Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy #1)

I try a dozen more searches, all providing the same result.

It’s like he doesn’t exist. Like he truly is the myth and legend I thought he was before I came face-to-face with him yesterday.

So, how the hell am I supposed to get any information on him if he’s a ghost where the Internet is concerned?

Last night, I tossed and turned as the minutes and hours ticked down to my deadline. My tiny apartment doesn’t have a money tree growing out back, so it’s safe to say I’m no closer to a solution than I was before.

I could sell a kidney, but even that’s not going to get me $500,000, I assume. It’s not like I stay up on the black-market value of organs, because, well, I’m a normal, law-abiding citizen.

I sell whiskey. I pay the excise taxes that make me want to vomit when I write the check. But I don’t cut corners. I play by the rules.

As I walk in through the side door of the distillery, heat from the three massive pot stills surrounds me. Others would find it stifling. To me, it provides a sense of comfort. It’s home.

Louis Artesian, my head of distilling operations, lifts a glass to the light before sniffing and tasting.

“How’s it coming along?”

He swings his head around with a grin stretching his lips. “Mark my words, Keira, this is going to be the best we’ve ever produced.”

The smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth isn’t forced. It’s pride. I will make my father proud. I took a risk by changing grain suppliers—without telling him, I might add—and it’s going to pay off huge.

If I can keep the distillery open long enough to bring it to fruition.

All night, I worked through scenarios. When I signed the loans with the bank, it was all based on the assumption that every loan was already disclosed. I didn’t know about the debt to Mount. How could I disclose it? And if it wasn’t filed with the state and on record, then it doesn’t count, right? Or could he be second tier and force a foreclosure to get what he’s owed, after the original lenders are paid off? It’s not like I know the ins and outs of any of this stuff, and what’s more, I assume it doesn’t matter. I can’t imagine Lachlan Mount abides by the normal rules that apply to everyone else.

There’s only one person I know who might be able to give me some insight. And since Google failed me, she’s my next best option. No general makes decisions without information.

“Don’t you think, Keira?”

Louis has been speaking to me, and I’ve completely zoned out. “Sorry, what?”

His kind smile reminds me of all the people whose livelihoods depend on me.

“No matter. I was just saying you made the right call. It was a ballsy move going to the organic grain, and a costly one, but this speaks for itself.”

Any other time, my lungs would heave a sigh of relief, relaxing my stiff posture, but not today.

I can answer honestly, however. “That’s the best news I’ve had all week.”

“Keira, can I borrow you for a second?” Temperance, my overworked and underpaid assistant / right-hand woman calls from the doorway. It’s a running joke that she works at the distillery, given her name. “We have a few more decisions to make for the event that I don’t want to commit to without your approval.”

In addition to being my right hand, Temperance has also taken the lead on a massive Mardi Gras event we were lucky enough to snag—one for the New Orleans Voodoo Kings, a local pro football team. They’re renting out the entire restaurant, and the money coming in will be enough to keep our head above water for a few more months. At least, it would have been until . . .

I shove the thought of my unexpected and unwelcome visitor out of my head and give Louis a thumbs-up before walking toward Temperance, leaving the heat produced by the stills behind.

“What’s going on?”

“They want to upgrade the menu to include something Odile is pissed about. They also want us to coordinate a car service, and police all the attendees to make sure none of them leave with their keys in hand to drive drunk. Bad PR, you know?”

The thought of having to be the one to tell a professional athlete that he isn’t sober enough to drive home—and possibly take his keys—sounds like a nightmare.

“So, basically, they want us to be the bad guys? Why can’t the team do it themselves if they’re so worried?”

“I don’t know, but they said this has to be added to the contract or they’ll hold the event somewhere else.”

Oh, hell no. We need this event.

I think fast. “Tell them yes. But tell them we’ll have to set it up as a mandatory valet service, and that we need someone from their organization at the door with one of our people to make it a joint decision.”

Temperance pulls out one of three pens she has anchoring her dark brown bun before scribbling on her notepad with it. “Okay, I’ll see if they bite on that.” She glances up. “And if they don’t?”

“Give in, but tell them we’re only doing it for public safety reasons and reserve the right to call the cops if someone gets rowdy.”

She adds the note to her list. “And about Odile—”

“How much is their request adding to the price of the menu?”

Temperance flips the pages on her notepad. “Our food cost goes up by ten percent. I haven’t given them a quote on the change.”

“Tell them it’s a thirty-percent increase in the cost, and when they push back, settle on twenty-five. And then tell Odile I owe her.”

Temperance’s grin widens as she scribbles. “See? You’re a born negotiator. This is why you rock at your job.”

If only I could negotiate my way out of a certain debt.

I’m saved from discussing anything further as my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down at the name on the screen.

This can’t be a good sign.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” I tell Temperance.

“Of course. I’ll catch up with you later on any other details. This is going to be great for Seven Sinners. Also, I have a line on a few more organizers interested in reserving the space for events, and a couple other ideas that could really be profitable. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

Normally I’d be thrilled to hear this, but I’m already distracted completely by my caller.

“Thank you, Temperance. This is why you rock at your job.” I stride down the hallway.

“Hey,” I answer.

“You know I don’t get up before noon. You better explain these cryptic-as-shit texts that woke my ass up,” Magnolia Marie Maison says.