CHAPTER 1
AISLYNN
TWO DAYS LATER
The biting wind whipped at my flushed, wet cheeks as I stormed out of my office building in the River North Art District (locally known as RiNo).
My firm, Sketch, had a reputation for being innovative and thinking outside the box. It prided itself on the young, dynamic vibe of the staff, mixed with the more established and respected partners. My mentor was the firm’s owner, Richard Sketch. He was forty-five, motivated, world-renowned, and at the top of his field.
He was also a sexual predator.
Hitching my work bag up onto my shoulder, I noticed the angry, red mark on my wrist where my boss had just tried to pin me down onto his desk.
“Fuck,” I hissed, the word almost as cutting as the freezing, wintry air.
I’d spent the last fifteen minutes physically fighting off Richard Sketch. Fifteen minutes of his weight crushing me while his hands slid over my body, pressing into my skin with sickening force. Eventually, I’d driven my knee up, connecting with a dull thud that had no doubt just ended my career before it had even begun.
After fleeing the room, I’d run the gauntlet of the main office, enduring the pitying looks of the women, and their knowing glances—some of them victim’s glances—darting away. Men suddenly became fascinated with their keyboards, all while my pleas and screams still echoed through the walls, cries for help they’d conveniently ignored because they were all too terrified for their jobs.
It seemed I was surrounded by little men with little courage and even littler morals.
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, willing myself to feel something real instead of the numbness invading my body. I focused on the harsh, icy wind so cold on my face that it burned. The fresh scent of the air, thick with the promise of more snow. And the sounds of the street filled with music, along with the blaring of horns and the whirring of engines. The wind howled between buildings like it shared my pain and promised my revenge.
The loud trilling of my cell phone startled me. I looked down and rummaged through my bag, peering down at it through misty eyes, not recognizing the number. Warning bells started to ring, and I chewed my bottom lip, wondering if it was somebody from the office telling me to go back and get my shit because I was fired. For a split second, I felt like throwing the thing as far as my strength allowed, but I wasn’t a girl who buried her head in the sand.
With a resigned sigh, I swiped to answer, then held the cell to my ear, my voice hoarse as I murmured, “Aislynn O’Shea.”
A beat of silence ensued, and then a deep, gravelly voice demanded, “You outside your office?”
Pressing my fingers to my throbbing temple, I shook my head. “Who’s this?”
A growl filled my ears, the vibration of it hitting me square in the chest. “I’m on my way.Don’t fuckin’ move.”
My eyebrows pulled together. “But?—”
“Dubheasa,”he rasped. “What did I just say?Don’t fuckin’ move.”
Every cell in my body froze except for my heart, which began to thud a little harder as it leaped so high into my throat that I almost choked on it.
Dubheasawas the Irish phrase for dark beauty, and myathair’spet name for me. My da had called me hisDubheasaevery day for as far back as I could remember. It was also the last word he said to me before he died.
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but the line had gone dead. My gut, already fine-tuned to two decades of O’Shea family chaos, knew the voice on the end of the phone.
But how could it be? The last time I sawhim, I’d told him he wasn’t good enough for me and then strutted away.
I scanned the street, not seeing any sign of a Harley, but I could sense him, like an impending storm humming through the ether, threatening but still exhilaratingly beautiful in its danger.
That was when I heard it.
The growl of tailpipes in the distance.
My insides came to life, and the compulsion to run was overwhelming. Maybe I should have. Perhaps turning and fleeing would have saved me from an unknown fate that all my instincts screamed would be my undoing, but I had an even more compelling desire to stay purely out of curiosity.
The faint growl of tailpipes grew louder with every second that passed, and my heart beat harder and faster. Even though it wasn’t even five yet, the sky was dark, as was the way in December in Colorado, so when I finally caught a glimpse of the three Harleys, I could make out their shapes, but not much else.
The bikes began to slow on their approach. Their single headlights cut beams of light through the darkness, illuminating the wet sidewalk along with my frozen form. All three bikerswore helmets, but there was no confusing which one was Pagan. Although the temperatures were freezing, he didn’t wear a scarf or gloves like the two riders flanking him. The sugar skull tattoo inked into his throat, and the muscled bulk of his steely arms that rippled even under leather, told me exactly who he was.
Pagan pulled up beside me and idled his bike. One heavy-booted foot hit the ground, and he sat back, taking off his helmet.
