Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy #2)

My appointment is at ten a.m. at the bank. I’m supposed to withdraw the cash, put it in a duffel bag, and then walk outside and around the block and drop the duffel bag through the open back window of the black Suburban that will be parked at the curb.

I’ve run through the plan so many times in my head, I’m ready to rock.

A cool breeze sweeps through the room, and my nipples pucker. I cover them with my hands, shocked when I touch skin.

What the hell? I didn’t fall asleep naked.

That means . . . I search the dark room for the man who must have stripped me last night, but there’s no noise coming from anywhere in the room.

Using the glow of my phone, I stumble to the door to flip the switch of the overhead lights. I am most definitely naked.

That bastard.

My gaze drops to the time on the phone screen, and I convince myself I’m still drunk when I see the appointment reminder . . . for noon . . . in fifteen minutes. Is that why the chime that woke me sounded different?

I blink twice, because there’s no way in hell I’m really seeing that time. I set two alarms so I wouldn’t miss my rendezvous with my not-so-dead husband. There’s no way I slept through both of them. Is there?

I tap on the appointment reminder, and the full text pops up.



Your prior appointment has been handled. Your creditor, however, requires your presence in the private study at noon because you’ve got debts to pay and they’re past due.

Open the nightstand drawer. Wear what’s inside. Bring the leather box to me through the door you attempted to open last night.

Do not speak until you’re spoken to.



The last line makes my palm itch to slap him, but I’m quickly distracted by the rest of the cryptic message.

What the hell does your prior appointment has been handled mean? Does that mean he paid off Brett? Or . . .

I don’t want to consider the alternative, because the only thing that matters right now is my family’s safety. I tap the phone icon and pull up my mom’s cell phone number. It rings three times, and I pace the room as I wait for her to answer.

She doesn’t. And her cheery voice-mail message is no comfort.

“Sorry I missed you! I’m probably on the golf course right now. Text me, and I’ll call you back when I finish on the eighteenth green.”

My dad’s cell phone is next. It rings twice before he picks up, and I heave a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God.”

“What’s wrong? Did something happen at the distillery?”

In that moment, my dad’s gruff voice is the best sound I’ve ever heard. I don’t even care that retirement hasn’t changed him and the distillery always comes first.

“No, no problem. I just wanted to make sure you and Mom were okay. Is everything fine?”

“You having one of those walking-over-your-grave moments? Is that what this is?” my dad asks, always the superstitious one.

I swallow back the fear that gathered in my belly when I got my mom’s voice-mail recording. “You could say that. When Mom didn’t pick up, I worried.”

“We’re fine. She’s out with Jury getting their nails done. For some reason or another, she decided to show up at our door last night with nothing but a backpack. I swear to God, that girl will never grow up. She’s too old to be acting like this still.”

“Jury’s there? Did she say why?” I’m actually happy to hear it. That’s one less member of my family I have to make sure is breathing this morning after I didn’t follow through on my end of the bargain with Brett.

Little by little, the rigidity of my spine eases.

“She said she’s between jobs. Needs a place to crash, and figured she might as well see us and kill two birds with one stone. I swear, if she starts dancing on bars around here, I’ll never live it down at the club.”

I close my eyes, thankful to hear my father bitching about my sister like he usually does, instead of the horrible alternative.

“I’m sure she won’t, Dad. Have you talked to Imogen lately?”

He grunts. “She’s too busy for any of us. Got a text from her this morning that she applied for some fancy postdoctoral program, and she needs letters of reference from people who aren’t family. But she doesn’t want my help to get them. Just suggestions on who to ask.”

That also sounds exactly like my middle sister. She’s determined to do everything herself, even if it means making things ten times harder. It’s like she’s afraid asking for help will make her accomplishments somehow mean less.

Sound a little familiar? an inner voice taunts. I tell it to shut up.

“So, everything’s good? Your golf game is improving?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m bored as hell. I’m running the condo association, but I’m thinking of taking on a couple consulting jobs to keep me busy. I can only play so much damn golf. Your mom drags me out every friggin’ day.”

“Dad—”

“Don’t you dare tell your mother about that. We’ve already had it out. I’m not meant to be retired, though. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Maybe just try relaxing?”

He huffs. “You do any of that lately?”

I can’t even begin to tell him what my life has been like, so I give him the win on that point. “Touché.”

“I worked hard and played hard, girl. Don’t wait until you’re my age to have fun. Probably should go find yourself a real man before you’re too old.”

“Dad!”

“What? We both know I’m right. That bastard didn’t deserve you. Too slick. Don’t let the next one fool ya, girl. Make sure you got his number from the very beginning.”

I smile weakly, even though he can’t see me. “Sure, Dad. But it’ll be a long, long time before that happens.”

“You never know. We’re Irish. We believe in fate. The right man will find you, and he won’t let you go when he recognizes what he’s got.”

That’s probably the biggest compliment my father has ever bestowed upon me, besides having the confidence to sell me the distillery and let his retirement depend on me running it.

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you too, Keir. Call me if you want to hire me for a consulting gig. I know a thing or two about whiskey.”

“You’d be my first call.”

We hang up, and the warmth of my father’s compliment evaporates when my phone chimes as another reminder pops up on the screen.



You have ten minutes to follow my instructions or pay the consequences.



“Shit!”

I don’t want to know what Mount has planned for today, but I do know one thing—I need answers. What does his note on the first appointment reminder mean? I need to know.

I toss the phone on the bed, glaring at it and wondering how he hacked into my calendar, but that’s not the problem I need to focus on right now.

Staring at the black lacquered nightstand, I take two measured steps before pulling open the top drawer. Inside is a box from an expensive lingerie store I could never imagine shopping at. I lift it out, open the lid, and peel back thin tissue to reveal a bustier, a garter belt, and thigh-high stockings so thin, they have to be silk.