“Get the O’Sheas to the conference room,” I say, finally turning back toward the hotel. “Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes. And Kieran?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Find out which room she’s in, get her name. I want to know everything about her. All of it.”
The meeting with the O’Sheas is a total wash.
Not because of them—they’re as boring and predictable as I expected—but because I can’t focus. Every time Liam O’Sheatalks about the percentage of the take from the docks, I see a flash of green silk. Every time I look at the maps on the table, I think about the way her eyes looked when she called me a failure.
I’m a man of systems. I like things in boxes. I found out her name is Atara Ross. She’s a mess of contradictions. A graduate. A girl in a fancy dress who wasn’t afraid to get her knees dirty to save a stranger.
“Lorcan?” Liam says, leaning forward, his brow furrowed. “You with us, man? We’re talking about the Vegas distribution. You said you wanted to increase the flow through the southern hubs.”
I look at him. Liam is sixty, with a face like a dried-out piece of leather. He’s been in the game long enough to know when something is off. He’s looking at me with curiosity and concern that makes me want to punch him.
“The southern hubs are fine,” I say, standing up abruptly. The chair screeches against the floor. I can’t do this. Not right now. “Kieran has the contracts. Sign them or don’t. I’m done for the day.”
“You’re leaving?” Liam blurted out. “We’re halfway through the negotiations.”
“The negotiations are finished when I say they are,” I say, not even looking back as I walk toward the door. “My men will see you out.”
I go straight to my suite. Maeve is there, sitting on the sofa with a new coloring book.
“Daddy?” Maeve asks, looking up. “Is the lady okay? She looked tired and messy.”
“She’s fine, Maeve,” I say, walking over to ruffle her hair. I feel a strange tightness in my chest when I look at her. The girl was right. I am a category of failure. “She just had a long day.”
“She was like superwoman,” Maeve says, turning back to her book. “She ran really fast.”
I retreat to my office and close the door. I sit at the desk and open the digital file Kieran already uploaded to my tablet.
Atara Ross. 23. Born in New York. Graduated today, Magna Cum Laude. Degree in Finance. No criminal record. No ties to any known organizations.
She’s a civilian. A ‘normal’ person. The kind of person I usually spend my life avoiding because they’re soft. They break too easily. They don't understand the rules of the world I live in.
But she hadn’t looked soft on the cliff. She’d looked like she was made of steel.
I lean back in my chair, staring at her graduation photo. She’s smiling in it, she looks happy. Untouched.
I pick up my phone. “Kieran. What’s she doing?”
“She… Miss Ross is in the bar, sir. Or she was. She just ordered a double whiskey and went out to the terrace. She looks… well, she looks like she’s crying, boss.”
“Send a bottle of the best Irish whiskey we have to her room,” I say, and then pause. No. That’s too easy. That’s what a man like me does. I buy my way out of things.
I tap my fingers on the desk. I shouldn’t do this. I should stay in my suite, finish my work, and fly back to Vegas tomorrow.
“Boss?” Kieran prompts.
“Invite her to breakfast tomorrow,” I say. My heart does a weird, heavy thud. “In the private dining room. Tell her… tell her it’s a thank you for saving my daughter. And tell her if she doesn’t show up, I’ll assume she’s afraid of me.”
“She didn't seem afraid of you on the cliff, sir.”
“Shut up, Kieran,” I mutter and hang up.
I spend the rest of the night pacing the floor of my suite. I try to read. I try to watch the news. I try to sleep.
But all I see is that teal silk. All I hear is her voice telling me I suck at my job.
