I open my eyes to find a man leaning over me.
He’s dressed in a black Armani suit. He has jet black hair, a hard jaw, and the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re surrounded by a thicket of lashes, long and curving, as dense and dark as his hair.
I’m intrigued by this handsome stranger for about two seconds, until I remember that he kidnapped me.
I should’ve known. The hotter a man is, the faster you should run away from him. A beautiful man is a bottomless pit your self-worth can disappear into and never be seen again.
His deep voice softened by a lilting Irish accent, my captor says, “You’re awake.”
“You sound disappointed.”
The faintest of smiles curves his full lips. I’m amusing him. But the smile disappears as fast as it came, and he withdraws, settling his muscular frame in a chair opposite me.
He regards me with a look that could freeze molten lava. “Sit up. Let’s talk.”
I’m lying down. Sprawled on a cream-colored leather sofa in a narrow room with a rounded ceiling, my bare legs and feet chilled by the dry, cool air.
I have no recollection how I got here and no knowledge of where “here” is.
I remember only that I was going to visit my best friend, Natalie, in New York City, and the moment I stepped out of the car in the parking garage of her building, a half dozen black SUVs with tinted windows roared up, and this blue-eyed devil jumped out of one of them and snatched me.
There was also gunfire. I do recall that. The burnt smell of gunpowder in the air, the deafening roar of the shots…
I sit up abruptly. The room starts to spin. There’s a sharp ache in my right shoulder, as if I were hit there. Fighting nausea, I take several deep breaths, one hand pressed to my churning stomach and the other to my clammy forehead.
I feel sick.
“That’ll be the ketamine,” says my captor, watching me.
His name swims into memory: Declan. He told me that right after he shoved me into his SUV. His name and that he was taking me to speak to his boss…in Boston.
Now I remember. I’m on an airplane headed to see the leader of the Irish mafia to answer some questions about how I might have started a war between his family and the Russians. And everyone else.
So much for my fun New York vacation.
I swallow several times, willing my queasy stomach to settle. “You drugged me?”
“We had to. You’re surprisingly strong for someone who dresses like the Tooth Fairy.”
The comparison irritates me. “Just because I’m girly doesn’t mean I’m a little girl.”
He lets his gaze drift over my outfit.
I’m wearing a hot-pink layered tulle miniskirt by Betsey Johnson that I paired with a short white denim jacket and a white tee underneath. I bedazzled the jacket with rhinestone butterflies because butterflies are beautiful, kickass symbols of hope, change, and self-transformation, and that’s exactly the kind of positive fucking energy I’m all about.
Even if it is girly.
His tone dry, Declan says, “Evidently. That right hook of yours is impressive.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what you did to Kieran’s nose.”
“I don’t know a Kieran. Or his nose.”
“You don’t remember? You broke it.”
“Broke it? No. I would’ve remembered breaking someone’s nose.”
When Declan stays silent and only sits there staring at me, my heart sinks. “The drugs?”
“Aye.”
I look down at my right hand and am startled to see bruises on my knuckles. I did break someone’s nose. How could I not remember that?
My voice climbs in panic. “Oh god. Am I brain damaged?”
He arches one dark eyebrow. “You mean more than you were before?”
“This isn’t funny.”
“How would you know? You’re unironically wearing a child’s Halloween costume. I’d say your sense of humor is as bad as your wardrobe.”
I fight the unexpected urge to laugh. “Why am I barefoot? Where are my shoes?”
His silence is long and calculating.
“They’re my only pair of Louis Vuitton’s. Do you have any idea how expensive those are? I had to save for months.”
He tilts his head to one side and examines me with those piercing blue eyes for longer than is comfortable. “You’re not afraid.”
“You already told me you weren’t going to hurt me.”
He considers that for a moment, his brows drawn together thoughtfully. “Did I?”
“Yes. Back in the parking garage.”
“I could change my mind.”
“You won’t.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “Because I’m charming. Everybody loves me.”
His head tilt and frown are now accompanied by a derisive curl of his upper lip.
“It’s true. I’m very likeable.”
“I don’t like you.”
That makes me bristle, though I try not to show it. “I don’t like you, either.”
“I’m not the one claiming to be so charming.”
“A good thing, too, because you’re not.”
We stare at each other. After a beat, he says, “I’m told my accent is charming.”
That makes me chuckle. “It’s so not.”
When he looks dubious, I relent. “Even if it were, it’s cancelled by the rest of your horrible personality. What did you want to talk about? Wait, I need to pee first. Where’s the bathroom?”
When I stand, he leans forward, grasps my wrist, and pulls me back down to a sitting position. Without releasing my wrist, he growls, “You’ll go to the bathroom when I say you can. Now stop running your bloody mouth and listen to me.”
It’s my turn to arch an eyebrow. “I listen better when I’m not being manhandled.”
We do the staring thing again. I’ll go blind before I’ll blink first. It’s a standoff, a silent push-pull with neither of us giving an inch, until finally, a muscle flexes in his jaw. Then he exhales and grudgingly releases my wrist.
Ha. Get used to losing, gangster. I smile at him and say pleasantly, “Thank you.”
He’s wearing the same look my older brother used to wear when we were kids and he was about to deck me for being annoying. Naturally, it makes me smile wider.
Men say they love a strong woman, right up until they meet one.
I fold my hands in my lap and wait for him to control his temper. He sits back in his chair, straightens his tie, grinds his molars for a while, then says, “Here are the rules.”
Rules. For me? Hilarious. But I’m pretending to be cooperative, so I sit patiently and listen instead of laughing in his face.
“One: I don’t tolerate disobedience. If I give you an order, you follow it.”
Magic Eight Ball says: outlook not so good.
“Two: you don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
In what universe is that happening? Not this one.
“Three: I’m not Kieran. If you hit me, I hit back.” His blue eyes glitter. His voice drops. “And it will hurt.”
He’s trying to scare me into obedience. That tactic never worked for my father, and it won’t work for him. My voice drips with disdain. “What a gentleman.”
“You lasses are the ones who’re always crying about equal treatment. Except when it’s inconvenient.”
He’s a first-class asshole, but also right. If I can’t take it, I shouldn’t dish it out.
Except I can take it and I can dish it out. Sooner or later, he’ll find out exactly how well.
I didn’t spend the last ten years sweating my ass off in self-defense classes so I could burst into tears at a threat from some random Irish gangster.
After a while when he doesn’t continue, I say, “Are there more?”
He deadpans, “I figured three would be all your damaged brain could handle.”
Boy, this one could really charm the birds right out of the trees. “So thoughtful.”
“Like you said. I’m a gentleman.”
He stands. Towering over me at his full height, he’s suddenly imposing. I lean back and stare up at him, unsure what he’s going to do next.
He looks satisfied by my alarmed expression. “The loo is at the back of the plane. You have two minutes. If you’re not out by then, I’ll break down the door.”
“Why? Do you think I’ll try to escape through the toilet?”
His lashes lower. I can tell he’s annoyed again by the slow, aggravated breath he draws. He says softly, “Careful, lass. Your boyfriend Stavros might tolerate mouthy women, but I don’t.”
I suppose he mentioned Stavros to clue me in that he knows things about me, that he’s done his homework on his captive, but it doesn’t surprise me. Any kidnapper worth his salt would do the same.
But he’s got one important fact wrong, and I’m a stickler for accuracy on this particular topic. “Stavros isn’t my boyfriend.”
Declan gives me the arched eyebrow again, wry and disdainful. “Excuse me?”
“I said he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t keep boyfriends.”
“Due to your exhausting need to run your mouth, no doubt.”
His testicles are at about eye level, but I resist the urge to acquaint them with my fist. There’s always later.
“No, I meant that I don’t keep them, like the way you keep chickens. Or how a man keeps a mistress. I don’t have the patience for boyfriends. They’re too high-maintenance. Way more trouble than they’re worth.”
He stares down at me with an expressionless face, but his eyes are doing something interesting. I can almost see the wheels turning inside his head.
“So you broke up.”
“Are you even listening? He was never my ‘boyfriend.’ I don’t do boyfriends.”
His smile is faintly evil. “Good. Then I won’t have to deal with him riding in on his white horse to try to rescue you.”
I laugh at the mental image of Stavros on a horse. He’s terrified of animals. “Oh, he’ll totally try to rescue me.”
When Declan narrows his eyes, I add, “If you could not hurt him, that would be great. I’d feel really guilty if he got hurt on my account.”
The deafening silence that follows calls for an explanation. “I mean, of course you have to do your gangster thing, but Stavros is actually a nice guy. It’s not his fault he’ll try to rescue me. He won’t be able to help himself.”
“And why is that?”
“I told you. I’m charming. He was a goner from the day we met.”
I have never been looked at the way Declan is looking at me right now. If an alien spacecraft landed on top of the plane and sucked us inside with a tractor beam, he couldn’t look more confounded.
I have to admit it’s pretty satisfying.
The sense of satisfaction evaporates when he wraps his big hands around my upper arms and hauls me upright.
He leans close to my face and says from between gritted teeth, “You’re about as charming as herpes. Now go take a piss.”
He pushes me away, drags his hands through his hair, and mutters a curse under his breath.
If the stick stuck up this guy’s ass were any bigger, he’d be a tree.
I head toward the back of the plane, passing more plush leather sofas and chairs. The décor is elegant and understated, everything done in shades of champagne and gold. All the windows have little curtains drawn across them. The carpeting is soft and luxurious under my bare feet. It’s like a miniature penthouse…complete with security.
Six buff gangsters in black suits glower at me as I approach.
They’re seated on opposite sides of the aisle in captain’s chairs with glossy wood tables between them. Two of them are playing cards. Two of them are drinking whiskey. A fifth has a magazine in his meaty hands, and the sixth looks like he wants to tear my head clear off my body.
He’s the biggest one with the black eyes, a strip of medical tape across the swollen bridge of his nose, and spots of blood decorating the collar of his white dress shirt.
I almost feel bad that I did that to him, especially in front of all his buddies. No wonder he’s looking at me like that. Beaten by a girl—his ego is a five-year-old having a screaming tantrum in the ice cream aisle.
But I might need an ally at some point in this adventure. A little groveling now could go a long way in the future.
I stop next to his chair and smile at him. “I’m sorry about your nose, Kieran.”
A few of the men snort. A couple others exchange surprised glances.
Kieran’s burning stare could melt steel. I’ve spent a lot of time around gangsters, however, so I’m immune to their tempers.
“If it makes a difference, I don’t remember anything. That ketamine you guys gave me knocked me out pretty good. I’m usually not so nasty. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for violence when it’s necessary, but I only go there as a last resort. When I’m conscious, that is.”
I think for a moment as Kieran glares at me.
“To tell the truth, I probably would’ve tried to break your nose even if I wasn’t on drugs. You were kidnapping me, after all. So there’s that. But in any case, I promise I won’t break anything else unless you make it necessary. In fact, I’ll make you a deal: if you need me to get into the trunk of a car or the cargo hold of a ship or onto another airplane or whatever, just ask politely, and I’ll be happy to oblige. This doesn’t have to be acrimonious.”
Kieran takes a moment to decide how to respond. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out what acrimonious means. Either way, this guy isn’t what you’d call a brilliant conversationalist. I’m going to have to do all the heavy lifting.
“What I mean is that we don’t have to be hostile toward each other. You have a job to do. I get it. I won’t try to make it harder than it has to be. Just communicate with me, okay? We’ll be out of each other’s hair in no time.”
Silence. He blinks, once. I take it as a yes and beam at him.
“Cool. Thanks. And thank you for not hitting me back. Your boss tells me he doesn’t have the same scruples.”
From the other end of the plane, Declan thunders, “Take your bloody piss!”
Shaking my head, I say, “I feel sorry for his mother. She should’ve swallowed instead.”
I go into the restroom, the sound of six gangsters’ stunned silence echoing behind me as I close the door.
