He kissed her cheek. “We’ll fix it at the earliest opportunity, my love. But in my defense, I had to be prepared for anything Ria threw at us. As her Royal Guard, I had to be neat and inconspicuous at every kind of event she might be invited to attend. You were a doctor. I think you pretty much lived in scrubs, right?”
She sighed heavily, clearly not placated but willing to admit defeat. “I’m not a clotheshorse. It’s going to be hard to find the right stuff I’ll need to be queen. Maybe Ellie can help. Or my mom.”
She seemed so depressed about the idea of clothes shopping that Mitch had to laugh. He scooped her up in his arms and left the closet behind, heading for the bedroom.
A night of thorough loving had her back in a good mood come morning. Mitch had a way of doing that to her. It seemed anything could be solved by spending a few hours alone together, preferably in each other’s arms.
They headed back to Iceland, having accomplished a great deal in a short amount of time. Mitch had uncovered even more treachery by going over the account books held in the States than he had by looking at the duplicate—but altered—set kept in the tiger stronghold. He knew where the rats were now and it was about time to spring his traps.
One rat in particular was going to be caught before the day was through. It seemed Walter Sorenson, the ex-CEO of Phelix Corporation, had family back in Iceland. Gisli’s handpicked stooge was only a puppet. The real puppet master was his older brother, Sven, who did the accounting for the Clan.
Sven had been oh so helpful when Mitch had taken over after the challenge. He’d been almost eager to show Mitch the doctored books. But now that Mitch had seen the other side of the coin back in the States, he knew without a doubt that Sven was in this up to his eyeballs.
Mitch wasted little time confronting the accountant the moment he reached the stronghold. He gave Sven credit for still being there. He had probably thought nobody would understand what they were looking at in the cleverly doctored books, but Mitch had seen the numbers for what they were. A great big fat pack of lies. Smoke and mirrors. Deception.
One thing was certain. Sven had been systematically working against the interests of the Clan for years. He’d secreted vast sums of money in Swiss bank accounts. Mitch needed that money, which rightfully belonged to the Clan. He needed it to retake control of the Clan’s business interests. He needed it to rebuild the framework in which his people might thrive.
Mitch caught up with Sven in his office, just inside the business area of the stronghold. It was another chamber of chrome and glass, hung with expensive medieval tapestries that had set the Clan back a bundle. Waste. That was Sven’s specialty. Decadent waste on personal fripperies.
Mitch had already seized the homes and condominiums bought in Sven’s name all over the world. His agents were moving on them even as Mitch moved on the small man behind the overlarge desk.
“Sire, you’re back.” Sven seemed to smile as he rose, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yes, I am, and you’re under arrest.” Mitch nodded to the Guards who flanked him and they moved forward.
“What is this?” Sven shouted, evading the Guards as best he could. He fumbled for something in his desk drawer and a split second later, a dart whizzed past Mitch’s ear to embed itself in the wall. A sickly green fluid came out of the tip.
One of the Guards—Helga—smashed her hand down on top of Sven’s wrist, making him let go of the pistol. Mitch heard the distinct sound of bones crushing as the accountant cried out, but it seemed he wasn’t done. He crouched as if to spring, but Mitch held out one hand, stopping him with the magic that was his to command.
He was strong now wherever he was, but never more so than when he was near the mountain that lent him its power. Mitch held the man in place without even touching him. A quick glance told the Guards to let go and stand by.
“You can’t do this!” Sven shouted in a squeaky, annoying voice.
“By the Goddess, I certainly can,” Mitch begged to differ.
“You…you’re just an upstart. A flash in the pan. You won’t last a week before they kill you, and I’ll still be here long after you’re gone.” The man was raving now and it wasn’t pretty.
Mitch lost his temper.
“By the grace of the Goddess I serve, the power of the Grim runs through me. If you want to feel my displeasure, keep pushing. If you want to know my mood, monitor the volcano,” Mitch warned, fed up with the man’s posturing. He was going down. One way or another.
No longer would incompetence be tolerated or rewarded.