Soul of Discretion

By Susan Mac Nicol and M Tasia

CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET

Simon Bridgeworth believes in loyalty, and keeping things in-house. When he discovers his best friend, who has been running the Canadian division of Simon's tech empire, has been skimming millions from the company, Simon flies to Toronto to get to the bottom of the theft and learns his friend has been murdered. Devastated and at a loose end, Simon knows there's no way the company's problems can be kept under wraps now. Imagine his surprise when he learns the Mountie investigating the murder is the first repeat Simon has allowed himself in years.

Sergeant Nick Cooper is a proud member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He's served his country in the military, and now he's protecting the citizenry of Toronto. But devotion to duty is no longer enough. On a whim, Nick hooks up with Aristocrat69 on crUIzer, and what started as one night of incredible sex turns into an attraction neither man can ignore. When a grisly mob murder sends Nick to the Breakforce corporation, he is shocked to discover his lover is none other than its CEO. When Simon's life is threatened, ethical lines blur as Nick does anything to keep him safe - no cost is too high for the man who has become Nick's everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948029209

Susan Mac Nicol

'The Official Stuff' Susan writes steamy, sexy, and fun contemporary romance stories, some suspenseful, some gritty and dark, and she hopes, always entertaining. She’s also Editor-in-Chief at Divine Magazine, an online LGBTQ e-zine, and a member of The Society of Authors, the Writers Guild of Great Britain, and the Authors Guild in the US. Susan is also an award-winning screenplay writer, with scripts based on two of her own published works. Sight Unseen has garnered no less than five awards to date, and her TV pilot, Reel Life, based on her debut novel, Cassandra by Starlight, was also a winner at the Oaxaca Film Fest.. 'The Unofficial Stuff' Susan loves going to the theatre, live music concerts (especially if it’s her man-crush Adam Lambert), walks in the countryside, a good G and T, lazing away afternoons reading a good book, and watching re-runs of Silent Witness. Her chequered past includes stories like being mistaken for a prostitute in the city of Johannesburg, being chased by a rhino on a dusty Kenyan road, getting kicked out of a youth club for being a bad influence (she encouraged free thinking), and having an aunt who was engaged to Cliff Richard. Connect with Susan: website: authorsusanmacnicol.com facebook: Author-Susan-Mac-Nicol twitter: SusanMacNicol7 instagram: susiemax77 linkedin: susanmacnicol

Book preview

CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET

Simon Bridgeworth believes in loyalty, and keeping things in-house. When he discovers his best friend, who has been running the Canadian division of Simon’s tech empire, has been skimming millions from the company, Simon flies to Toronto to get to the bottom of the theft and learns his friend has been murdered. Devastated and at a loose end, Simon knows there’s no way the company’s problems can be kept under wraps now. Imagine his surprise when he learns the Mountie investigating the murder is the first repeat Simon has allowed himself in years.

Sergeant Nick Cooper is a proud member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He’s served his country in the military, and now he’s protecting the citizenry of Toronto. But devotion to duty is no longer enough. On a whim, Nick hooks up with Aristocrat69 on crUIzer, and what started as one night of incredible sex turns into an attraction neither man can ignore. When a grisly mob murder sends Nick to the Breakforce corporation, he is shocked to discover his lover is none other than its CEO. When Simon’s life is threatened, ethical lines blur as Nick does anything to keep him safe - no cost is too high for the man who has become Nick’s everything.

SOUL OF DISCRETION

Susan Mac Nicol

M. Tasia

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

SOUL OF DISCRETION

Copyright © 2018

Susan Elaine Mac Nicol and M. Tasia

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-948029-20-9

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

As always, to my family for their patience in dealing with an obsessive writer,

and to the people who read my stories. Without your support, it would take me

much longer to get where I want to be. ~ Susan Mac Nicol

To Craig, Samantha, Katie, and Jason. Thank you for all your love and support. ~ M. Tasia

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To M. Tasia for being a wonderful writing partner, and to our editor at Boroughs Publishing Group for her patience and assistance. And to anyone who’s ever used a hook-up app and found the person of their dreams. Who said romance was dead? ~ Susan Mac Nicol

I’d like to thank Susan Mac Nicol for making this journey together such a success. I’ve enjoyed every minute of this collaboration and to have the opportunity to do it again. As always to Michelle, publisher extraordinaire, thanks for taking a chance on me all those years ago. ~ M. Tasia

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is my first novel writing collaboratively and I enjoyed every minute. M. Tasia and I have different styles, but I think we pulled the story of Simon and Nick off well. I loved designing a fictitious hook up app, called crUIzer, and one day, who knows, I might find someone to develop it and make a million. This story was a lot of fun to write and I learnt quite a bit about Mounties, Toronto, and the Canadian Mafia. It’s all grist for the research mill.

I hope you enjoy Simon and Nick’s rather exciting romance. ~ Susan Mac Nicol

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

About the Authors

SOUL OF DISCRETION

CHAPTER ONE

Blink. Blink. Blink. The flickering cursor on Simon’s cell phone screen was irritating as fuck.

Aristocat69, you there? What you up to? BigDick88

Christ. The guy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Simon picked up his phone and stabbed out a vicious reply. Maybe this would help BigDick88 get the message.

BigDick88, fuck off. You sucked my dick once. Doesn’t mean we’re married. Move on.

He stared at the screen then growled as the cursor flickered again.

Aristocat69, don’t be like that. I thought we had a good time last night?

As much as Simon loved his new gay hook-up app called crUIzer (a project in which he’d invested a significant amount of money as an amusing side-line to his core business), he wished the developer could find a way to remotely blow up past sex partners when they got needy.

Perhaps he’d bring it up at the next board meeting.

Irritated, he pulled down his jock shorts, shot a quick dick pic, and sent it to his stalker. He’d just jacked off, so the douchebag got the half-hard version, complete with dried spunk.

That’s as much as you’re fucking getting. Now get lost. I don’t do repeats.

Simon flung his phone onto his bed and headed for the shower, ignoring the plaintive beep of yet another incoming notification.

He showered and dressed for his meeting. He was about to call the office to check if his overseas visitors had arrived before going downstairs to meet them, when there was a soft knock on his bedroom door.

Only one person had access to his penthouse in the quirky office building he owned on the Plymouth waterside.

Enter, he growled as he tied the perfect Windsor knot in his tie and gave his appearance a critical look-over.

I don’t look too bad given I drank too much last night and fucked someone.

He surveyed his floppy pale blond hair, artfully styled of course, and a scab on his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving. Eyes the colour of sienna stared back. The whole image in the mirror was one of a powerful man with a look that said, Don’t fuck with me.

The pale beige fitted suit and crisp white shirt looked suitable for purpose with his pale blue silk tie. He wasn’t sure about the red scarf in his pocket though; he thought he might change it for the spotted blue one, if he could find the damn thing. He scowled at himself in the mirror.

Someone chuckled behind him. My Lord, you know your face will stay like that if the wind blows the wrong way? I can’t see that expression being conducive to your oh-so-active sex life.

The dry sarcasm in the man’s voice caused Simon to turn around and glare at the deliverer.

And that fucking tone isn’t conducive to your remaining much longer as my personal assistant, you wanker. And don’t call me My Lord. You know I hate it.

Peter Sinclair laughed softly. Someone isn’t looking forward to his meeting. I’d best tell Collette to put an extra dash of whisky or two in the coffeepot.

Collette was Simon’s office secretary. In her early thirties, competent, cheerful, and smart, she was indispensable to both Simon and Peter, though in different ways. She was also Peter’s wife.

Simon grunted. Even that isn’t enough to take the edge off. These men are coming to tell me my company in Canada is being defrauded so I doubt any amount of whisky will stop me blowing my fucking top.

No one fucks with my business. Nobody. These guys had better be prepared.

Simon’s love of robotics and mechanical engineering as a child had spurred him to receive a master’s in engineering in robotics, honours of course, at Plymouth University. His dream had been to create prosthetics and AI systems that would benefit people at a more affordable cost. So, seven years ago, at twenty-eight, he’d created his own company, Breakforce Limited, to do exactly that.

Hailed as the new face of interactive technology and innovative ideas, after some difficult times, a lot of networking and hard work, the company had grown to a multimillion-dollar tech giant and was now inundated with orders, both from military and private contractors. Breakforce was also the recipient of many research grants.

Peter drifted over to the huge chest of drawers in Simon’s bedroom and deftly plucked out a spotted blue pocket square.

I swear he plucked the damn thing out of thin air. I could have sworn that wasn’t there when I looked.

Peter came over and murmured under his breath as he tucked the square into Simon’s shirt pocket and withdrew the red one, That looks better. That red one jarred a bit although it would have been a suitable warning to them of your mood.

His tone grew serious as he moved away and observed Simon. I can’t believe it’s come to this. Breakforce Canada should be one of the strongest companies you’ve got, making a mint. Instead, from what I’ve gleaned from the new reports, profits are down and there appears to be a rather large gap in shareholder funds.

Simon stared at Peter. Large gap? There’s almost three million dollars missing from the bottom line. How could Jack let it get that bad? Moreover, why am I only finding out about this now? That bastard’s been hiding this from me for months.

Simon moved around his spacious bedroom, picking up his wallet and mobile phone. He tucked his tablet under his arm, then turned and asked, That accounting firm managing the company over there—have you given them notice yet? The bastards deserve to see the arse end of my business the way they haven’t picked up on this sooner.

Peter nodded. I’ve sent their CFO the requisite letter. His lips curled in a toothy snarl. I told her it was with immediate effect, and if the firm tried pushing for the full three months’ severance period, I’d release the picture we have of their CEO with his ladyboy lover in Bangkok. I doubt they’ll give us any resistance.

Simon nodded and grinned wryly. Thanks. God knows what I’d do without you. He smiled at the pale, red-haired thirty-year-old in front of him.

Peter cocked his head. That’s what you pay me the big bucks for, m’lord. He chuckled again, evading the slap Simon levied at him. Oi. That’s employee abuse, guv’nor.

Simon grinned at the faint nasal twang of the East London boy somewhere within the artfully dressed businessman in front of him. Peter had been with him for five years, and Simon was thankful for every minute.

I was about to ring Coll. Do you know whether the overseas board delegation has arrived downstairs yet? Simon’s temper flared at the thought of the two men despatched to meet him and explain the accounting deficit situation.

Jack didn’t even have the guts to come himself. Instead, I get his Chief Financial Officer and some other lackey.

Peter nodded. I spoke to her a few minutes ago. She’s put the two of them in the Chestnut Room, has given them coffee and pastries while they wait for you. He snickered. She says they look bloody terrified.

Simon felt a sense of grim satisfaction. They should. They’ll both be going home without jobs after this and they may even feel the loss of their balls if I can get close enough to rip them off.

Peter grimaced. Ouch. He cocked an eyebrow. Well, I won’t be enjoying that visual with you. I have housekeeping duties to attend and a boot to kick up someone’s arsehole for not making sure they rotated the pantry goods.

Simon stifled a grin. Coming from a hospitality background where Peter had been a top-class chef at a prestigious Sydney restaurant in his mid-twenties, Simon’s personal assistant had real OCD issues in keeping his cupboards stocked and in date.

Peter was also his general factotum in running the penthouse of an English earl, a title Simon had inherited at thirty-two when his father, the Earl of Stoneham, had passed away.

His mother, Sarah, Countess of Stoneham, had employed Peter to manage Simon’s affairs, citing a desperate need to keep her executive son in check. The laconic yet amusing and efficient East-ender, together with his wife, had become part of the Bridgeworths’ extended family.

I’m guessing a trip to Toronto to confront Jack is on the cards soon? Peter slid away to straighten what Simon thought was already straight—a vase of flowers to the exact centre of the burnished side table.

Simon held back a chuckle. Absolutely. I’m planning on flying out as soon as Coll can get me a plane. She’s already working on it. I’m going to go over and surprise the bastard. Let him face me himself without having some cock-and-bull story pre-prepared to trundle out.

Simon took one last glance in the mirror, satisfied with what he saw. Right. I’m off to hear the duo of Parkin and Taylor make their limp fucking excuses, much like their dicks, no doubt.

Peter sniggered. At least it’ll make it easier to rip them off.

Both men regarded each other in amusement then Simon wheeled around and strode to the door. I’ll try keeping their blood off the new wallpaper. I’m not promising, mind you.

He pressed the button for the lift that would take him two stories down to his boardroom. He enjoyed the perk of living where he worked in his own self-contained empire of four floors. Bridgeworth Towers, Breakforce’s head office set in Royal William Yard, might not have been the tallest building in Plymouth, but it sure as fuck was the classiest.

Simon reached the door to the conference room before his secretary Collette arrived, bearing a tray filled with delicate teacups, a sugar bowl, and a plate of Simon’s all-time favourite biscuits. He frowned down at the chocolaty goodness of the McVities Digestives.

Coll, these guys don’t deserve those. Take them away. They can starve to death for all I care.

Collette chuckled, her dark skin wrinkling into laugh lines. Boss, don’t be so mean. The melodic tones of her West Indian heritage were balm to Simon’s fierce soul. Do you really expect me to take these away, knowing you probably haven’t eaten anything this morning? You know how you enjoy your biscuits. She grinned. Don’t let them have any if that’s how you feel. Simon held the door open for her as she entered the room.

"I thought I was the boss here," he muttered, and then his ire was redirected to the two pale, sweating men sat at his boardroom table. As they stood to greet him, notepads fell to the polished surface and their hands adjusted ties that were already twisted and creased.

Simon noted with satisfaction the bobbing Adam’s apples and the sheen of sweat on their faces.

Mi’lord— one of them stuttered, and then stepped back, eyes wide, as Simon slammed a large hand down upon the table.

I do not use any of my titles in business matters, he snapped. You should know that by now. You may call me Mr Bridgeworth for the purposes of today’s fiasco. He waved a hand. Now please, be seated. We have a lot to go through.

The men sat down, visibly shaken. Collette placed the tray on the table and made to pour their tea and Simon scowled.

That’ll be all, Coll, thank you. I’m sure these two gentlemen can get their own damn tea. It’ll be all they’re good for after I’ve finished with them. He strode over to the window, and stared out, shoulders tense.

The tone for the meeting was set.

****

Two hours later, Simon sat at his desk going over his notes from his meeting. The sense of achievement at reaming out the two senior (now ex) executives of his Canadian company was tainted with the secure knowledge that Jack Teeman, the president, was someone Simon himself had appointed four years ago.

The financial officer, Roger Parkin, had admitted he’d expressed concern to Jack about the loss of revenue, but had decided to listen to Jack’s excuses rather than call Simon to query what he should be doing.

The Toronto operation was a small company in the large scheme of Simon’s corporate responsibilities, with around one hundred employees, specializing in building prosthetics and artificial intelligence systems. It should have been making a lot of money with all the government and private contracts they had.

Reading between the lines, Simon believed the accounting firm had no doubt been cooking the books for Jack, or were clueless idiots easily bamboozled, and his senior management team had made a fool of Simon by hiding things. Of course, he wanted to kick serious ass.

The thing that hurt him most was his misplaced trust in his best friend Jack. They’d been good together back in the day when they’d been young men starting out in the world of high tech business, and now it looked like Jack was intent on only feathering his own nest.

Simon reflected grimly that simply wasn’t going to happen. He picked up the air ticket Collette had placed on his desk, together with a typewritten itinerary, contact numbers for all the people he’d be expected to see over in Toronto, and a folder containing the latest audited (and potentially falsified) accounts of the Canadian operation.

Stuffing them into his briefcase, he stood up, winced as he rolled his shoulder—sitting at a desk always made him seize up, due to an old shoulder injury from playing rugby—and picked up his cup of coffee, smiling slightly as he dunked a biscuit in.

Collette knocked on his door and he motioned her in.

Sorry the flight is so early tomorrow morning, but there weren’t many planes available. She waved her notepad at him. At least it will give you a few hours after work to pack and get some sleep. I’m sure Peter will have a suitcase packed for you already.

He nodded. "Yeah. If I want to surprise Jack before