Eyes the brittle cold of winter had peered into Killian, all good humor gone. The men behind him had shifted, but remained in place.
“It’s only sportsmen-like, Mr. McClary,” Smith had said in a manner that said very clearly that the matter was not some elaborate joke.
“I’m curious.” Killian had moved several steps closer, his strides even and non-threatening. “Do you make it a habit of barging into people’s homes, three hours before your appointment to cry about making bad choices? I certainly hope not, because if that is the case, I would feel inclined to ban you from my arenas. It’s bad form to put money down on games knowing the odds could go either way and then complain when you lose. I am almost certain we would not be having this conversation if you had won. That said, I will talk to my gaming manager and he will investigate the matter. Should my fighter be in the wrong, as you claim, I will handle him accordingly. As for returning your loss, no. That is why it is called gambling.”
Blood had welled beneath the doughy folds of skin on Smith’s square face. It had reminded Killian of a walking tomato in cowboy getup.
“You are making a grave mistake, Mr. McClary.” Smith’s mouth had barely moved beneath the bushy patch of fur over his lip.
“The matter is closed, Mr. Smith,” Killian had said, putting absolute finality in the words. “Perhaps you’re better off trying your hand at the tables instead.”
Killian’s second mistake that day was turning his back to return to his desk. In normal business conversations that usually meant the meeting was over and the other party should leave.
The forearm had appeared out of nowhere and closed down with impossible strength across Killian’s jugular. The pressure had pushed into his windpipe, blocking his airway and making his heart escalate to make up for the sudden loss of oxygen. A hard chest had pushed into his back, holding him prisoner as the door to his office was closed and locked with a quiet click.
In the background, he heard the pop-pop of gunfire, the shout of his men. Then the boom of weight slamming into his office doors; it wouldn’t have taken Frank long to get in, but Killian didn’t have the minutes.
“I think we should really renegotiate, Mr. McClary,” Smith had drawled. “See, I’m not a man who is accustomed to the word no and I definitely don’t like hearing it where my money is concerned. So, from one business man to the other, I would like for you to think very hard about your answer.”
Killian’s response had been the slam of his head into his captor’s chin. The forearm had lifted just enough for him to bow forward, pull back his arm and drive his elbow into the other man’s ribs. He’d grabbed the wrist connected to the arm holding him, twisted, ducked under, and wrenched it with enough momentum to hear the shoulder pop.
The other man had dropped with a howl. Killian had finished with a knee to his face that shattered his nose and sent him across the floor before rounding on the five gawking at him.
“My answer is still no,” he had panted, pushing wisps of hair back off his brow. “Now, get the fuck outta my house.”
A second man had flown forward, hands out like he’d wanted to wrap them around Killian’s throat. Killian had dodged, ducked, and came up beneath the man’s outstretched arms. He swung five clenched fingers into his side, ducked again, came up, grabbed an arm, and twisted it until there was a crack.
Something had slammed into Killian from behind, hard enough to send him down on his knees. A boot had planted into his ribs and he’d gone down. From there, there was no getting up again. It was four against one. The most he could do was curl up and cover his head as the blows rained down on him with a vengeance that made him see stars. Splotches of gray flickered across his vision and he’d known he didn’t have long.
“I want my money, Mr. McClary,” Smith had drawled as he made his way forward.
“Fuck you!” Killian had spat back before a foot caught him in the spine.
Smith had crouched down. His fat knees had popped as he’d bent to eyelevel with Killian. One stubby finger had knuckled his hat higher on his brow.
“Now, Mr. McClary, let’s not be unreasonable. You give me what I want and we will have no more trouble.” He’d paused a moment before adding, “Perhaps I need to find that pretty little cunt you had in here with you. Maybe she has my money.”
Rage, blinding, flashing, blood red roared to life through every vein. It splattered across his vision like brain matter exploding across a wall. He felt the spray of it sear through him with a raw rage that knew no master.
He lunged with a roar that momentarily silenced everything else. The men jumped back in surprise and it was all he needed to close both hands around Smith’s pale throat. The drive of Killian’s weight threw Smith backwards, taking Killian with him. They landed in a heap with Killian gouging his knee into the man’s chest.
All the pain had inexplicably vanished in the time it had taken to realize the bastard was threatening Juliette. Crimson waves had surged over the room, painting it a violent blur vibrating with his rage.
Beneath his palm, Smith’s pulse had jumped, mirroring the terror in his wide eyes. His mouth had flapped, releasing a series of squeaks and squawks that meant nothing. The heel of his cowboy boots had cracked on marble with his flailing, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
Killian had dug his thumbs into the soft tissues of the man’s flabby neck, crushing the pipes and snaking under the sharp point of Smith’s Adam’s apple.
“You will never touch her!” Killian had snarled.
Out of their shock, the men had lunged into action. Hard, pointed shoes had drilled into his sides, his back, his legs, but his hold never loosened. Smith had writhed beneath him, a helpless worm on the end of a hook. His hands had grappled at Killian’s wrists, his arms and shoulders, but Killian wasn’t letting go for anything, not even when Smith had gone a frightening shade of purple.
His thrashing had slowed. Killian had known Smith had a few more minutes before there was no coming back and still … if he let go and Smith lived, Juliette would be in danger. Smith would go after her and Killian could not allow that.
Over his shoulder, he had a vague recollection of a hammer being cocked back. The rattling sound of metal in the hands of someone unsteady had crackled in his ear. The stench of gunpowder had filled his senses, but it wasn’t enough to make him pull back.
Two bangs had shaken the room simultaneously. Only one had metal piercing through him. Blood had sprayed in a crimson shower over the unmoving form of Dan Smith, staining his plaid shirt. Killian’s hands had finally unraveled. His body had toppled off the other man as more bangs rattled the windows. He had lain there, staring at the ceiling as heat had pooled beneath him. Then Frank’s calm face had appeared above his.
The rest was a blur of being mended, which was probably worse than being shot in the first place.
“Anyone we need to be concerned about looking for him?”
“I am looking into that now, sir. I will keep you notified. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Killian fixed his gaze on the other man. “How long was Juliette here for?”
“The whole time, sir. She took the week off to stay with you.”
“You didn’t think to offer her a bed?”
Frank visibly bristled. “I did, sir. She declined.” He shifted his massive shoulders. “She’s very stubborn, sir.”
A grin turned the corner of Killian’s mouth. “Aye, she is. It’s one of the things that make her irresistible.”
Frank straightened. “Sir, if I could speak freely?”
That was the oddest request Killian had ever heard coming from the man. Since when had he ever censored himself? Frank was Killian’s conscience. The only person Killian trusted to give him the truth.