His steps threatened to falter as his brush with death shot to the forefront of his mind. If that bullethadhit him…if his ass had bled out on Rahal’s floor…he and Dig wouldn’t be here now, fighting for Evie’s life.
Rather than slowing down, Beckett picked up the pace. He’d survived that close call for a reason. And to the depths of his soul, he’d forever believe it was so he could find the woman he loved and bring her back home.
To him…where she belonged.
“So I told the chef exactly what I thought of his overcooked lobster.”
Phillip Mitchell’s pretentious voice came within earshot as Beckett and Digger closed the distance between themselves and the small group of men.
“Good for you,” another man commented his support. “I swear, good service is so hard to find these days.”
“Do you think you’ll give him a second chance to prove his worth?” someone else asked.
“Oh, no.” Mitchell huffed. “I assured him under no uncertain terms that I wouldneverstep foot in his restaurant again.”
“Damn, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Beckett boisterously inserted himself into the conversation. “Of course, it’s not nearly as heartless as, say kidnapping your only daughter. Oh, wait.” He snapped dramatically. “I forgot, she’s not really?—”
“Excuse me?” Mitchell looked even more appalled than his rich bitch friends. “How dare you?—”
Beckett leaned in close, keeping his voice low so only Mitchell could hear as he said, “Oh, you really don’t want to startthe whole how-dare-you bullshit with me. Not after what you’ve done to Evie.”
The small hitch of the man’s breath revealed the asshole’s guilt.
“I don’t know who you are or how you got in here,” Mitchell started his own low-spoken warning. “But?—”
“I’m the man who’s about two seconds away from telling everyone in this room all about how you left Evie to rot in a fucking Afghanistan cave after lying to her, them, and everyone you fucking know about the fact that Evie is another man’s child. Or, you can put a smile on your face, we can laugh as if what I just said was an inside joke between you, me, and my friend, and you can excuse yourself so we can go somewhere more private to finish this conversation. Your choice.”
Mitchell pulled back to meet Beckett’s cold hard stare. His swallow was audible but then?—
“You sly dog!” The man threw his head back with a chest-heaving laugh. “I thought you said you and your friend couldn’t make tonight’s festivities.”
“Trust me, Phil.” Beckett’s lips curled as he slapped the man hard on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
Another hard swallow preceded Mitchell turning to his so-called friends with a smile still plastered on his piece-of-shit face. “If you gentlemen would excuse me, I promised my friend if he attended tonight…and was generous with his wallet…I’d give him a glimpse at the first-edition collection I keep in my den.”
The other men nodded, a few offering words of understanding. Mitchell turned and faced Beckett and Digger, the man’s smile vanishing in an instant.
“Follow me.” He led Beckett and Digger out of the ball room, and into the impressive foyer they saw when they first arrived.
The three men made their way beneath the home’s massive main staircase and down the hall to Mitchell’s private home office. He shut the door behind them with far more force than necessary before spinning on the balls of his black paten shoes.
With a glare that would have killed if the ability existed, Phillip Mitchell attempted to take control of the conversation.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish by coming here and accosting me in front of my guests, but?—”
Beckett filled his fists with the lapels of the man’s designer labeled tux. With his next breath, he shoved Mitchell’s back up against the nearest wall, leaving little space between them for anything other than air and rage.
“You son of a bitch!” he growled, his teeth clenching painfully together as he spoke. “I know you’re the one who had Evie kidnapped, and I swear to all that’s holy, if you don’t tell me where she is right this fucking?—”
“Kidnapped?” Mitchell’s silver brows dipped low above the man’s nose. “Th-That wasn’t me. It was those…those terrorists. The Taliban. At least, that’s who they said they were when they?—”
“I’m talking about what happened today, in Charlotte, asshole,” Beckett seethed. “Not Afghanistan.”
Confusion mixed with the alarm that had filled the guy’s eyes. “Today?” He shook his silver head. “What are you?—”
“The yacht, asshole!” Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled in the guy’s face. “Where’s the fucking yacht?”
“What…f-fucking…y-yacht?” Mitchell struggled to speak past the added pressure Beckett was currently putting on the man’s chest.