The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(27)

For a long while, Calum stared incredulously back. She remained still under his perusal. “Do you truly believe that?” he asked at last. His probing manner better fit a Bow Street Runner than a protective brother.

Where her brothers believed some twisted game of revenge drove the bastard and that he intended her harm, Helena was rational enough to see she no longer served a purpose for Diggory. “I’ve no doubt he’s responsible for the damaged shipments,” she said, pragmatically. “But that is all. He doesn’t know I keep books here.” If he did, then he’d have tried to off her already. As such what use would he have with her?

Calum scoffed. “If you believe that, then you’re a fool.”

The faint click of the door killed all further debate on Diggory and his plans. Their gazes went as one to the front of the room.

Ryker filled the doorway. Five or so inches past six feet with thick muscles and a crooked nose from too many London street fights, he possessed midnight-black hair that lent an ominous quality to a man already feared by all. And most of the time, Helena did not exclude herself entirely from that company. The only brother she shared any blood with flicked a harsh, unforgiving stare between Calum and Helena. Unflinching under his fierce scrutiny, Helena sat motionless. Ultimately Ryker settled his focus on her. “What is this about?” A lethal edge of steel underscored his demand.

Snapping the ledger closed, Helena shoved to her feet. “Ryker.”

Calum jerked his chin. “Your sister slept late.”

This again?

Her brother closed the door behind him. His ice-blue eyes seemed to take inventory of her person. “Why?” he asked, his voice harsh and guttural as one who said few words and valued silence.

She despised the heat rushing to her cheeks. “I was more tired than usual.”

Ryker folded his arms across his broad, muscled chest. “Why?” He was relentless.

Because I was dragging a man from the main floor of our apartments. Because I was desperately kissing a too-handsome nobleman. A nobleman whose full name she’d not even bothered to learn.

Helena pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Because I was tired. Because I—”

“The nightmares?” he supplied for her.

Ryker and his crew had lamented her as being the worst liar of their small street-made family. They’d done their best to school her on the art of prevarication; after all lies often saved lives.

“Yes,” she lied.

Some lies came far easier than others.

He rolled his shoulders. “You’re certain?”

The glint in his eyes indicated he knew she withheld from him. After all, you didn’t carve out an empire built on faro tables and roulette wheels if you hadn’t perfected the ability to perfectly read others. But to tell all about the man named Robert was the manner of crime Ryker would never forgive. “I’m certain.”

“She’s certain, then,” he said to Calum. And just like that, the matter was over.

Once again, frustration gripped her. Though she appreciated the support and security they’d provided her through the years, she was now a woman, and yet she was treated with the same hovering overprotectiveness befitting a small child. “I believed I’d been summoned to discuss the liquor accounts,” she said, proud of the evenly modulated tones. “Or am I really here to be questioned about my sleep habits?” Tossing aside the ledger, she stuck her leg out and tapped her foot in an agitated staccato.

Ryker said nothing. Instead, he assessed her with that impenetrable stare that saw all and knew even more. Then, he strode over to his desk with the ease of a man who ruled the world. She stiffened at his approach, but he continued past her. “As you are in an answering frame of mind, I’ll have you also answer for the nearly depleted brandy stock,” he said in cool, emotionless tones as he settled into the high leather wingback chair behind his desk.

At the abrupt turn in questioning, Helena blinked and struggled to readjust.

He leveled her with a look, and she sprung to motion. “I spoke to you last month about the increasing expenditures for spirits.” She claimed the chair opposite him. “At this precise time, last year, the club membership and attendance were seven percent less.” Helena turned the book for his perusal.

He didn’t so much as shift his gaze from hers. She jabbed a finger at the column. “And yet, you’ve only increased the budget for spirits by five percent.” Helena shook her head. “Even as skilled as I am with the accounting, I can never make those numbers work.”

“I don’t,” like excuses, “tolerate excuses.” Close enough. “In anything.”

“It isn’t an excuse,” she said, equally pragmatic. Her spectacles slipped and Helena shoved them back into place. “It is a fact.” And time had proven facts were what governed every aspect of Ryker Black’s life. “In your bid to compete with Forbidden Pleasures—” Her brother’s gaze darkened, but he otherwise gave no indication of her mention of Diggory’s club. She continued, ignoring the warning look Calum shot her. “You are determined to provide the greatest quality—”

“Would you have me compromise the reputation I’ve established?” That hushed, gravelly whisper barely reached her ears.

Ryker took great pride in the empire he’d built. As he should. No one, not even her, his only sister, knew the details of how he’d amassed his wealth. But for all his success, it was clear to those closest to him that he lived with nightmares that came from how he’d had to scrape together some of those funds in the early days. She shoved her braid behind her shoulder. “I am telling you to be wise in the suppliers you use,” she said with a bluntness she’d learned at this man’s hand. “The delivery that comes to the club has consistently yielded, on average, four to six broken bottles each month, and each case.” The detail oddly suspicious enough in itself. It was too mathematically precise. It had also been quickly discounted by Ryker and the others.