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Chewing on the inside of my lip, I sink into the chair opposite him. He slides a stack of papers in front of me, then clasps his hands together, peering at me over the rim of his glasses. “First things first, I’ll need to get a few details from you, okay?”
There’s a sudden shift in the room, and I’m immediately drawn to it. Turning, I see the Devil himself.
His presence enters the room before he does, and it’s magnetic. He descends a set of spiral steps, two at a time, cell phone pressed to his ear. As he strides past the suit-clad men stationed around the perimeter of the room, they stop whatever they are doing and give him a curt nod even though he’s not looking in their direction. I can’t hear his words, but I can feel his voice. It resonates off the marble, vibrating with authority as he comes to a stop in front of the glass wall with his back to the room. My eyes are glued to him. To his shoulder blades contracting under his tight black T-shirt as he runs a hand through his tousled waves. To the emerald ring on his finger, winking at me when it catches the glow of the recessed lights.
Donnacha Quinn.
I spent the three days learning more than just his name. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said he owned the whole city. From the window of his penthouse in One Diabhal Square, Donnacha Quinn is casting a shadow over every business and building in New York, smug with the knowledge that it’s his to make or break. It’s not surprising that he believes he has the power to do the same to me.
Why he wants to is a whole different mystery.
“Romy?”
Before I can reluctantly drag my attention back to Abe Cooper—whoever the hell he is—Donnacha turns. It’s like he could feel my eyes burning into his back because his gaze fits perfectly on mine like a key in a lock. He pauses midsentence and drops his gaze slightly to drink more of me in before stupefying me again with the most intense eye contact.
Oh, Lord. If you exist, now would be a good time to save me.
It’s my stubbornness that forces me to hold his gaze. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. I allow myself to swallow the knot in my throat but refuse to look away. He licks his lips slowly and seductively, then slips his tongue between his teeth.
It’s a move that’s so quick it’s almost over before it began, but that doesn’t stop the blood from rushing to my face. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s taunting me. Reminding me of how I almost broke for him because of that deliciously venomous tongue of his. Almost, but didn’t.
Something forbidden swirls in the pit of my stomach, and I break eye contact. It’s only for a nanosecond, but it’s long enough to let him know he’s won.
Fuck.
When I look up, it’s like he never noticed me in the first place. He continues his conversation with one hand tucked into his jean pocket and disappears into another room.
When I turn back around to Abe Cooper, he’s giving me the courtesy of pretending he hadn’t noticed the interaction.
“So, details,” he says softly, wearing a polite and professional smile on his wrinkly old lips. “First, I’ll need your passport.”
Now he has all of my attention. An icy hand grips at my throat. I drag my top teeth over my bottom lip and force myself to sound nonchalant. “Passport? Why?”
He lets out a tinkering chuckle. “Just a formality, that’s all. We need to double-check that you are indeed an American citizen.”
The hand grips tighter. “Why does that matter?”
“Uh…” His eyes slash across the room. Then he lowers his voice so I have to lean in to hear him. “Well, this…union would be useless if you aren’t.”
Suddenly, the seat is too hard, and I shift my weight, seeking comfort that doesn’t come. Yeah, maybe I should have asked a few questions about the logistics of this whole thing.
My passport burns a hole in my jean pocket. I brought it because I was told to. Reluctantly, I tug it out and slide it across the table. Cooper picks it up, dragging his glasses down to the tip of his nose to read its contents. Time seems to stretch out forever as I watch his eyeballs flick from left to right and back again.
“Romy Daniels.”
I nod at the name that isn’t mine.
After what feels like forever, he breaks the tension with an awkward cough. “Perfect,” he says, scribbling something down on one of the forms in front of him. “Right, just a few more questions, and I’ll let you get on with your day.” Relief seeps into the corners of my being, but I know I’m not out of the woods yet. “Finances,” he murmurs, reading the headline of the form. “How much money would you say you have in your bank account right now?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Cash available to you,” he deadpans like he’s asked me for my coffee order. “How much?”
“Uh, let me think about that,” I snap, annoyed by the intrusiveness of his question. I tap on my bottom lip as if I’m pondering it. As if the forty-three dollars crumpled up in the bottom of my purse isn’t all I have to my name. “Zilch. I don’t have a bank account.”
Pen hovering above the document, he pauses. “You don’t have a bank account?”
“No. Is that a problem?”
