Thirty minutes after Declan leaves, Kieran comes in, carrying a tray with food. He sets it on the coffee table and turns to leave.
“Kieran?”
He stops in his tracks. He doesn’t turn back to me. He simply exhales in dread.
“I just wanted to ask how you’re feeling.”
There’s a pause, then he says in his thick Irish accent, “Come again?”
“Your nose. You okay?”
He turns just enough to scowl at me over his shoulder. “Stop acting the maggot.”
Yikes. What a lovely visual. “I don’t know how that translates to English, but I’m guessing it’s not complimentary.”
“Yer bang on.”
“Um. Okay?”
“Not the full shilling, are ye, lass?”
Apparently, we’re going to run through the entire gamut of obscure Irish slang before I can get a yes or a no. I need to move this along. “Arnica cream will help with the bruising. And remember, ice is your friend.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to decide between shoving my hand down a garbage disposal or running me over with the SUV.
When I send him a winning smile, he grumbles under his breath and walks out.
I test the door after he slams it shut behind him, but it’s locked. No luck.
The tray he left is filled with an array of food that would appeal to any fifteen-year-old boy. There’s a can of Coke, a bag of peanut M&Ms, a bigger bag of beef jerky, a party-size bag of Lay’s potato chips, and a jar of ranch dip.
Now I understand Declan’s mood swings. He’s in full-on sugar crash within an hour of every meal.
There’s also—the horror—a bologna sandwich on white bread with a slice of that kind of American cheese that comes individually wrapped in plastic and will easily remain edible through the next ice age because of all the preservatives embedded in its shiny, nuclear orange skin.
I pick the bologna off the sandwich and sniff it. There’s not much to smell as it’s covered in a thick layer of mayo. I wipe all the mayo on one of the napkins that came with the tray, then take a nibble of the meat.
It’s so salty, my ankles are probably already swelling. How does this qualify as food?
I spit it out. Then I send Declan another text.
If you’re trying to poison me, it’s working.
He hasn’t answered any of my other texts, so I’m not expecting anything this time, either. But within seconds, a response comes through.
Finally, some good news.
I answer back, smiling. Oh, look, you found your sense of humor. Was your missing charm with it?
His answer comes zinging back so fast, I’m not sure how he managed to type it.
Please don’t interrupt me while I’m ignoring you.
That makes me laugh out loud.
Good one, geezer. How old are you, anyway?
Around other people—forty-two. Around you—it feels like forty-two hundred.
He’s older than he looks. Smiling at the phone, I murmur, “Ouch. Savage.”
I debate sending something back, but decide to let him have the last word. Maybe it will improve his disposition the next time I see him.
Probably not, but I’ll give it a shot.
In the cabinet under the sinks in his enormous bathroom, I find aspirin, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, and bandages. I down two of the aspirin with a gulp of water from the sink, then take a shower. After locking the bathroom door first, of course.
When I’m finished with the shower, I towel dry my hair, put on Declan’s briefs and dress shirt again, and sit on the toilet to attend to the soles of my feet. I disinfect them with the peroxide, dab on the antibacterial cream, and stick a bandage on a few of the worst cuts.
Then, with nothing left to do and no television to watch, I decide to try to get more sleep.
I’ve already rummaged through all his drawers. He keeps nothing personal in his personal space, which I find very interesting. No photos, no books, no jewelry, no notes. Not a single item in his bedroom could identify him as the occupant. Only his clothes, hanging meticulously in his closet and folded with such anal precision in the drawers, could identify the space as belonging to a male. All else is neutral.
Empty.
He could vanish without a trace at any moment, and no one would ever know he’d been here.
Which, perhaps, is the point.
But it makes me curious. About him and his life, about what would drive a man to be so absent in his own home. Maybe he’s got a bunch of family photos in the living room, but somehow, I doubt it.
Somehow, I doubt he has a family.
Other than the mafia, that is. Besides his brothers-in-arms, Declan seems very much like a lone wolf.
I don’t have much to go on, but I’ve always been intuitive about people. And if my intuition is right, the man keeping me under his roof has more than the normal number of secrets a man in his position would have.
I suspect his proverbial closet doesn’t just have skeletons. It has entire graveyards.
Pulling down a corner of the black silk duvet, I crawl under the sheets and snuggle down, getting comfy. After I’m motionless for a few minutes, the automatic lights dim. I drift off to sleep to the sound of my rumbling stomach.
Sometime later, I wake to the sound of breathing beside me.
Without even opening my eyes, I know it’s Declan. The peppermint-spice scent is a dead giveaway, as is the heat he’s generating. The man’s body temperature is set at permanent full blast.
After a moment, he says in a voice thick with fatigue, “The guest rooms are full. So is the sofa. And I can’t sleep sitting up in a chair.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest you should.”
We’re quiet for a while, until he says, “You didn’t eat your food.”
“I didn’t want to get diabetes.”
A rustle on the pillow next to mine makes me open my eyes. He’s lying on his back, but has turned his head and is looking at me.
He’s taken off his suit jacket and shoes, but otherwise is fully clothed. His jaw is dark with scruff. His blue eyes are heavy lidded. He is very, very handsome.
“You’re not worried about waking up next to me in bed?”
I yawn. “You don’t like me. I don’t like you. There’s zero chance of accidental ravishment.”
“Plenty of people have sex who don’t like each other.”
“Don’t sound so put out. I’m not insulting your manhood. I’m sure you could ravish me if you wanted to, but I know you don’t. Plus, you gave me your word you wouldn’t hurt me. So I’m not going to worry about it.”
I’m conveniently ignoring the little interlude in his closet earlier, because who the hell knows what that was about? Not me.
He turns his head and stares at the ceiling. After a while, he says, “You’re not normal.”
“Thank you.”
“Christ. You think every insult is a compliment. Your ego is like Teflon.”
“Teflon? No. Something way tougher than that.”
“Seriously, how can you be so bloody blasé about everything? The only time I got a rise out of you was when I gagged you with my tie. But the minute I took it off, you thanked me and went right back to being…you.”
He’s starting to sound aggravated. What a shocker.
“I make the best use of what’s in my power, and take the rest as it happens.”
There follows a long silence. It’s not really silent, though. It’s quite loud, actually, loud and cavernous, echoing with his disbelief.
“Did you…did you just quote Epictetus?”
“You know the Stoics?”
“You’re fucking kidding me. You did quote Epictetus.”
“It’s a good thing I have that Teflon ego you accused me of, because my feelings would be really hurt right about now, gangster. The size of my intellect doesn’t exist in inverse proportion to the size of my boobs.”
His voice rises. “You almost flunked out of college. You failed English, for fuck’s sake, and it’s your native language!”
“English Comp,” I correct. “And I failed it because it was too easy, like the rest of my classes.”
Another silence. I think I’m going to break his brain.
“That makes no sense. You realize what you just said makes not one bloody bit of sense, right?”
“First, take a deep breath. Your blood pressure will thank you. Second, I’m the kind of person who needs a challenge. I get bored extremely easily.” I pause. “I’d tell you that’s typical of people with genius-level IQs, but it would probably just piss you off. So we’ll pretend I said it’s because I’m a Scorpio and leave it at that. Wait—how did you know I failed English?”
His sigh is heavy and communicates that he’d rather be strapped to a prison’s electric chair with the warden’s finger hovering over the On button than having this conversation.
“I ran a background check on you.”
I’m intrigued. “Really? How fascinating. When? What else did it tell you? Oh—so you already know I have a genius IQ!”
He mutters, “What I wouldn’t give for a massive heart attack right now.”
“You’re just mad because I’m smarter than you.”
When he turns his head to glare at me, he finds me grinning at him. Which, of course, sets him off all over again.
“You are not fucking smarter than me.”
“No? What’s your IQ?”
“Higher than yours.”
“Sure. That’s what all the boys say. Wait, let me guess. 130.”
He says angrily, “I tested above that when I was a wee chiseler.”
“Whatever that is. 140.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“You keep calling for them, but I don’t think they’re listening. 150.”
When he only lies there, seething, I say smugly, “Ah. Under 150. No wonder you’re angry. I’m way more intelligent than—”
He rolls on top of me, clamps a hand over my mouth, and growls, “Introduce your top lip to your lower one for a change. And. Be. Quiet.”
The first thing that comes to mind is that he’s on top of me again. We’re setting records for the most amount of full-body contact between two people who aren’t having sex.
The next thing that comes to mind is…nothing.
I’m too busy feeling. My brain has become nonoperational. I’m nothing but skin, bone, and tingling nerves.
There’s something delicious about his weight. He’s so solid. I’ve always liked a big man, but Declan is more than simply big. He’s dense. Powerful. Hard.
Everywhere.
We make eye contact. I feel it in my guts.
After a moment, he says roughly, “You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”
I smile. Because his hand is clamped over my mouth, he feels it.
He mutters something in Gaelic. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth. Will you be quiet?”
I nod, trying to appear serious.
“Do you promise?”
After a beat, I decide to be honest and shake my head.
“Then I won’t move my hand.”
I make big pleading eyes at him, blinking like a coy ingenue.
“No.”
We seem to be at an impasse. So I do the only thing I can think of that might work. I dig my fingers into his ribs and tickle him.
He jerks, curses, and rolls off me, hollering. “What the bloody hell?”
Propping myself up on my elbows, I smile at his fury. “So the king of the jungle has a soft spot. Good to know.”
Sitting on the other side of the bed, he stares at me like he’s trying to will my head to explode.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“This is karma, isn’t it? I’m being punished for something I did in a former life.”
“You believe in reincarnation? That’s interesting. I’ve always thought—”
He thunders, “It was a figure of speech!”
“You know, I think your diet is having a negative effect on your mood. I’m betting you don’t get enough roughage.”
“Roughage?”
“Fiber.”
“I know what it means, I just can’t believe you said it!”
I purse my lips and consider him. “You could probably also use a good deep tissue massage. You’re very tense, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Glaring at me, he says flatly, “I wonder why.”
“No, I think this predates me. You have an unhealthy lifestyle. Poor diet. Too much stress. Too little sleep. Any of this sound familiar? You’re headed straight for that heart attack you were wishing for earlier.”
He stares at me for a beat, then leans over, props his elbows on his knees, drops his head into his hands, and groans.
I watch him, alarmed. What if he does have a heart attack? God. I’ll be locked in here with his big dead corpse until Kieran decides to do a status check on me, who knows how many days later.
I should go easy on him. Better yet…
I crawl across the mattress to where he’s sitting, rise up on my knees, and dig my thumbs into the rock-hard muscles of his shoulders.
He stiffens.
“Just take a breath, gangster. I know what I’m doing. You can thank me later.”
Rigid and silent, he sits perfectly still on the edge of the bed as I work my fingers across his trapezius and down to his scapula. When I get to the rhomboid muscle, he flinches, sucking in a sharp breath.
I murmur, “Sorry. Better?”
Gentling the pressure, I move around the knot in slow circles until I hear him exhale. When the muscle suddenly gives under my fingers, relaxing, he softly moans.
It’s a sound thick with pleasure. My pulse ticks up in response.
I move to his other shoulder and repeat the process, massaging the corded muscles, working my fingers into their stony hardness until I feel them soften. When I rub my thumbs lower down his middle back and spine, he releases a breath so full of pent-up tension, I almost feel sorry for him.
“Here,” I say softly. “What about this?”
I wrap both hands around the back of his thick neck and squeeze.
It earns me another soft moan.
I decide I like that sound, and rub slow circles with my thumbs around the base of his skull on either side of his spinal column, where his head meets his neck. This time, he doesn’t moan. He makes a sound like a drowsy bear, a low, masculine rumbling in his chest.
“Good?”
After a pause, he murmurs, “Good.”
Why that should make me so pleased, I’m not sure. I keep going, working my fingers up the back of his head through his thick hair, massaging his skull—it’s as big as the rest of him, this guy’s got a noggin—until I reach his temples.
Then he freezes, stiffening all over again.
That’s when I realize that I’ve leaned so far forward, I’m pressed up against his back.
This wouldn’t be a problem, except that I’m not wearing a bra.
And my nipples are hard.
Which he has obviously noticed.
I pull away, my heart hammering. I sit back on my heels, my arms folded over my chest, waiting for him to do or say something. Waiting for him to tell me I’m annoying, or holler at me, or stalk out of the room and slam the door.
But he only sits there, silent.
Just as I’m about to scramble back across the bed and dive under the covers to hide in embarrassment, he says, “Thank you.”
It’s quiet. It’s also sincere. I’m relieved, but also confused, because I have zero idea what he’s thinking.
“You’re welcome.”
There’s another crackling silence. “I’m sending you home as soon as I work out the logistics.”
That surprises me. “But didn’t you want to ask me questions? Isn’t that why you went to all the trouble to get me here?”
“That was Diego’s idea.”
“Diego was your boss?”
“Aye.”
“And now Diego’s…” I hesitate to say dead, but he gets it anyway.
“Aye.”
“Right. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He turns his head. “Why? You didn’t know him.”
“No, but I know you.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I don’t like to see anyone suffering, even if they’re my kidnapper.”
He’s getting mad again. I can feel it. The atmosphere changes with his temper. It gets charged and ominous, the way it does with an approaching storm.
“Why does that make you angry? I’m not lying.”
He says gruffly, “I know you’re not. That’s why it makes me angry.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He stands, puts on his shoes and coat, crosses to the door, and lets himself out, shutting it quietly behind him.
