“I’m sorry I didn’t step in sooner.” The words are scripted and expected but oddly true.
Yanking his arm like that—nearly ripping it out of its socket—mollified my anger over his outburst just enough that I didn’thaveto kill him.
She’s not a bitch. Maeve is clever, dedicated, hardworking, and sexy as fuck.
But she’s also my mark. A way for me to obtain the information I require for my mission.
I need to remember that.
I only have two weeks before Declan unleashes hell on the Gallaghers of New York. Pleasant conversations and idle strolls around the hotel, while nice, won’t garner me the necessary intel. I don’t have time to piss around.
And I have to ensure my attraction to her works in my favor and doesn’t trip me up. I’ll get her in bed, if necessary, but I can’t let even the best sex distract me from my primary goal.
Maeve twirls a lock of hair that’s fallen over her shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to step in at all.” Her voice softens, her face growing solemn.
Though I wish I could read her mind, I settle for reading her body language and micro-expressions.
She’s fidgeting with her hair, her free hand tapping on the table. She’s embarrassed, or ashamed, to have a potential business partner witness that.
She’s also avoiding my gaze. Speaking in a subdued tone. There’s a finite slump to her shoulders. Maeve’s disappointed in herself, and I can almost see her self-confidence faltering.
I ignore the pang in my chest. All of her reactions show vulnerabilities I can poke. “Does that happen around here a lot?”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “No!” She exhales, sharp and quick, displeasure etched into her features. “What I mean is…we don’t get any more idiots here than any other hotel.”
“A normal number of idiots come through here. Got it.”
She blinks, a small smirk sneaking onto her face when she realizes I’m teasing.
After a moment, she huffs. “Anyway, I’m sorry for that brief disturbance. Ready to get back to business?”
I jump in with more questions about the hotel. Their renovations to the original building, how many rooms it has, the facilities, the amenities. Though I don’t care that much about the answers, she does, and an investor would too.
Maeve showcases her professionalism as she responds to my queries. It’s obvious how knowledgeable she is and how much she cares about this hotel.
Even after all the wine, her replies are smooth, her mind quick. The alcohol simply loosened her up a little and tinted her cheeks a rosy shade of pink.
This woman is a mesmerizing distraction.
Her tone warms when she describes the process of choosing one style of hardwood flooring over another. Her brown eyes sparkle as she points to the chandelier above us, explaining how she commissioned it from a famous German designer. She chats for at least ten minutes about hiring the right sommelier for the downstairs bar.
She laughs when I tease about the need for emergency wine, and fuck if the sound doesn’t shoot a spark through my whole body, curling to a stop deep in my chest.
She’s enthralling. Infectious. I could listen to her discuss her hotel for hours.
But I’m still on a mission.
“Could you tell me a little bit about the other owner?” I steeple my fingers, trying to keep my manner open and warm. “Declan Gallagher, right? Given the last name, I assume you’re related.”
Her face becomes stone. “My father. But I’m afraid there’s not much I can say that isn’t already public knowledge.”
The shift in her demeanor snags my attention. Catching and analyzing these little tells is in my wheelhouse.
Sounds like she and Declan aren’t exactly planning weekly father-daughter dates. Interesting.
“Oh? Why’s that?” My question is curious rather than pushy.
“He’s a very private man, very busy, and rarely accepts meetings. I handle all outward-facing business transactions here at the Cypress.”
