Joker in the Pack (Romantic Suspense, Completed, Watty Winner)

Epilogue - Part 2

All the little bits of the puzzle fell into place—Nye's automatic manners, his expensive home, and his reaction when I'd told him I didn't want to date a man with a title again.

I squeezed his hands back. "You dope. I might have said I wanted a plain old Mr., but what I meant was that I want you. I'll love you whatever bits you stick in front of your name."

"You love me?"

"How could I not?"

He collapsed forward and threw his arms around me. Looked as if it was his turn to do drama today.

"I love you, Olivia. Don't ever forget that."

"I won't, I promise. Is there anything else I should know?"

I was joking, but he took me seriously.

"Someday I'll be expected to move back home and manage the family estate. My father's still sprightly at the moment, but that time will come."

"Then we'll do it together."

"Thank fuck for that. I've been stewing over it for weeks. I know how much you hated living in a small village."

"My home is wherever you are. Is that really it now?"

"Not quite. On my twenty-eighth birthday next month, I'll get access to the rest of my trust fund. How do you fancy a bloody nice holiday?"

I burst out laughing. "A holiday sounds wonderful. Anything else?"

"Just one thing. If you could keep quiet about the gunshot wound, I'd appreciate it. My mother would flip if she found out, and Grandma would want to see the evidence."

"I won't say anything, I promise." I gave him a mock salute.

Nye put the car in gear and pulled back onto the carriageway, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him all week. He reached over the centre console and rested one hand on my thigh, and I twined my fingers through his.

"Thank goodness that part's over," he said. "Now we just need to deal with my relatives. I should probably give you the low-down."

"Forewarned is forearmed?"

"Something like that. You remember how you said your mother used to make you read DeBrett's?"

"Every evening."

"My mother could recite it word for word. And there's my grandmother..."

"Is she the same?"

"Not exactly. My great-grandmother could have written DeBrett's. Mother idolised her, but Great-Grandma died a couple of years ago. The funeral's still talked about today—a horse-drawn hearse, morning dress for the men, and she insisted the Bishop of Oxford came and did the service. Mother wore black for a month straight, while Grandma drank half a bottle of sherry at the wake and asked the bishop what he wore under his dress."

"Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Should I be worried?"

"About Grandma? No. She'll love you and you'll love her. It's my mother you need to watch."

I wanted to grip Nye's hand as we walked into the venue, but I looped my arm through his instead. He held the door open, then led me over to a table near the stage. I glanced at the ladies' outfits as we passed. Marc Jacobs, Versace, Gucci, Vera Wang, and enough fancy shoes to pay off the debt of a third-world country. Dammit, I should have got my credit card out.

Nye shared his mother's straight nose, high cheekbones, and strong jaw, and I recognised her immediately. He got his eyes from his father—piercing, they missed nothing, and now they regarded me with suspicion.