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“I didn’t take you because I could defeat you,” I whispered into her ear, wiping her tears away. “I took you because you wanted me to. It’s not that you couldn’t win.” I kissed her damp cheek. “It’s that you didn’t want to. Not with me.”
Chapter 19
Rose
Hestrokedmyhair,his fingers combing from my scalp all the way down my neck, to my shoulders. He hummed a song in my ear. It was sweet, simple. Low in his baritone voice.
“You’re exquisite.” He whispered to me.
There was a question in the back of my mind, but I was afraid of the answer. My fingers played with the lapel of his blazer, then his loosened tie.
“Ask me what you want to ask.” He whispered in my ear.
“Are you a mind reader?” I asked him, smiling a little.
“Not normally.” His voice was soothing to me. “But I can hear your thoughts churning. It’s sound like a wrong note in a familiar song.”
I pulled away and looked at him. What had Brett said? Notice the eyes, the mouth, the fingertips to ascertain signs of deception.
“Is it always like this for you?” I asked.
“This?” He tilted his head, curiously.
“With… women.” I clarified, swallowing. “Is it always like this? Have you… How many… When you…”
He tilted my chin up with two fingers and kissed me. Then he pulled away, so I had a clear look at his face.
“Never like this.” He leaned in and kissed my nose. “Only with you.” His thumb caressed my cheek as he shut his eyes, breathing deep as though he was smelling the sweetest perfume. “I’d stay in the afterglow with you forever,” he coughed, then dropped his head, “But I need to take you to see your… friend.”
There was a little hostility in the word friend. Was he jealous? It would thrill me if he was.
I nodded, guilty that I had neglected LeBlanc again. When I rose on shaky legs, he put his hands on my hips to steady me.
I crouched down to pick up his silver knife. The handle was naked, except for the etching of intricately woven Celtic braids and the initials A, C, and G.
Were those his initials?
“What’s your name?” I turned to him with the knife in my open palm.
He looked down at my hands and undid his belt until the knife’s sheath detached, and he held it between his fingers.
“Alastair,” he said, stepping to me, and re-buckling his belt. “Alastair Cian Green. I didn’t lie to you. Not completely.”
Without removing the knife from my palm, he placed the sheath over the blade. He closed my fingers over it and pushed it towards me.
“Why does your name seem familiar to me?” I asked.
He lifted his chin. “You know my uncle. He was a legend, and the last head of the Irish mob, before it incorporated and became what it is today. Same name as Eoghan’s dad.”
I stared at the knife in my hand and felt my brow crease. I needed to ask Brett about this.
“You’re in the mob?” I whispered. Was he a bad guy?
“No.” He stepped forward. I stepped back, staring.
Had I given myself to a bad guy? A man that Brett would hate? Before that thought could spiral out of control, he cleared his throat.
“I left the life, joined the Army. Now I work in private security.” I turned my face away from him. “I don’t care for the mafia, the bratva, the mob… any of it. My blood doesn’t define me. Neither does my name.”
