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Some things never changed. And a kiss couldn’t undo the past.
10
Nolan was still thinking about her when he walked into JJ Foley’s. He’d suggested the location in Cambridge out of paranoia. Now that he was officially on Seamus’s crew, he couldn’t afford to be spotted with members of the Syndicate.
It had taken him less than half an hour to get there, every minute of which had been spent replaying the kiss between him and Bridget outside the Cat.
He didn’t know what he’d been thinking. She didn’t love him. How much more clear could she be?
But she’d been right there, mouth parted, cheeks flushed with anger, her green eyes filled with the fiery determination he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. His cock had sprung to life, clamoring for the completion he’d only ever found in her body.
Kissing her had been as necessary as breathing.
He drew in a breath and scanned the bar until he spotted Christophe Marchand at the back in a tall wooden booth.
It was late for a weeknight, and Foley’s was quiet, the bartender already wiping everything down for the night. They would be able to talk here, reasonably safe from being spotted by Seamus’s inner circle.
He passed the bar without stopping for a drink. He’d had enough beer during the afternoon at the Cat to last him a lifetime, not to mention the cigarette smoke that had seeped into his clothes.
When he reached the booth at the back of the room he was surprised to see that Marchand wasn’t alone. A large man with broad shoulders and giant arms sat across from him, his head barely hidden by the tall wooden back of the booth.
Nolan had to work to keep his expression impassive when the man looked up at him. A long scar ran from his left eye to the bottom of his cheek. His eyes were vacant, a void not of intellectual emptiness, but something colder and deeper.
“I take it you’re our newest rich kid?” His clipped British accent spoke of Oxford or Cambridge, while the man’s face and body screamed street thug.
Nolan bristled inwardly at being called a kid by a guy who couldn’t be more than ten years his senior. He slid into the booth next to Marchand. “That would be me.”
“Do you have a name, rich kid?”
“I imagine if you’re here, you already know my name,” Nolan said.
“Farrell Black, this is Nolan Burke.” Marchand’s voice was weary, as if he’d made similar introductions a thousand times before. “Farrell is one of the Syndicate’s partners.”
Nolan leaned back in the booth. “I’m honored by all this attention.”
“Don’t be,” Farrell said. “It’ll come back to bite you in the ass if you fuck this up.”
Nolan studied him. “I think you’re confused.”
“I don’t get confused, mate.”
Nolan flipped his palms to the ceiling. “And yet here we are. I don’t work for the Syndicate. I’m in Seamus O’Brien’s good graces to look out for my friends. Like I told Marchand here, I’ll get you the information you need to neutralize Seamus. After that, I’m done.”
“This sounds familiar,” Farrell said.
“Then it shouldn’t be a difficult concept to grasp,” Nolan said.
Christophe looked at Nolan, obviously ready to bypass the banter. “Are you in?”
“I’m in,” Nolan said. “On a trial basis.”
“Did you have any trouble?” Christophe asked.
“Not really. My work with the Syndicate helped, as did my friendship with Will. I’m not crazy about having him vouch for me — if this thing goes south it will hurt him — but I’m banking on your ability to get rid of Seamus so Will and Bridget will be in the clear.”
Christophe nodded. “We’ll do our best.”
“So what do you need?” Nolan asked. Marchand had refused to tell him anything until he was in with Seamus’s outfit.
