“Just a coffee? Or are you hoping for a little Highland fling? There’s a fair few men to choose from right over there.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively, which for some reason sends her into reams of giggles. I feel a warmth inside me at that and half wish Ben hadn’t invited us over—I’m not in any hurry to break up our tête-à-tête.

“Definitely no Highland fling,” she says firmly, when the giggles have died down. “I’m off men.” Before I can quiz her on that, she stands up and grabs her pint and bag. “Let’s go join them then.”

I follow her lean figure across the bar. Her hair is pulled back loosely in an artful mess, and her maroon cashmere sweater has slipped off one shoulder. Everything about her screams casual, sloppy sexiness; I see how it draws the eyes of almost every man as we cross the floor. It’s a wonder we are in any way related.

My father was in MI6 (all that traveling with the gems was actually a really good cover for being a spook). He was fluent in six languages and held black belt status in an unspecified martial art. As part of a major anti-terrorist operation, he single-handedly saved thousands of lives, but as a result became a target. His body has never been found, but the chatter that MI5 picked up at the time of his disappearance suggested that he was assassinated by a professional killer in Antwerp. Those who were closest to him in MI6 lament the fact that, for the sake of national security, his family can never know the true hero that he was.

EIGHT

Ben must have been keeping an eye out for us; by the time we reach the two steps to the raised area, he’s waiting to greet us. “I’m Ben. You must be Carrie,” he says, smiling and extending a hand to her. I see her take a deep breath and her shoulders shift somehow, a subtle movement, and then she puts out her own hand. Behind Ben I can see interested looks from his friends. They seem to range in age from early twenties to late thirties. “Watch your step there,” he warns, turning to offer me a hand to steady me on the stairs. He has rolled back the sleeves of his shirt now to reveal tanned forearms. He certainly didn’t get those from a Scottish winter. “Let me introduce you both to everyone, and then we can have fun watching you forget all our names. This is Fiona, Alistair, Gemma, Stefano, and here is—”

But I’ve stopped listening because over the shoulder of Gemma, or perhaps that was Fiona, next in line to be introduced is a face I’ve met before. My charming non-burglar, Mr. Jamie McCue.

“And this is Fiona’s brother, Jamie,” Ben is saying.