrapped him in a big hug before pulling him into my house. “Come in, come in. How did you get here so fast? Do you need help with your bags? You must be starving. I thought we’d have cheeseburgers tonight. I don’t know what Derek’s told you about my cooking, but I do make a really good cheeseburger.”
He turned and grinned at Derek. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“Yes, she is,” Derek said. “And her cheeseburgers are quite respectable.”
I frowned at him. “Respectable?”
“Fantastic,” he amended with a smile.
“That’s better.”
Dalton looked at me. “I’m not saying I’m famished, but if you’ve got a decent ale to go with that burger, I might have to marry you.”
I glanced at Derek, who rolled his eyes. “Feel free to ignore him.”
“Impossible,” I muttered, and turned to Dalton. “It’s Derek’s ale, so you’ll have to take up that offer with him.”
Dalton snorted and the brothers insulted each other mildly as I led the way through the house to the second bedroom. Dalton even walked like Derek, I noticed. It was more of a prowl than a walk, really, as though there might be enemies lurking behind every chair.
“How did you arrive so quickly?” I asked again as Dalton plopped his duffel bag on one of the chairs in the corner of the bedroom. He unzipped it and rummaged through the jumble of clothing.
“Hitched a ride on a friend’s private jet.”
I nodded, impressed. “You have nice friends.”
“They’re useful, anyway,” he said, and dragged his hand through his hair in a weary gesture. His hair was longer than Derek’s and tended to flop onto his forehead. It was adorable, but I preferred Derek’s cleaner, close-cropped look.
Derek leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. “Darling, the friend he’s talking about is our brother Duncan’s wife.”
There were five Stone brothers altogether. If the others were as irresistible as these two, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to handle all five of them together. “Your brother’s wife owns a private jet?”
“Several, actually,” Dalton said, as he roamed the room, perused the closet, and hung up his jacket. “Daphne’s family owns the company that makes the jets.”
“That’s handy, isn’t it,” I said.
“Indeed,” Derek murmured, and pulled me close to him. He eased his arm around my shoulder and I leaned into him as we watched Dalton pull clothes and toiletries from his bag.
“I had holiday time coming,” Dalton said, “so I rearranged a few things and flew here straightaway. I can’t wait to get my hands on that code.”
“It can wait,” Derek said. “Finish unpacking.”
I was starting to detect some subtle differences between the brothers. While both men were complex and, yes, dangerous, Dalton was a few years younger and seemed a bit more tightly wound. He still had a few rough edges, while Derek had a smooth, classic style that I found infinitely more appealing.
Dalton zipped up his bag and stowed it behind the chair. Then he rubbed his hands together briskly. “That’s enough tidying up. Let me see those codes.”
“You’re welcome to rest a while before dinner,” I said.
“That’s kind of you, Brooklyn, but I’d prefer to get to work.”
Good. Derek had been waiting to see if Dalton agreed with his theory or not, so the sooner they started, the better.
“I’ll get the pages for you,” I said.
Earlier that morning, over coffee and toast, Derek had filled in a few blanks about his brother’s visit. He’d already explained that Dalton worked as a cryptographer in a highly secretive section of MI6, Britain’s intelligence service. Dalton dealt with espionage and terrorist cells, but he also enjoyed tracking down the latest conspiracy theories and the crackpots who believed in mayhem in the name of some obscure ideology. Dalton was brilliant at his job and had broken dozens of complicated codes over the past few years.
“Dalton was the one responsible for foiling a major bombing attempt on Buckingham Palace last month,” Derek had said at breakfast, his voice revealing his pride.
I thought for a minute. “I don’t remember hearing about a bombing attempt on Buckingham Palace.”
“Exactly,” he had said, without explaining further.
I led Dalton out to the kitchen bar, where I’d left the copied pages of the cookbook. “Here you go.”
He took one look at the pages and turned to Derek. “Where’s the book?”
“I told you, the book was stolen,” Derek said mildly.
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Of course I did,” Derek told him. “I don’t make mistakes like that. You simply don’t remember.”
“Maybe you told me,” Dalton muttered as he riffled through the pages brusquely. “But damn it, how was I supposed to remember every detail of our conversation? You woke me out of a sound sleep.”
“I sent you a photo as well.”