Page 39 of Carnal Wagers

#2 I sat in your reserved seats and enjoyed your glares very much.

#3 You sounded interested in my proposal.

The Chemist?

Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.

She was ballsier than I remembered, and that was saying something, because in the last few days, I’d thought about the shape of her hips, the curve of her arse, and the length of her legs, dressed only in thigh-highs and stilettos, more times than I could count. The sound of her voice, with its breathy edge and the rhythmic flow of her accent, haunted me hours after our meeting until time finally chased the memory of her away.

A woman had no place in my life, not when she’d end up poisoned, tied to a chair, stabbed in the heart, with vomit dripping down her chin, and a brand burned into her face. Since I didn’t enjoy faceless one-time fucks anymore, not since Sarah died, that meant no women at all.

This game won’t end well for you.

You want to bet on that?

What do I get if you fall madly in love with me?

Besides you, of course?

You’re betting on the wrong horse.

We’ll see.

See you soon.

Wish me luck.

The urge to continue this little farce had my thumb hovering over the screen.

Someone shook me. My fist balled, and my head snapped up. It was just Brody.

“Your stop.”

The car idled at the curb of my condominium complex. On the other side of the street, the setting sun glinted off the Boston Harbor and glared back at me in a stare-off. I had lost fifteen minutes to a random conversation about nothing, yet it had been more invigorating than the life I’d taken earlier.

I cleared my throat and cracked my neck, thumbing my knife for balance. I felt completely off-kilter.

“Arthur,” I started, regaining my bearings, “with Big Charlie—”

“Already told them,” Brody said brusquely, eyes locked on his screen. I knew he didn’t mean anything by it. It was just his way. “You were busy.”

“We’ll get what’s needed from the secretary, boss,” Arthur said. “No worries.”

“Right. Good, and get me everything on that chemist. I needed it yesterday.”

“Nope. Already checked,” Brody said without looking up as I shoved open my door. “Nothing to get. All cameras in the area were wiped. Nothing to trace her or her location.”

“Try again. I’ve got a feeling she’s about to pull us down a rabbit hole.”

Chapter 11

Our first and only real conversation told me a lot about my dearest husband. He was direct to a fault. He considered situations before charging, and he used words sparingly. Impenetrable, heartless, and callous, his seriousness and brooding nature weren’t an act, and little seemed to pull a reaction from him. He also didn’t like to compromise, except in the case of a good challenge.

That was my way in. I had to keep him on his toes, bouncing from one foot to the other until he tumbled headfirst into the abyss. I already paraded the prize. Now it was time to dangle some bait.

Which was why I sat alone at a table for two in a cozy little corner of one of Seaport’s most up-and-coming restaurants, spying on his dinner with a Boston district councilor. Under the warm white light of the pendant lantern above their table, his bald tablemate engaged in animated conversation, one hand walloping the air, the other spearing his lobster.

Cillian barely touched his seabass. After the first three bites, he settled back against his chair, hands beneath the table, and hadn’t twitched since. Neither had that bored look on his face—his gaze cold, like chips of ice in need of a heavy dose of sunshine. Whatever the councilor was selling, Cillian O’Leary wasn’t buying.