of only half a dozen men and women who had failed that test. Their fury had been memorable, but in the end quite futile. Robert Cameron apparently had nerves of steel because in each of those cases, he’d let the rejected applicant breathe out all manner of vile threats without flinching.
Of course, Derrick knew why that was, but that was something else to be thought about later.
Cameron had turned over the business to him the year before. He’d wanted it, of course, badly, for the sheer exhilaration of the chase. What had surprised him, however, was how quickly the role of recoverer of stolen goods had been added to his job description.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been surprised by how much of his time that sort of thing took up. He turned away from the window before he blinded himself with the afternoon summer sunshine. This was absolutely the last case of that nature he would take on. He would solve this bloody problem for the gentleman in question, then turn everything from now on over to Scotland Yard.
He pursed his lips as he walked across the plush carpet of his office, suppressing the urge to curse. Unfortunately, he imagined he wouldn’t be calling in any detective inspectors anytime soon. The adrenaline rush he got from undoing the work of bad guys was simply too strong to walk away from.
He opened his door and looked at the collection of souls in the reception area. The offices were stunning, of course, because Cameron Antiquities was only part of the Cameron clan’s empire, and he was only a small part of that clan. It was handy, however, to have his office right next door to his cousin’s. It made the clients who dared be seen frequenting the place feel pleased to be hobnobbing with Scottish nobility.
Cameron’s personal secretary was holding court behind an intimidating antique desk that sported a phone, a dedicated, hack-proof computer, and pictures of her grandchildren. Derrick smiled at her, then looked at the men lounging in the chairs there, flipping through supermarket tabloids and looking like trouble.
The worst sort of trouble, Oliver, looked up from reading apparently about the latest royal intrigues.
“Where’re you off to, boss?”
Derrick wondered if he would ever become accustomed to that. Though he had indeed wanted it, that business of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd., and he supposed he’d put enough work into it over the past eight years to accept it almost without flinching, being the owner of it still sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.
Then again, there were no assets in the company to speak of save the power of the Cameron name and the reputation Robert Cameron had built up over the years. Derrick supposed he’d had a hand in that often enough himself not to have it feel like charity.
“I’m not sure yet,” he said slowly.
Rufus, their driver extraordinaire, sighed. “I’ll consider going to warm up the getaway car.”
Derrick smiled briefly, then looked to find his cousin himself, the laird of the clan Cameron, standing at the door to his own office, smirking. Derrick looked at Oliver and Rufus first, because it was simpler.
“I think I’m off on a little explore,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure I’ll be driving.”
Rufus went back to his newspaper, relic that he was. Oliver didn’t shift, but he never shifted. He simply watched Derrick with an unblinking stare that had made many a man blurt out his innermost secrets without having to be asked.
“I have my mobile,” Oliver said.
“I may be giving you a wee ring on it.”
Oliver only lifted one eyebrow, then rose gracefully to his feet. “I’ll go recharge the battery then, shall I?”
“You should.” He turned and looked at his cousin. “Aye, my laird?”
“Just wondering what you’re about,” Cameron said with a shrug. “Perhaps you’d like to come inside and tell me about it.”
Derrick nodded, then followed Cameron into his office. He shut the door behind himself, then leaned back against it.
“Anything in particular you’re curious about?” he asked.
Cameron only sat down on the edge of his desk and smiled pleasantly. “You don’t work for me any longer, Derrick, as I believe we’ve discussed at length.”
“Feudal obligation, my laird.”
“We’re Scots, ye wee fool, not Brits. We call it fealty up north.”
Derrick would have smiled, but he had little to smile about at the moment. He did nod, though, because he agreed completely. He had certainly spent his share of time south of Hadrian’s Wall, but that was years ago, before he’d found it to be a