“This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night either, but it doesn’t look like either of us has much of a choice,” he says drily.
“So sorry to disturb your plans.” My voice drips with vitriol that scares even me. I don’t care if he’s right. His cool response to this situation is disturbing and tells me everything about his family’s business that I need to know.
They project a genteel, refined image, but what lies beneath is ugly and terrifying.
Darker and more twisted that I’d imagined.
The same holds true for this handsome man in front of me. What does he have to lose if he lets me leave? P.J. mentioned his father threatened him. With what? And what would he do to me to escape that threat?
My leg is twisted painfully beneath me. Now that the feeling is finally returning, my ankle screams, throbbing as I grab the front of my boot and try to maneuver into a less painful position. Are my boots always this heavy? I clutch my ankle, grateful that my boots have kept out the cold, damp snow at least. Fighting back both exhaustion and tears, I pull my knees in close to my chest to find what warmth and comfort I can.
He watches me struggle and furrows his brow as he registers the pain I’m in. It’s a momentary flash of humanity, but it’s gone in a second.
“I’m sorry.” He says it like he’s not used to apologizing. The prince of a mafia family doesn’t have to apologize often, I guess. “I probably seem cold, but I’m used to the reality of my father. Pragmatism will save us both pain. I don’t mean to minimize what you’ve been through tonight.”
“Tonight?” My voice wavers. “Do you have any idea what your father has put me through? I’m lucky to be alive.”
My eyes search for any sign of remorse, but there’s none. His face doesn’t move—he’s like one of those marble statues of Adonis.
Distant.
Unreadable.
“Not many people come away from standing up to my father unscathed, Ms.?” His hand moves as if of its own volition to a scar that cuts through his eyebrow. It’s the only imperfection marring his otherwise perfect face.
Maybe I don’t know the whole story here.
“Sasha,” I offer reluctantly. “Sasha Saunders.”
“Ah, the union organizer,” he says, easing down onto the hardwood floor next to me. It’s not a graceful descent. He’s not someone who’s used to lowering himself like this. “P.J. bringing you here makes a lot more sense now.”
“Please do let me in on the secret, then, because I have no idea what’s going on.”
He smirks at me.
God, I wish I didn’t find him so fucking attractive.
“May I?” he asks, indicating my boots. “Seems like your ankle is bothering you. Besides, the snow isn’t good for the floors.”
I can’t tell if that last part is a joke or not.
“It’s better to leave it on until I can get some medical help.” My voice is small. “It’ll keep the swelling down.”
He drapes one of his big, elegant hands on my boot. “That’s not going to happen tonight. I can’t let you leave until we’ve figured this out.”
He sounds annoyed. Like he can’t believe I haven’t just accepted my fate. I won’t give him permission, but I don’t bother protesting as he unties the laces and eases my boot off. I suck in a breath at the sharp intrusion of pain.
My socks are purple with pink bunnies on them. They’d been a gift from my late Grandma Goldie. Watching him peel that embarrassing sock off my foot nearly breaks me.
Suddenly, I’m glad I shaved my legs even though it’s winter. What a stupid thing to think right now. Annoyance surges through me at the thought, so out of place in this dangerous situation.
He probes my injury with gentle fingers. My foot is ghostly white, with the starburst of a bruise beginning to swell around my ankle bone.
“It doesn’t seem broken, but it’s a bad sprain.” He flicks his dark eyes at me. “Old injury?”
“Not so old.”
Turns out having your ankle tied at an angle to a fence for hours is bad for it.
He blinks slowly as he processes what I’ve said. He shifts uncomfortably, though whether from the knowledge of how I was hurt or from being on the floor, who knows.
“Ah. I see. Well, I’ve always been pretty lanky and I twisted my ankles a lot as a kid. I can wrap this up for you.”
“Lanky is not the word I’d use to describe you.”
He lets out a husky laugh, his fingers lightly tracing my ankle. It sparks a bizarre longing deep inside me. What is wrong with me?
It’s not fair for God to make a ridiculously attractive man like this and make him a Carney. Not that devastatingly attractive men are ever interested in me. Not even mediocre ones like Gary are. But still.
He’s taking my other boot off now, and I don’t fight him. He closes a warm hand around my frozen foot.
“Let’s get you into something dry, and I’ll make dinner while we think about next steps.”
I’m trapped and I hate it.
But if James Carney doesn’t know he’s going to be served on Monday, and this is just a reaction to more whispers about union activity, I’m not any safer at home. This way at least my little brother won’t be in harm’s way.
Another lesson life has taught me lately: I don’t have to like this to accept it.
“Fine,” I say, trying to push to my feet.
He takes me by the elbows. I can feel the sinew of the muscles of his forearms through the material of his shirt. He’s not bulky, but he’s big. And given how easily he lifts me, he’s strong. I try to put weight on my left foot and stumble against him.
“Careful,” he says, holding my arms still.
He shifts so he’s next to me and slides an arm around my waist. He smells like the oaky embers of a fire that’s just gone out. Still warm, nearly intoxicating. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline draining from me. His mouth is next to my ear. “Slowly now.”
I don’t need to know what Finn Carney’s bedroom voice sounds like. Why is this happening?
He helps me into said bedroom and unzips my puffer coat, guiding me to sit on the edge of his king-size bed. I suppose I should be nervous, sitting in this intimate space. But I’m sure I’m not the kind of woman Finn usually has on his bed. I’m sure I don’t even register as a woman to him. My fingers trace over the silky, expensive damask bedspread as he places my jacket in the en suite bathroom.
“That was one deceptive coat. I’m not going to have much that’s small enough for you to wear.” He drags his gaze over me slowly, and I’m suddenly too embarrassed to meet his eyes. Finn stands there for just a minute, but then walks over to a tall chest of drawers.
It’s an incredible piece of furniture—mahogany maybe? It stands on four legs, the feet carved to look like lion’s paws. It’s a masculine but elegant piece, and I bet it has a secret compartment. My many viewings of Antiques Roadshow reruns tell me it’s American Empire style—old and expensive as fuck.
He pulls out a long-sleeved shirt and hands it to me. It’s dark blue and very soft.
“I got that at a charity run I did,” he says. “Don’t worry, I didn’t run in it. It’s way too small for me, but I kept it to remember the event.”