They’d had some good times over the last few days, the three of them. Awkward at times, of course, but good, he’d thought. But she kept doling out the information slowly, and he had a soldier’s dichotomy of immense patience while on or planning the mission, and almost none in his personal life. Whether it has always been that way, he no longer remembered, yet another frustration.

So when she’d asked to talk, but then said it had to be away from the base, he’d argued. He understood keeping it from Olivia for awhile longer, but damn it, he’d been a fucking master scout before he’d been transformed, if a damn thirteen year old could sneak up on him in his own base where he had installed or supervised the security, and pretty much remodeled it all on his own, well; it was damn near impossible for it to occur. The internal turmoil was killing him. He didn’t even know if he should call her Olivia; if Livy was a special name used by Amelia only. So much missed. How do you ever find out enough to even begin to make up for lost time? And perhaps the most haunting, would it be better if she never knew?

So he’d agreed, suggesting Brewski’s. It was almost home territory, and the Force were finally going to be on, another damn miracle. Brewskis had finally signed up for a lot of rugby specialized broadcasts, pretty much as a favor to him and Bryan, well to Oliver and Mick.   Every once and awhile, he wondered if he was taking on more characteristics of the inland taipan, becoming more and more territorial, more comfortable at home.

But no, of course not. Damn that woman. No distractions. Then she’d blinked those beautiful brown eyes and said Safran Modestie, and he’d vaguely recognized it. So he’d said yes, which turned out to be a huge damn mistake. He’d looked it up and sighed. Just because he’d been able to outfit their closets didn’t mean he was made of money. He had plenty but she didn’t know that.

He’d called himself first, and well, his credit line got him in, in seventy eight days. He’d got paid a lot of money by Guggenheim, and he’d not spent much. In fact, after four years around Henri and William, well, investments paid off when you have money to risk. Even better, the funds were there in ten different identities now. Which was all irrelevant for this damn place. When did Amelia start having such tastes? Had she changed that much or had he never really known her?

So, although he felt guilty about doing it, because Stacey had a point, whether William had been wrong or not, he’d been trying to help in his arrogant ultra rich way, and he needed to apologize to him and and try to set some ground rules. Frankly he needed to have a conversation with Bryce too. But that didn’t matter now so he’d called Jessica, William’s chief executive secretary. Hell, he wasn’t sure William knew he had an executive secretary, let alone five; or that Jessica was in charge, that Jessica had three girls, and the oldest played rugby and was maybe good enough to play for the American national team in a couple years. After a couple of minutes on the phone, and a promise to come watch Angela the next time they were in San Diego, it might as well have been sealed. A couple minutes later, she’d texted with the details, 9:00 PM for Brett Anderson. She hadn’t even questioned the need for an “alias.”