The conversation had developed into an obscurantist’s fantasy. Gareth had not felt so frustrated in years, and managing frustration was not his forte. “Good God! Just what the devil are we are talking about, Declan?”

Declan blinked as his pickled brain translated Gareth’s words. That was when Gareth realized just how drunk his friend was, and he probably should not even be speaking to him when he was in such a condition.

“I’m saying that I know you don’t need me—I serve no purpose in this business.”

Gareth gave a huff of disgust. “You are cupshot, Declan. Go to bed and sleep it off.”

“You’re off, are you?” Dec’s expression was sly and ugly. “Where to, I wonder?”

Gareth closed the gap between them in one long stride. “Say it.”

Declan sneered. “You say it! Say the real reason you have no time for this discussion. Not because I’ve had a little to drink. It’s because of her.”

Gareth’s head pulsed. “What about her? Just what is it? Why do you dislike her so?” A thought hurtled from the dark recesses of his mind and exploded like a fireworks display. “You’re angry because she might prefer me to you.”

Declan’s face became even redder, which Gareth hadn’t believed possible. He appeared to struggle to find the breath to speak. “I am not angry,” he yelled. “But if I were, it would not be about a bloody woman! It would be about you, and how you are too fookin’ naïve to know when a woman is using you.”

“Using me? She is my employee, Declan. How is that using me?”

Dec gave him a look of loathing; a look he’d not turned on Gareth in over two decades.

“You’re the one whose brains are addled and you’re behaving like a dog in rut and her—well, she is like a bitch spreading—”

Gareth’s fist made the decision all on its own, connecting soundly with the right side of Declan’s jaw. The heavier man reeled back, his arms wind milling for balance and not finding it. Instead, he staggered drunkenly and collapsed, luckily, into the chair a few steps behind him. Pity and anguish surged inside Gareth for his friend. His hand hurt like hell, but not as badly as his conscience. Declan had put back the better part of a bottle of port during their play, not to mention the wine he’d drunk at dinner and the whiskey right before. Not only that, but he was bigger and slower and far less fit than Gareth.

He was also out cold.

“Declan?”

A loud, raspy sigh greeted his question.

Gareth went closer, but not too close. Declan fought dirty and Gareth wouldn’t put it past the other man to lure him close and then attack. But the Irishman’s head lolled in a way that was too boneless to be feigned, and his stertorous breathing was that of a man deep in a drunk.