It turns out, multiple orgasms are the quickest way to forget that there’s a crazy bastard on the loose, hell bent on murdering my entire family.
The O’Connors have been our family’s biggest rivals for decades. Not that I remember much of it. I was just a kid when things were at their worst. I wouldn’t know an O’Connor if he was right in front of me. But I do know that their whiskey empire was in direct competition with ours until Jack O’Connor lost the plot completely. He was always a psycho, but he took things to the next level when he set fire to his own distillery—with his second wife in it. He burned her alive.
Jack’s stepdaughter, Scarlett, testified against him to put him behind bars years ago. Which is why James is convincedScarlett will be his first target. When Jack was arrested, Killian put two of his sons behind bars with their father, and the other three have been on the missing list ever since. The O’Connors’ assets were all seized, and the distillery never reopened.
Just to really complicate the situation, Scarlett is now married to my brother, James. They have two gorgeous daughters, Harper and Halle, and a tyrannical tornado of a son, James Junior. If I had maternal notions, James Junior is enough to put me off having kids for life. Cute and tiny as he looks, he has one hell of a set of lungs on him, and he is not afraid to use them.
News of Jack’s escape is all over the Irish news. His picture’s ten years old and grainy, but I commit it to memory anyway—just in case. Thankfully, it didn’t make the international news, because it wouldn’t take California long to put two and two together. By rights, Killian and his men should have hunted Jack O’Connor down by now, but somehow he’s evaded them so far—no mean feat.
It’s worrying.
Tate is right.
I’m better off this side of the world.
‘Stop worrying, sweetheart,’ California says softly from the daybed beside me. He hired a private cabana in a quiet cove on the beach, complete with our very own butler.
I’m not stupid. He said he wants to spoil me, but I’m pretty sure he’s also doing his part in trying to keep me safe. His gaze permanently lingers on me, which also reinforces my theory that he’s doubling up as extra security, as well as being my primary distraction. Instead of glaring at Tate, he’s started working with him.
I’m not complaining. This four-poster sanctuary is built right into the sand, draped in long, gauzy linen curtains that billow in the breeze like sails. The two side panels are drawnshut, tied loosely to the posts to give us privacy without feeling enclosed, while the front is left open, framing the Caribbean Sea like a living photograph. The turquoise water twinkles before me. White foam lines the beach as the waves crash lazily against the shore. Our butler has already delivered chilled towels, slices of fresh mango on crushed ice, and a silver bucket holding a bottle of something French and extortionate.
It’s intimate. A world within a world. One that belongs to us and us alone.
Yet, I can’t completely shake the guilt for being at home when my family need me. My brothers are in constant contact. They sent their wives, girlfriends, kids and our parents to the Wicklow mansion with an army of Killian’s men.
According to Scarlett, Avery is working her way through our father’s wine cellar. Being away from them feels wrong, but they all insisted I stay. That I’m better off halfway across the world until Jack O’Connor is locked down.
I turn to the man beside me. Over the past few days, we’ve gotten closer. I might not know his true identity or occupation, but I do know he’s a decent man.
And strong too, both mentally and physically. If he was alarmed by my outburst about some crazed lunatic wanting to murder my entire family, he’s hiding it well. Which makes me wonder what skeletons linger in his own closet.
Tate was right, there’s a ruthlessness in his eyes.
He scans every room we enter like he’s waiting for someone to call him out on something. What though?
I twist my head to meet his piercing stare. ‘I’m not worrying.’
‘Are you sure?’ He prowls over the plush daybed until he’s hovering over me.
I must frown, because his voice softens further. ‘Irish.’ Hecups my face in his hands and forces me to meet his stare. Concern creases the corners of his eyes.
And he does something I absolutely do not expect.
He reaches out… and gently brushes a thumb over the centre of my forehead, smoothing the tension line I hadn’t realised I was wearing. The touch is so light, so instinctive, so tender—it knocks the air from my lungs.
‘There,’ he murmurs. ‘That’s better.’
Something warm and stupid pools in my chest. This man—this arrogant, sexy American who barely shares anything real about himself—looks at me like he actually sees me.
‘You don’t have to worry here,’ he adds, his voice low and protective. ‘Not today. Not while you’re with me.’
A blush crawls up my neck completely uninvited. God help me—he’s hot when he’s threatening to run after me and fuck me, but this version? The one that makes me feel safe and secure and precious could legitimately melt me.
I pride myself on being independent, permanently trying to prove to my brothers that I don’t need to be babied, but right here, right now, it feels phenomenal knowing he’s got me.
I swallow. ‘I’m not worrying,’ I repeat.
He cocks his head to the side and fires me a look that says he knows I’m lying, then trails his fingers down my arm. His hand covers mine and squeezes. ‘I know we said no names, no deep and meaningfuls but if you want to talk to me, you can,’ he says quietly, ‘you can tell me anything. I won’t judge. And if I can help, I will.’
