"This is a nice golf course," Ian comments mildly as Dorian pulls our SUV to a screeching halt in front of the Ciudad d'Arena's club house. He throws the vehicle into park and tosses the keys to me.
"I'm s-sorry, sir." A clearly shaken and frankly jumpy-looking security guard descends the two steps to the parking area with one hand over his holstered gun. He calls to us from there. "Golf course is closed. There's—."
"I know," Dorian calls back, opening my door and extending his hand to help me out. With the other, he holds up an identification badge that Ivan sent him with. "You've developed a sudden pest problem. We're here to take care of it."
"Oh! Mr. MacOmb. You've been gone so long that I almost didn't recognize you. Good to see you again, Miss," he nods at me with a distressed smile.
For a few long seconds, Dorian eyes the security guard, and I can see him thinking—resenting—that he's been mistaken for Sean. Or Silas. Maybe both.
