Twister: Party Games, Book 3 (12 page)

Ha. And what
are
the odds of that? None. Holston’s not an idiot. He won’t try and sell them to any media outlet
you
own.

“Fuck.” The growled curse tore at the back of Lachlan’s throat.

“Sorry, sir?” The taxi driver cocked his head, giving Lachlan a curious glance in his rearview mirror. “Did you say something?”

Lachlan bit back a sigh. “No. Just having a…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’ll double your fare if you can get me to my destination in twenty minutes.”

The driver’s eyebrows shot up. “Absolutely, sir.”

The taxi shot forward, the engine a dull roar in the cabin. Lachlan lifted his phone and redialed Mac’s number. Damn it, where the hell was the guy? And why the hell wasn’t he answering the phone? Mac would have the thing surgically grafted to his ear if he could.

Mac’s voice message started again and Lachlan threw his phone aside. This was not the way he’d envisioned the night ending.

And how did you envision the night ending? In a blissful state of fairy-tale happiness? In Cameron’s arms? In her bed? In love?

His stomach clenched at the absurd thought.
And
at the woman’s name. Cameron. Cam. Kole. Fuck, he didn’t even know her last name. He’d lost all of his carefully honed and guarded control for a model whose surname he didn’t even know.

Christ, it seemed he truly
was
as vile and contemptible as his dear old dad. And now, there were the images to prove it.

“Coming at you soon in all good tabloids, gossip mags and twitter feeds.”

“Sir?”

The taxi driver straightened a little at Lachlan’s mutter.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, his gut knotting. “Sorry.”

He let out another sigh. This wasn’t him. He didn’t brood. He dealt with a problem when faced with it and moved on. The way he was carrying on, anyone would think he was a spoilt child denied what he wanted.

And what’s that? The fairy-tale happiness? Did you actually think it was possible with Cameron? That it could be possible? Are you pissed, not so much at the fact you can’t get Mac on the phone, or that you were photographed by Holston, but because you behaved like a dick when you were? That you treated Cameron like a wanker?

Lachlan ground his teeth, refusing to ponder the questions. They served no purpose now. They would only cloud the situation. What he had to focus on was getting a hold of Mac and throwing his sizeable clout behind an attempt to shut down the images. He didn’t want them out there. If they were out there, Cameron would never escape the harass…

Lachlan’s blood roared in his ears, the thought tapering away. He swallowed, cold worry rolling deep in his gut.

Cameron would never escape the harassment. A woman who had spent how many years of her life avoiding the public was now on the brink of being thrust back into it, and he was worried for her. And instead of being with her, to protect her through it all, what had he done? Behaved like…like…

His father.

What a piece of work he was. If his father didn’t exist in a dementia-medication state of oblivion, he’d go visit the old man in his nursing-staff populated mansion and toast to their condescending, narcissistic arrogance. As it was, Lachlan could only despise himself in solitude.

Fifteen minutes later, the cab slowed to a halt outside Lachlan’s house and his dark mood turned black.

Flashing lights, thumping music and drunken revelers still spilled from the open windows and doors, most of the guests in various stages of undress. He glared at the sight, his jaw bunching. It seemed his sweet sister had turned his home into the scene of an orgy. He was going to kill her when he got his hands on her. Right after he killed Mac.

Leaning forward, he gave the drive two hundred-dollar notes. “Thanks.”

The driver’s mouth fell open. “This is too much, sir. Too much.”

Lachlan gave the man a dry smile. “You got me here. You listened to my profanity. You did your job to perfection. Take it.”

The stunned elation in the man’s eyes filled Lachlan’s throat with a heavy lump. Had
he
ever experienced such unabashed, uncomplicated joy? In all his years of luxury and privilege, had he ever truly experienced something as simple as joy at an unexpected moment?

Yes. He had. Back on the soccer field when he and Cameron had been kicking the ball backward and forward between each other, laughing about movies and television shows and actors and food.

His gut clenched.

Christ, he really
was
a fucking dickhead.

He leant through the taxi’s passenger window, letting the driver see his face. “Do you have a card?”

The man nodded, confusion flickering over his beaming face.

“Give it to me.”

More confusion pulled at the driver’s eyes.

Lachlan smiled. “I want to know who to call whenever I’m stuck and need a ride again.”

With a laugh and a face-splitting grin, the driver fumbled a card from his pocket and gave it to Lachlan. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. I’ll come whenever you need me. Straight away.”

Lachlan raised his hand and shook his head with another smile. “Only when you’re on duty.”

The driver grinned back, nodding. “Okay, okay.”

Tapping the roof, Lachlan straightened from the window and turned to the debauchery of his home. Five steps in, and he knew things were out of control. He pushed his way through the crowd, his earlier happiness at the taxi driver’s joy destroyed by the thick cloud of smoke and alcohol hanging in the air. More than one woman threw herself at him, offering things that no sober woman would.

It took four circuits of the downstairs floor for Lachlan to decide Mackenzie and Lillian weren’t here. A few times he caught sight of what looked like a security team, something that only furthered his rising anger.

Security? Lil’s party required a security team?

Oh, she was dead. So dead.

All but running up the stairs, he searched the rooms. The two guest rooms were occupied—that was, until he snapped on the lights and informed the occupants the party was over. He didn’t listen to their complaints. He didn’t wait for their protests. If they were still there when he finished with Mac, or Lil, they’d find out what happened to people that ticked Lachlan McDermott off. Simple.

Mac’s door was locked. Shoving his hand into his hip pocket, Lachlan withdrew his keys and shoved the appropriate one into the hole. If Mac was
entertaining
someone, he could just bloody well hold on until Lachlan was done with him.

The room was empty however. The only sign Mac had been in it was an unpacked suitcase and his briefcase on the untouched bed.

Lachlan bit back a curse.

He pulled the door shut and stormed to Lillian’s room. It wasn’t locked. But as Lachlan surveyed its state, he wished it had been. He didn’t have a key to his half-sister’s room. It was an unspoken concession to her ongoing and vocal insistence she was capable of being independent. Now, casting his stare at the rumpled bed, the tousled sheets, the clothes scattered on the floor, he was beginning to doubt Lillian
was
capa—

His gaze fell on a shirt on the floor, a familiar shirt, and his throat slammed shut. He strode into his sister’s room and snatched up the crumpled blue polo shirt, his jaw bunching.

Mac’s shirt? His best friend’s shirt? Could it be?

Something small and green peeking out at him through the bunched fabric caught his attention and, a low beat thumping in his temples, he unfolded the shirt and stared at the familiar logo.

A crocodile. An embroided crocodile. A
La Coste
crocodile to be exact. The same
La Coste
crocodile logo on the same blue polo shirt he’d given Mac for his birthday earlier that year.

What the fuck is Mac’s shirt doing in Lil’s bedroom? A bedroom so obviously used for…for…

Lachlan killed the thought. Or tried to. It didn’t help he spied an obviously worn bra discarded next to where he’d found Mac’s shirt. Or that the second, the very
second
, one furious part of his mind turned to the subject of sex between Mac and Lil, the rest of his mind thought of sex with Cameron. Long, slow, luxurious, passionate sex. And the very second
that
happened, his body prepared itself.

He closed his fist on Mac’s shirt, his knuckles popping. “Christ, I need a shower.”

But before that, he needed to take back control.

He stormed from Lillian’s room and strode through his house, past the now-vacated guest rooms, down the stairs, through the writhing masses grinding away to the ridiculously loud music, into the main living area.

The DJ didn’t see him coming. Nor did the security guard the size of an office block hovering to the side of the sound deck. With one yank on the venous collection of power cords and leads erupting from the thing, the music was dead.

For a surreal moment, Lachlan’s home was filled with the noise of people yelling over silence, and then everyone stopped, looking about themselves, baffled ire on their faces.

Lachlan flicked the gaping DJ a quick look. “Party’s over.”

He didn’t bother waiting to see the response. Turning to the guard, he pointed at the massive man’s chest, the McDermott Security emblem on the black shirt stretched over an equally massive chest filling Lachlan with cool calm. “Where’s Lucas?”

“Right behind you, boss.”

Lachlan swung about at the deep voice, fixing the head of his company’s security organization a level stare. “Where’s Mac?”

“He took Miss McDermott off site about an hour ago. Maybe more.”

“Off site? During a party Lil is responsible for?”

Lucas Wilhelm nodded, a single dip of his head. His expression didn’t change. “Mr. Harris arranged for my team to take charge. I’ve been monitoring the situation.”

Dull disappointment rolled through Lachlan. Why had he even entertained the possibility his half-sister might be growing up? And why the hell was Mac taking her away? Mac? More to the point, why the
fuck
was Mac’s discarded shirt in Lil’s room?

Do you really want to think about that now?

No. He didn’t. He’d deal with his lawyer and his little sister later. After he dealt with his own mess.

Driving his nails into his palms, he cast the hovering party guests a flat inspection before turning back to the head security guard. “Get ’em out. All of them.”

The man nodded again. The undeniable air of menace that made him so good at his job without needing to flex a muscle radiated from him in icy waves. “Consider it done, boss.”

Once again, Lachlan didn’t wait to see what came next. Nor deliver any further instruction. He knew Lucas would clear the house without violence—the sheer size of the guy was enough for most people to toe the line, and the promise of pain, lots of pain, in his dark eyes turned any thuggish bully to an agreeable sheep.

Striding back through his home, ignoring the somewhat sullen glares from his sister’s guests, Lachlan headed for Lil’s room. He’d spied her cell phone on the bedside table while taking in the disheveled room, and he needed it. Now. It was a foregone conclusion Holston had already sold the images of him and Cameron on the soccer field to the highest bidder. There was little Lachlan could do to prevent their release, even if he found his MIA best friend. But he could do what he should have done when Holston first took the photos—and that
wasn’t
being a prick. He should be there for the woman he’d placed in such an exposed situation, buffering her against the ensuing media frenzy.

He should protect Cameron, the woman who messed with his head, his control, his plans, his
heart
, damn it, from the shit storm about to hit.

All he had to do was find out where she lived. And while he was at it, her last name. Both, he hoped, were in Lil’s phone. If not, he was screwed.

Chapter Seven

The sound of George Michael singing “Too Funky” woke Cameron from a deep, dreamless sleep. She squinted at the bright yellow light streaming through her bedroom window, her eyes dry and scratchy, her body suspiciously lacking any covering at all. Not even a sheet.

Damn, when had she fallen asleep?

She twisted on the bed, the soft towel bunching beneath her a clue to the answer. Towel. Shower. After her shower. She’d flopped onto the bed after her shower. She twisted some more, enough to make out the small carriage clock on her bedside table.

A groan vibrated low in Cameron’s throat. Seven a.m.? Someone was calling her at seven a.m.?

As if to ram home the point, George Michael sang, “yeah yeah” from her phone, sending the device vibrating across the bedside table where she’d tossed it before her shower four and half hours ago.

Four and a half hours.

For a moment, she considered ignoring it. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to talk to at this time of the morning, especially after the night she’d had. Closing her eyes, she flopped back onto the bed. And sat upright when George started singing again. Few people had her private number. In fact, she could count them all on one hand. Whoever was ringing fell into that small select group. Besides, she really couldn’t stand to hear “Too Funky” again. On this little sleep, it just made her head throb.