After a moment, Declan rises from the bed. He returns soon with a blanket that he drapes over me, tucking it around my body. He leans over and kisses my temple, then goes into the master closet. When he emerges, he’s dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and combat boots, all of them black.
He leaves the room without a word, turning off the lights and closing the door quietly behind him.
I say drily to the empty room, “So much for the after-sex cuddling.”
I suffer through a moment of self-loathing for craving after-sex cuddling—a first—then throw off the blanket and get out of bed.
This house doesn’t have the automatic lights like the other place did, but I have enough from the glowing moon to navigate the room. I find the light switch on the wall in the master closet and flick it on.
Looking around, I laugh out loud.
I’ve never seen a closet with French doors before, but this one has a set that leads to a Juliet balcony outside. A gold-and-crystal chandelier glitters overhead. One entire wall is lined all the way to the ceiling with lighted shelves displaying shoes and handbags.
Mine, presumably.
Another wall has drawer after gold-knobbed drawer beneath hanging racks of long-sleeved shirts, dresses, slacks, and coats. The third wall is filled with Declan’s black suits and white dress shirts. A giant square dresser sits in the middle of it all, topped in cream marble with a display of white orchid plants in moss-filled glass.
This closet is as big as a retail clothing shop in a mall.
I go hunting through drawers until I find a lovely selection of La Perla lingerie in silk-lined dividers. I pause, staring at an exquisite pair of violet silk and tulle Brazilian-cut panties.
The price tag is still attached. The panties, one of maybe fifty pairs in the drawer, cost $240.00.
No wonder Declan made fun of my savings account.
I rip off the price tag, find a matching violet bra, and try them on in front of the full-length mirror.
Turning slowly back and forth as I admire my reflection, I realize I’ll never be able to wear my three-pack-for-thirty-bucks cotton Hanes again.
I hunt through more drawers. I find a lifetime supply of lululemons, along with jeans, sweaters, T-shirts, and everything else. I dress in a pair of $1,300.00 Dolce and Gabbana jeans and a black cashmere sweater so soft, it almost makes me cry, trying all the while to stay angry at Declan.
When I pull open one of the top drawers in the big center island, I stop short, sucking in a breath.
Apparently, his shopping spree also included a stop at Tiffany’s.
I close the drawer, wait for the blinding sparkle of diamonds to fade from my vision, then leave the closet and its temptations behind. I head out barefoot to the kitchen.
Declan isn’t there. He’s not in the living room or media room, either. It takes me twenty minutes to go through the entire house, until finally I determine that I’m alone.
Except for the shadowy figures moving around the perimeter of the yard, that is.
The ones carrying the big rifles.
I slide open a glass door in the enclosed breakfast room off the kitchen. Salt air swirls in. The cold sea breeze stirs my hair. I stick my head out and call, “Hey! Hello? Over here!”
I wave an arm at the dark figure prowling along a tall hedge of privet. He pauses for a moment, looking in my direction, then lifts a hand to his ear.
“For fuck’s sake, you don’t have to get permission, Spider,” I mutter, watching him speak into his wrist.
But I guess he did, because he starts to swagger my way.
When he reaches the flagstone patio outside the doors and enters the pool of light from the sconces mounted on the walls, I smile at him.
“Captain America! How are you?”
He tries not to smile at me, but it doesn’t work. “Hullo, madam.”
“Oh god,” I say, appalled. “Please tell me Declan didn’t say you have to call me that now.”
Spider slings the rifle over his massive shoulder and grins. “Nah. Just thought I’d give you a wee fright. Knew I couldn’t do it any other way, so…” He shrugs.
He’s in a good mood. I wonder if he likes it better here at the beach than in the city?
“Well, I’m happy to see you, anyway. Is Kieran skulking around somewhere, too?”
“Aye. That was him in my ear. He says hullo. He’s up front at the gates. Another thirty of us are spread out all over the property.”
“Thirty?”
He shrugs again. “Big place. Big pores. Lots of places rats can sneak in.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Don’t worry. We’ve got it locked up tighter than a nun’s snatch. Uh, excuse the language.”
“Snatch isn’t a bad word. Bureaucracy is. By any chance, do you know where Declan went?”
He makes a face and shifts his weight from foot to foot.
“You can’t tell me. Sorry, I forgot we weren’t supposed to talk.”
Looking apologetic, he says, “It’s just, you know, business.”
I wave a hand in the air dismissively. “Oh, I know. Man stuff. The code and whatnot. By the way, I hope I didn’t get you in trouble last time. I didn’t tell Declan we talked, but he knew somehow.”
He says solemnly, “He always knows everything.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes heavenward. “Is there anything I can get you? Coffee? Brandy? It’s chilly out here.”
When he hesitates, I say, “There’s no way in hell he’ll know. He’s not even here.”
After a moment of internal debate, he says gruffly, “Coffee would be quare.”
“I don’t speak Irish. Is that a yes?”
“Aye. Thank you.”
“What about the other guys? I’ll put a pot on, how about that? Whoever wants one can just tap on the door.”
I don’t give him time to answer, I simply smile and slide shut the door, then go into the kitchen and rummage around in the huge pantry for a coffeemaker. I can’t find one, until I discover it’s built right into the wall in a little niche next to the fridge.
It takes me another ten minutes to figure out how to load the beans I found in the pantry into the damn thing and get it working. By the time I go back to the slider with a cup of hot coffee for Spider, three more hulking men in black carrying rifles are milling around just outside the pool of light on the patio.
“Hi, guys! I’ll just go back and get the pot. Hold on a sec.”
I give Spider his mug, then return to the kitchen and get a few more mugs and the pot of brewed coffee. Then it’s back to the breakfast room, where I distribute the other mugs and fill them, feeling a little like Florence Nightingale without all the gore.
Deciding the guys need a little sustenance, I find tea biscuits and chocolate chip cookies in the pantry and arrange them on a plate that I bring out. Soon there are a dozen men on the patio, and my mood has improved.
There’s nothing like having a bunch of hunky men around to lift your spirits.
“Does anybody feel like playing cards?”
When that bright suggestion is met with blank looks and total silence, I say somberly, “Oh, that’s right. I heard Irishmen are the worst at cards. Now, who told me that? I can’t remember. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it! Have a great night, guys. And thank you for doing such a good job protecting the place. I really appreciate it.”
I turn back to the door. A gruff voice says, “Whoever said Irishmen can’t play cards was a bloody eejit.”
Grumbles of agreement greet me as I turn around again, smiling. “I thought so, too. Maybe somebody could teach me how to play poker? I’ve always wanted to learn.”
An hour later, I’ve got two dozen men crowded around the kitchen table, and I’m three hundred dollars richer.
Wide-eyed, I stare at the pile of money in front of me. “Wow, beginner’s luck is a real thing!”
“So is sandbagging. And disobeying orders.”
At the sound of Declan’s voice, every man in the room freezes.
I look up to find him staring at me from behind the circle of men with his arms crossed over his chest. The men part silently, moving aside so there’s a clear path between me and Declan. Someone audibly gulps.
My ass stinging, I put my feet up on the table, smile at Declan, and say calmly, “Honey. You’re home.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. He looks at each man in the room, one by one, his expression stony. Everyone shrinks.
“It’s not their fault. I invited them in.”
Ignoring me, he says something to the men in Gaelic, his voice steady and low.
Several of the men swallow. One or two fidget nervously. A few go white.
I stand and fold my arms to mimic Declan’s posture. “I said, it’s not their fault.”
“I heard what you said. Spider, you go first.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Spider steps up to the table. He removes a huge knife from a sheath he’s wearing under his coat. He leans over the table, flattens his left hand on the surface, and presses the knife to his pinky.
I jump up, screaming. “No! Stop! Spider, stop!”
By the time I crash into him, blood is already welling from his skin.
I knock him off balance just enough to get his grip on the knife to slip. It clatters to the floor. On my hands and knees, I scramble for it. When I get it, I jump up and whirl around, livid.
At the top of my lungs, I shout at Declan, “What the actual fuck, gangster?”
He remains as calm and cold as an iceberg. “Give him back the knife.”
“The hell I will.”
His voice hardens. “Sloane. Do it.”
“You want this knife? Come and get it. I’ll bury it in your fucking skull, you savage. That man is your friend.”
Breathing hard, I stare at him. No one else in the room moves a muscle or makes a sound.
He says, “You misunderstand. I don’t have friends. Spider works for me. He disobeyed my orders. And in our world, disobedience comes with consequences.”
From the corner of my eye, I see one of the men curl his hand into a fist.
Two of the fingers on that fist are missing.
A blinding flash of fury engulfs me. I’m sick, too, and horrified, but mostly furious. My voice shaking, I say, “Then let me pay the consequences for them. This was my idea. Punish me instead.”
The silence is profound. It’s like the vast, echoing silence of a cathedral, one that’s been abandoned to ghosts for a hundred years.
“Please, Declan. Please.”
His eyes burn. His nostrils flare. When he draws a slow breath, I think he’s considering it.
So I do the only thing I can think of that will tip him over the edge.
I sink to my knees on the floor.
In front of everyone.
I feel their shock. Feel it expand when I lean over and flatten my shaking hand against the lovely limestone tile. Feel it explode into panic when I grip the knife in my other hand and grit my teeth in determination.
I never realized how small a pinky finger is. Maybe I won’t even miss it.
Wondering if Declan keeps all his severed trophy fingers in a jar in a drawer in his desk, I take a breath and press down.
