I want to hear that rich, throaty laugh again.
I want to know what’s going on behind those giant dark eyes when she looks at me like she’s deciding whether to take a bite or take her leave.
No names. No strings. Casual sex. That was the deal.
So why the fuck am I sitting here, wondering, obsessing about when she’s coming back?
I scan the space again. The place is emptying out. Couples are drifting back to their suites, with the promise of pleasure etched into their alcohol influenced PDAs.
Just when I’m about to call it a night, I spot the bionic bodyguard. He’s hard to miss given the sheer size of him and the way his auburn hair gleams under the lighting. Not to mention his sunburnt skin. He scans the room, his gaze homing in on me a second before she steps in behind him.
The stupid heart I didn’t know I owned leaps in my chest.
I’m worse than a goddamn teenager with a crush.
A slow smile rips open my lips as her eyes land on mine. That new but already familiar sexual energy throbs through the air between us, so potent it’s fucking intoxicating.
In a white floaty maxi dress that sculpts every single one of her curves before cascading to the floor, Irish looks like a bride. But there’s nothing virginal about the crimson staining her lips, or the sexual intentions in her kohl-lined eyes. She sashays confidently towards me and flashes that half smile I’ve learnt means she’s going to say something funny.
‘I thought it might be past your bedtime.’ She slides onto the bar stool beside me, placing her phone face up on the bar. Her citrus perfume wraps around me, seeping into my lungs.
‘We can sleep when we’re dead.’ I motion for the barmanto fetch her a drink. I’ve already paid for another bottle of that Dom Perignon Vintage Rose that she loved; all he has to do is pop the cork.
Her phone buzzes on the bar. I don’t mean to look, but it’s impossible to miss.
James.
Who the fuck is James?
She rolls her eyes. ‘Which won’t be long, if my brother had any idea what we got up to last night.’ She cancels the call, but the phone lights up with his name again instantly.
She frowns, staring at the screen for several seconds. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ She snatches up her mobile and swipes to answer it. I expect her to walk away in order to find a little privacy, but she’s rooted to her seat.
‘Hello?’
I can’t hear James—whoever he is—but whatever he says to Irish sets the colour draining from her tanned complexion. Her lips pop open, and her eyes widen. Slim fingers grip the bar so tightly the tips turn white within seconds.
‘How?’ she asks. The sheer horror that hangs on that one word sets a shiver down my spine.
James says something.
Irish nods, even though he can’t see her, then she says, ‘I’ll put Tate on the phone.’ He’s already by our side with a grim expression etched onto his face.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, even though it’s clearly not.
Irish snatches up the champagne flute the barman left in front of her while she was on the phone. She drains half the glass before she answers. Her hand is visibly shaking.
‘Someone who wants to hurt my family escaped from prison tonight.’
‘Shit.’ I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, with the bodyguard and everything, I assumed she was some sort of celebrity or model, or influencer, or something—maybe she’s part of anorganised crime syndicate. No fucking wonder she doesn’t want to exchange names or questions.
‘I’ll keep her safe.’ Tate promises James beside us. ‘It might be a blessing she’s out of the country.’
He pauses, listening to whatever James says, then says, ‘You have my word.’ He disconnects the call and hands it back to Irish.
However intrigued I was about her before, I’m twice as intrigued now. Maybe we have more in common than I thought. I mean, I’m not part of an organised crime syndicate, but I have connections. In my line of work, there’s no other option. Sometimes problems need to go away, and sometimes, I need help orchestrating that.
‘Should I be worried?’ She turns to Tate.
