I deadpan, “I’m thrilled,” and jab my finger against the End button on my phone.
He calls me back five seconds later. “Got a call from my buddy at the department. Feds are at the scene now.”
“Good. Have them give me everything they’ve got as soon as they’ve got it.”
He mimics a pirate’s accent. “Aye, aye, captain.”
“Declan?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t ever say that again.”
“You don’t like it? It originated as a British Royal Navy nautical term meaning ‘Yes, I will do as you command.’ As opposed to the more generic ‘I understand’ in response to an order, which doesn’t implicitly connote obedience. Because, you know, the military’s real big on obedience.”
“I do know. I was in the military.”
His tone turns thoughtful. “That’s right. I always forget. Probably because I can’t picture you taking orders from anyone. I bet you got disciplined constantly, right?”
I mutter, “I should’ve shot you on sight,” and hang up on him again.
I sit thinking for several long moments. When my stomach grumbles, I realize I haven’t eaten anything for hours. I head to the kitchen to get something to eat, but stop in the living room, my ear cocked.
I hear the sound again. It’s a low thump, like a blow against a wall.
It’s coming from the corridor that leads to the guest room where Juliet is.
A few seconds later, I’m applying my knuckles firmly to the door of her room.
There’s a pause before she opens up. A pause in which I find it surprisingly difficult not to start pounding my fist on the wood and shouting. Then the handle turns, the door swings wide, and there she is.
Red-faced, disheveled, and breathing hard.
Behind her, the room is a wreck.
I let my gaze wander around the overturned furniture, the artwork hanging askew on the walls, the bed stripped of sheets. A nightstand has been dragged underneath an air vent on the ceiling on one side of the room. The window coverings lie in a crumpled pile on the floor.
I fold my arms over my chest, lean my shoulder against the wall, and say mildly, “I see you’ve been redecorating.”
“I was looking for cameras.”
“And trying to find a way out.”
“Yes.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I discovered that. Thank you.”
We stare at each other. She’s so lovely with the color high in her cheeks and her eyes ablaze with anger. I want to reach out and stroke her face, but know I’d only get slapped for the effort.
“You said you believed I’d keep my word.”
“I said I mostly believed you’d keep your word. And you can’t blame me for having my doubts about your veracity.” After a pause, she adds, “I’m sorry if that’s insulting. I don’t mean to insult you.” She closes her eyes, sighs, and mutters, “I can’t believe I’m apologizing.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, though.”
She opens her eyes and gazes at me with her brows drawn together, like I’m a frustrating puzzle she half wants to solve and half wants to set on fire and throw into the street.
“Are you hungry? I was just going to get something to eat.”
Ignoring that, she demands, “Did you find out anything yet? Can I leave?”
Ouch.
I say softly, “I want you to trust me.”
“And I want a unicorn pony. So here we are.”
I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing, because I know it would only enrage her more. “I’ll work on that. In the meantime, I’ll feed you.”
I turn around and walk away, feeling her gaze on my back as I go, trying to quell the dark, powerful surge of desire that moves through me when I hear her footstep on the marble and realize she’s following.
10
Jules
Don’t look at his ass, idiot. He’s the devil, remember?
I follow Killian down the corridor to the kitchen, admiring his hard, perfect butt despite myself. He walks like a king. Head held high, broad shoulders squared, his effortless swagger conveying total confidence.
He’s the shit, and he knows it.
I’d like to take off my shoe and chuck it at his conceited head to take him down a notch.
But I don’t. I’ve already ruined the man’s guest room. Demolishing décor will have to be enough for one evening.
My feet dragging with fatigue, I hop back onto the counter stool where I sat before, prop my chin in my hands, and watch as the head of the Irish mafia makes me a tuna fish sandwich.
I swear that hipster bartender put something into my drink.
When the sandwich is ready, Killian puts it on a plate and takes a knife from a drawer. From over his shoulder, he says, “Crusts or no crusts?”
Yeah, that’s it. I’m definitely hallucinating. “Crusts are fine, thanks.”
He slices the sandwich in half and turns and presents it to me. Then he folds his big arms over his big, stupid chest and gazes at me from under lowered lids with a smug half smile playing over his lips.
“Don’t smirk,” I say, picking up the sandwich. “It’s unbecoming.”
“It’s not a smirk. That’s just my face.”
Holding his gaze, I bite into the sandwich, pretending it’s the tender space between his forefinger and thumb.
I refuse to like him. He’s a gangster, a killer, a bad guy to the bone. Just because he saved my life and made me a tuna fish sandwich doesn’t change anything. Plus, the jury’s still out on whether or not he’s going to let me go like he said he would.
“I’m really not so bad, once you get to know me.”
I chew for a moment, irritated that he can so easily read my face.
Then he completely flusters me by growling, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s honesty.”
I swallow and clear my throat, feeling blood pulse in my cheeks. “Well. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stares at me in unblinking intensity, studying every nuance of my face, radiating pure masculine sexuality, until I can’t stand it anymore.
“Are you always like this?”
He cocks his head. “Like what?”
I wave my hand at him. “This. You know. Alpha.”
He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “Of course.”
Jeez, what was I expecting? Humility?
He watches me chomp in aggravation for a few moments, then smiles. “I feel sorry for that sandwich.”
I don’t have a smart comeback, so I simply chew and swallow until the sandwich is gone.
His cell phone rings. He whips it from his shirt pocket and answers with a curt, “Aye.”
He listens intently. I try to listen, too, but can’t hear whatever the person on the other end is saying. Then he poses a series of rapid-fire questions, his jaw getting harder and harder between each one.
“Just the one? Conscious? Where? Who’s with him? How long have we got?”
He listens, his expression growing darker, until finally he glances up at me.