“She doesn’t know all our shells,” Tom said.

“Does she need to?” Declan asked. “As far as she’s concerned, these could be smaller companies—like Garvey’s—that we have protection agreements with. There’s no need to reveal we actually own them. They just give us information.”

Murphy’s ears pricked at the name of the young man he’d just made an agreement with. “Andrew Garvey?”

“Yeah, that one. He’s your biggest fan now, boss. Making all sorts of inquiries.” Declan grinned. “Become a regular docklands Sherlock Holmes, wouldn’t you know?”

Murphy wasn’t sure he liked that. Garvey was brash, as evidenced by the ambitious swipe he’d made at the contract with those Americans. But brash could also get you killed.

“Why don’t you suggest he back off a bit,” Murphy said. “He’s young. We don’t need to deal with a blunder because of his enthusiasm.”

Tom gave him a sharp look, but Murphy only shrugged. He liked the young man. And Angie would give him hell if he came to any harm.

“I’ll try, boss. But I have to say his activity reports have been gold. He caught an Albanian ship the other day trying to bypass our security check. Had only gone through the humans. Not our people.”

“Albanian?”

Declan nodded and Murphy tucked the information away for later use. There had been an increase in traffic from the Balkans and the Black Sea region. It might mean nothing. But Murphy hadn’t forgotten that the original company that had produced Elixir was in Bulgaria.

Tom said, “Wonder if Mary’s also seeing an increase in traffic from that region.”

“Make a note to ask Anne at the meeting.”

“We’ll need to be open with her,” Tom said. “Otherwise, there isn’t any use in this summit, boss.”

“I know.”

“Ease into things with Anne,” Declan said with a smile. “It’ll make sharing in London easier.”

“Has anything with Anne ever been easy?” Murphy asked.

“No,” Declan admitted. “But at least it’ll be entertaining to see you run ragged again.”

“Insolent children,” Murphy said. “Both of you.”

Joint laughter was the only response he received.

“Third item on the agenda,” Tom said, not bothering to wipe the smile from his ugly face. “Josie has to send her regrets for tomorrow evening.”

“What?” Murphy frowned. “She’s been looking forward to La Bohème for months. Is she feeling well? Why—”

Tom held up a hand and pulled out a piece of folded dove-grey paper. “She writes, ‘I simply cannot get away tomorrow evening. I do apologize, but it cannot be helped. I should add that when I mentioned my attendance at the opera to Anne earlier this evening—before I knew it was completely and utterly impossible for me to attend—she seemed quite enthusiastic and, dare I say, jealous of my tickets. One might suppose she would be open to an invitation.’” Tom folded the paper and tucked it back in his pocket. “I’m just readin’ what she wrote. Don’t kill the messenger.”

Murphy closed his eyes and tapped a finger against his temple. “Your wife…”

“Meddles. I know,” Tom said. “But as she cannot possibly get away tomorrow evening, I think you’d better call Anne.”

“Maybe I’ll give the tickets to Brigid and Anne.”

“Brigid hates the opera,” Declan said. “But I don’t. Can I come?”

Tom and Murphy both spoke at the same time. “No.”

MURPHY could admit that he’d cheated by inviting Anne via formal invitation. But if he’d called and asked, she’d have said no.

So, since he’d been an opportunistic bastard and used the excuse of a formal invitation from the leader of Dublin to the representative of Northern Ireland to ask his mate out for a bloody date, Anne was sitting next to him at the blandest concert hall in Europe, halfway through one of her favorite operas.

She’d said nothing to him since he picked her up at Carwyn and Brigid’s massive home on the outskirts of town. She slid into the back of his car wearing a cocktail dress in some sort of wrap design and heels that made his fangs drop. The dress was the color of good red wine, the shoes could have been used as weapons, and Murphy couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

Murphy didn’t follow women’s fashion beyond noticing what dates wore and giving the appropriate compliments. Most modern fashions did little to tempt him. Or perhaps it was most modern figures. The majority of his dates were willowy things, lovely in their own way, but they often reminded Murphy of the hollow-cheeked girls he’d grown up with. His sisters and cousins had never had enough to eat.

Anne, on the other hand, was luxury.

Full figured and soft, she embodied everything he’d hungered for as a human and everything he strived for in immortal life.

“You’re missing the opera,” she whispered.

“Don’t care,” he murmured. “I have the best view in the hall.”

She kept her eyes on the stage, so he didn’t know if his words angered or pleased her. Perhaps, if he read the set of her shoulders correctly, a little of both.

He was determined to have her again. She was living her quiet life in the west, but he knew she wanted more. She hadn’t retreated back to the place where she’d lived as a human until they’d broken things off. She’d never made any mention of a country life when they lived together. Anne had loved being in the city. Had always hungered for travel.