Not even close to reality.
Though the figures appear sound, her numbers are lying. I’ve walked these halls enough to know there are more bodies on the carpets after nine in the evening than this ledger can afford, even if they’re paid in drinks and comped rooms.
The cost for that kind of muscle, at that density, should be its own line item, but there’s nothing.
Security this visible doesn’t come for free. If the money’s not on her books…
Then they don’t belong to the hotel at all. Instead—like that fucker called Shout—the guards all belong to Declan Gallagher.
I continue working the rows, and the numbers tell the same story.
Someone outside the hotel pays for the night watch.
Someone who could claim ownership.
Declan. Must be. Which marks the hotel as an active, if unofficial, Port Kings asset.
I’d still bet money that Declan’s in that penthouse.
Which means Nolan Doyle and his encrypted files may be there too.
Maeve’s focused on a spreadsheet, brow furrowed, lips moving faintly as she checks sums.
Beautiful, brilliant, and utterly unaware of the danger sitting across from her.
I found what I needed. Holding patterns and holes in all the right places. Her father’s reach bleeds through the reports.
I close the folder and recline in the chair, letting the silence pull her attention back to me.
“Your operating costs are remarkably clean.”
Her head tips in a silent challenge. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”
“An observation.” I rise and walk around the desk, invading her space.
Her breath catches, and she sucks her lower lip between her teeth.
Bending down, I brace my hands on the armrests of her chair and press in close, watching intently. At the slightest hint of fear, I’ll back off. I may be a bastard, but even I won’t push seduction on a woman who just fended off a sexual predator.
Her pupils dilate, and her cheeks flush, but she shows no signs of alarm and doesn’t move. Satisfaction unfurls in my gut.
“What aren’t you telling me, Maeve?” My voice is low, my eyes glued to hers.
I wait for her reply as she lifts herself from the chair.
Inches separate us. I swear sparks crackle in those empty millimeters.
Our negotiation, no longer about numbers, has become personal, growing more intimate by the moment.
She’s hiding things, but in an effort to protect her father or herself? Is she attempting to distance herself from Declan or closing ranks?
I have to know. Am possessed by this overwhelming demand for her honesty.
Because I wanther.
I hunger for thatnot yetto become aright now.
I burn with the urge to bend—not break—her, to prove she can lean on me. To feel her hands under my shirt, her breasts against my chest.
