Gray: Oh, well, I’d better let you go. Have a good day.
“Shit!” There’s a vast difference between playing it cool and disinterest. He typed and deleted a few times, sweat beading his brow from stress.
Ciar: I wish I were home to take you to breakfast.
Gray: When you get back, I’ll let you. Bye, Ciar.
Ciar: Bye, Gray.
He felt a smile tug at his lips as he pocketed his phone and headed to the conference room. He tended to be quiet by nature, not standoffish, really, just not as quick to laugh as someone likehis father. His dad always teased that he got his stiff upper lip from his Russian ancestors.
He hoped that was the only thing he got from his maternal side. His mother’s cruel indifference was record-setting. His father had a one-night stand with the exotic Russian bartender, which resulted in his conception. She’d managed to care for Ciar for eight years. Though “caring” for him was a stretch, as Ciar could still vividly remember the gnawing hunger of starvation. He’d lived with that feeling long enough never to forget.
His mother dumped him off in the middle of Murphy’s Pub on a swinging Saturday night with a note pinned to his shirt that Ciaran was his father, and her name, Anna Morozova.
He’d never been to school and spoke only Russian. Needless to say, his father had been a saint to take him on. Ciar had always felt, if not different, then a bit of an outsider, but he had a good life, and the best father a man could ask for.
The Garda came round a month later to inform his father that Ciar’s mother had been found dead. She’d finally overdosed.
He’d learned as a young boy to stuff the anxiety that threatened to smother him at unexpected moments into a mental box. He was good at compartmentalizing. He learned to enjoy the moment, to be proud of his grades in school, his milestones and success in business, and with women, of course. All of which kept his mind sharp and free of that pesky voice that tried every so often to tell him he wasn’t worth the effort.
The day crept by in excruciating increments. His boss was a prick with the personality of drying paint, but the sonofabitch turned water into wine and real estate deals into gold. Ciar had managed an internship the summer before his last year of uni.
Mr. Anders looked like an old-school American mobster and acted in a similar Godfather fashion. Still, amazingly, he took a shine to Ciar and offered him a position on his personal team. He was given a year to prove his worth, or he could “Fuck off,” as Anders so eloquently put it.
Now here he was, at the top of his game. A cutthroat shark that people feared when they saw him coming after their property or business.
And what was that cutthroat beast currently doing? Checking his texts like a teen who’d just grown his first chin hair. He was currently sitting at a luxe booth in one of Anders’ newest swanky pubs in London, waiting for Mr. Dagr Griffiths.
He wanted to dislike the man on principle, simply because he dared touch the late, great Hugh O’Faolain’s baby girl. Reality was that Dagr was sharp, successful, wealthy, and loved his best friends’ cousin, or aunt as the case may be in that convoluted family.
He was in town sorting out his London firm before they went to Colorado. The man was making moves, buying out a law firm in Dublin, and purchasing enough property for him and Bébhinn to live. Griffiths was at the top of his game, and Ciar appreciated the man’s single-minded focus and prowess.
The O’Faolains’ possible newest long-lost family member had arrived and was cutting his way through powerful men and elegant women, lifting a hand to Ciar in greeting, who lifted his glass of vodka in return.
Ciar stood as a matter of respect and shook Dagr’s hand. “Griffiths.”
“Murphy,” he smirked, slapping him on the back.
“Glenmorangie 18, neat,” he told the bartender, making himself comfortable on the swivel barstool next to Ciar.
“I expected to see your new girlfriend at your side.”
“Bébhinn wanted to spend time with her friends after everything.” Everything being the arrest of his girlfriend’s stalker. “As soon as we checked out of our room at the Fitzwilliam, she asked to spend time with her friends. They were all eating dinner tonight with the family and MacGregor and Barr. She’s protected,” he added grimly.
“Hugh O’Faolain didn’t raise a weak daughter, and for that, I’m thankful as I’m sure you are. She’ll come out of this stalker shit stronger than ever.”
Dagr took a long pull on his drink before setting the glass down, twisting the crystal this way and that before responding. “She is strong. Still, I would kill that man for watching her. Us.”
Ciar didn’t respond. There was nothing to say because he would feel the same. “I fly out late tomorrow afternoon. You?”
“First thing in the morning. I’m showing Bébhinn the law firm property I’ve bought. It has two full floors that she can renovate into living quarters if she wishes.”
“You move fast,” Ciar noted.
Dagr shrugged. “When you know, you know. The only hurdle was her family, and they’ve accepted us. I would have taken her as mine regardless, but for her sake, I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”
Ciar’s phone beeped.Oh, Christ.Gray.
