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CHAPTER23
Rocky
I hear the lock click in my door and let out a huff. I’m still dizzy from the absolute best kiss of my life. I’ve never been so consumed by a kiss. The rest of the world disappeared. All that existed was our lips together, his body pressed against mine. I was seconds from begging him to fuck me right there on the balcony.
And then the spell was broken. I saw the anguish in his eyes when he apologized for my pain. I know the apology was genuine. But when he promised that no one would ever hurt me again, I ran. Because I am guaranteed to be hurt again.Literally or metaphorically. I am, for all intents and purposes, absolutely doomed.
The intensity of the chemistry I feel when I’m with Sean is overwhelming and overpowering. I know the sex would be amazing, probably beyond amazing. But when it all came crashing down, would I be left standing? Even aside from barely knowing the man, it’s only a matter of time before Sean realizes there is something off with my employment history. Then what happens?
I realize something profound. I am going to die. Sean isn’t going to keep me here forever. When he finds out what I am, he will probably kill me himself. He is the head of the fucking mob, not a businessman in a nice suit. Even if he doesn’t, as soon as I’m on the streets again Popov will kill me. I don’t have the information to publish, so I won’t even have the thin veil of publicity to discourage him from killing me. I won’t have the attention of the police, or their investigation to keep him busy.
I laugh. And laugh and laugh. There probably is something seriously wrong with my head if my response to my realizing my own mortality is to laugh hysterically. Maybe I am hysterical. Or just ordinary crazy. I should have listened to Tasha. I should have left my ghosts buried. Pierre was right. The waters are dangerous, I’m drowning, and the sharks are circling.
I briefly consider that if I’m going to die, I might as well have some fantastic sex first. But I don’t want to lie to him anymore. The realization hits me directly in the chest, so hard it’s like the air is knocked from me. I don’t want to digestwhyI don’t want to lie to him anymore. That’s just a little too much of a mind fuck to deal with right now.
I go for the phone.
I need to tell you something.
CHAPTER24
Sean
I’m in my office, trying to get a handle on what the hell made Rebecca run away from the most intense kiss I’ve ever had when I get a message from Patrick that O’Malley needs to talk. He’s always been a loyal cop to the family, but I’m a suspicious bastard. I pull out an encrypted phone that will route the call through a dozen overseas servers and scrambles the audio if anyone tries to record the line. Even so, I still speak carefully.
He answers quickly. “Mr. O’Connell, how are you?”
“Fine, thank you. What can I help you with?”
I hear a door close and music turn on in the background. “About that item you asked me to look at. I’m sorry it took so long, but when someone doesn’t have a record it’s much harder to match prints. The only set on file was uploaded by a small department in Texas, years ago. They were actually taken as exclusionary prints for an investigation in the family home. So that makes them harder to find.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, your girl is Roxanne Johnson, age twenty-five. I can email you the details if you want.”
“Thanks, print it up. I’ll have one of the boys pick it up from the bar later.”
“Ok, sure. Goodbye.” He disconnects.
What the hell?
My phone dings. Speak of the devil and she shall come.
I need to tell you something.
Oh, yes, little one, you do.
CHAPTER25
Rocky
Sean unlocks the bedroom and I follow him to his office. It’s uncomfortably formal, given that all of our main interactions have been in the kitchen, balcony, or his bedroom. It gives the situation a businesslike feeling. It’s also intimidating as hell.
Something is different. I’m looking at Sean O’Connell, head of the Irish mob. Not Sean O’Connell, who was kissing me like his life depended on it an hour ago. He’s tense, his face guarded. He drags a formal leather chair into the middle of the room. He’s not gentle. The chair rocks on its legs before settling back on all four feet. He stands a few feet away. Feet shoulder width apart, arms crossed, unsmiling. Something is clearly wrong, and I’m beginning to have serious doubts about my new honesty plan.
“What do you need to tell me?” His tone is stern.
My heart beats faster. I swallow repeatedly, which accomplishes nothing since my mouth has reached Sahara dry.
