Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy #2)

Who am I?

I suck in a wild breath and lift my gaze to the ceiling. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m sitting in my office, the one I’ve dreamed about having since I was a little girl, wearing clothes selected for me by a man who murdered my husband or had him murdered, and instead of going to the police to tell them what happened, I’m thinking about how badly I wanted him to fuck me on his desk this morning.

What is wrong with me?

It’s a question I can’t answer, so I go back to my pile of work, pretending I’m not being torn apart by a moral crisis I’m pretty sure is going to land me in hell because I can’t drum up a single bit of remorse.

I lose track of time, probably because my last conference call drones on for an hour longer than necessary as I negotiate the preliminaries of a supply contract before turning over the details to the lawyers to draft.

“So, we’ll see you in Dublin in a couple days to celebrate the deal in person at GWSC?” Roy asks. He’s a premium organic-grain supplier I need as a backup to my primary so I’m not sole-sourced.

GWSC is the Global Whiskey and Spirits Conference, an event I’ve wanted to attend since my dad went with my grandfather when I was twenty. After that, Dad said it was an expense the company couldn’t justify, and since I’ve taken the helm, that’s continued to be the case.

“I was hoping to get a ticket last minute, but the event I’ve got coming up is going to change those plans.” My answer is complete bullshit. I haven’t even attempted to register because it would be the height of irresponsibility to jaunt off to my dream conference when I can’t make payroll. At least, I couldn’t before Mount intervened.

Regardless, I’m not about to admit that Seven Sinners is having money issues to a potential supplier.

“That’s disappointing. They’ve got some heavy hitters coming in. We’re really excited to attend because we’ve doubled our grain output this year and have a lot of interest on the supply side.”

I read between the lines of his comment. “I hope that’s not your way of telling me you’re going to play hardball on these negotiations, Roy. You know we made a deal.” I say it with a smile in my voice but grip the pen in my hand, using it to make a stabbing motion toward the doodle-edged notepad on my desk.

Roy guffaws. “Of course not. You know me. Man of my word.”

“Good to know that there are still men like you who have unquestionable credibility. That’s such a rare commodity these days. Hopefully, I’ll see you at GWSC next year.”

We hang up, promising to get the lawyers going on the drafting of the contract, and I look at the doodles on my notepad around the contract terms.

I’m getting a good deal, as long as his lawyers don’t screw it all up when they draft it. I swear they love to make simple things complicated.

My mind rewinds the last few minutes of our conversation about GWSC, and I let myself dream for a minute. I pull up the registration website on my computer and read over the details.

If I could go, I would have a shot at some of the best networking of my life. It could be the difference between Seven Sinners thriving like I want, or continuing to eke out an existence. My father would say I’m an idiot for even considering it, but he came from a different generation. Work hard. Play hard. Move on.

I don’t want to continue the family tradition that way. I want to build a whiskey empire.

God, listen to me. I sound like Mount.

I shove away from my desk and stand, my shoulders, neck, and back protesting how long I’ve been sitting, and my stomach growls.

Good thing I own a restaurant. I step out of my office to find Temperance striding down the hall in my direction.

“Oh, good. I thought you forgot.”

My mind races to figure out what she could possibly be talking about. “Forgot what?”

“Shit, you did forget. That’s okay. It’s fine. You’re not late. I was coming to get you so you wouldn’t be.” She leads me in the direction of the elevator, and I still don’t have a single clue what she’s talking about.

“What am I missing?”

The elevator door opens and we step inside. Temperance hits the button for the top floor. “Your meeting with the head of the tourism board.”

“Oh crap!” She’s right. I completely forgot.

“This is kind of a big deal, Keira. I was hoping you’d be excited instead of writing it off completely.”

I open my mouth to tell her that my life has been a little chaotic ever since Lachlan Mount decided I was sufficient payment for a debt. And then there’s the whole he killed my husband thing that I’m apparently not upset about, which also threw me off my game. I snap my teeth together with a clack, because there’s no way in hell I can tell her any of this.

I can’t tell anyone, except maybe Magnolia. She lives in the world I’m partially inhabiting, and would understand more than anyone else.

“I’m not writing it off. Truly. It’s just been a crazy few days.”

“It’s okay. You’ll be fine. It totally falls in line with the thing I’ve been telling you we should do,” she says.

“What thing?” I ask, acknowledging to myself that I’m basically a shitty CEO today, but I’m giving myself a pass.

“The tours and the gift shop. We need to bring more people through. Get them personally invested in Seven Sinners. If they see how we make it, meet the people who are responsible for bringing the world’s best whiskey to life, and then taste it right afterward, they’re a hell of a lot more likely to become customers for life. It’ll be the experience they never forget. The one they post about on social media with awesome hashtags. We need this, Keira.”

She hands me a printed sheet of paper, and I stare down at the bullet points.

“Oh. That thing.”

I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly, because I know there’s merit to what she’s saying. She’s absolutely, one hundred percent right. But my dad went ballistic after he found out I started a construction project to create the restaurant as soon as he signed the company over to me. If I start bringing tour groups through the facility and showing them exactly how we make our whiskey, he’ll lose his goddamned mind and be out of retirement so fast, my head will spin.

Our process isn’t crazy unusual, because all whiskey is made in a somewhat similar process, but we have several special steps that are proprietary. Bringing tours through would put the secrecy surrounding them in jeopardy.

“You know I’m right,” Temperance says as the elevator door opens on the restaurant level, and holds the button to keep it open as I step out.

“I know. But my dad—”

“Your dad isn’t in charge anymore. How many times do you say that to people on a weekly basis?” My silence is all the answer she needs to continue. “You took on a massive construction project without his approval because you believed in it. This isn’t even that big of a deal.”

“But our intellectual property—”