I’m no better than the men in her family. Worse, even.
At least they aren’t actively betraying her.
Whenever she talks about her family, she treads carefully. She seems to operate under the impression that if KellinJameson of Zenith Investment Group knew Declan Gallagher’s history and true nature, he’d walk out of the Cypress’s grand double doors and never look back.
I’m surprised she hasn’t considered the possibility that I’m already aware of her family’s criminal ties. Though, compared to the New York Gallaghers, Declan keeps his business on the quieter side.
Maeve must have vettedme. I’m on the ZIG website, and the CEO knows the drill if anyone calls to snoop around. But did she not consider that we’d do our own vetting?
Maybe she believes we wouldn’t dig too deeply into Declan’s activities. Or maybe she just wants to pretend her family isn’t that bad.
I can understand that desire.
Courtesy of the drug I slipped into her drink, Maeve sleeps soundly, with one hand tucked beneath her uninjured cheek. I spent the past hour watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, battling the knot in my gut and wishing I could stay.
I tug the covers up to her chin, tuck her in, and leave the bedroom.
In the living area, I throw on my clothes, then I slip Maeve’s key card into my pocket.
As I reach for the hallway door, I stop.
Turn.
Walk back into the bedroom and kneel beside the bed. Listen to her breaths. Study her peaceful face.
Why am I torturing myself like this?
The mission is what matters. Dive into Declan’s files. Find Doyle. Eliminate the problem before Finn’s forced to deal Declan into his business ventures or Declan spills all the dirty secrets hidden within Doyle’s records.
Clear my family name, once and for all, and earn my spot in Finn’s inner circle.
Maeve’s a stepping stone to her father. The key to information.
So why am I lingering and letting myself get tangled in this woman’s sweet web?
She’s a means to an end. That’s all she can be.
I rise, not even sure who I’m trying to convince anymore.
Ten minutes later, after a quick run to my own room to shower and change into a pair of dark jeans and a black jacket over my Henley, I’m in front of her door again, securing a bug to the light fixture in the hallway. I shoot Rory a message to verify its capturing Maeve’s room and in full working order before I leave.
It’s a go, he texts back.
Make sure this one stays on. We want eyes on it 24-7.
Roger that.
Rory’s not my favorite King, if I’m being honest. We’ve never been overly friendly, and when we were kids, I thought he was a brownnosing brat. But he treats my cousins well, and I owe him for giving me the heads-ups on Maeve earlier. For that alone, I’m willing to try harder. Maybe buy him a beer once I return home.
I trust that he and his tech guys will alert me to the slightest hint of danger.
I don’t know what that beast—Shout—thought he was doing, but that’s not how the Irish Kings roll. We’re classier on the East Coast.
Rory’s kept tabs on the Neanderthal since the incident.
And now that I’m sure Maeve plans on doingnothing, I can address this matter as I see fit.
I venture downstairs, loitering in the bar area, pretending to nurse a local craft beer. This central spot provides a good vantage point for viewing the thugs on shift tonight.
