Surprise flickered across his face, but only for a moment before that blank mask was once again in place. “It wasn’t a request, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? I’m the same age as you.”
“I’m aware.”
That was it. No explanation, no nothing, just like the man who, she assumed, signed his checks. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Killian sent for you.”
Right. And everyone in this damn house jumped to do Killian’s bidding. “Well you can tell Killian I said if he wants me, he can come get me his damn self.”
She slammed the door in his face, but the smug sense of righteousness only lasted for a moment. Poor kid was just doing his job. Did he even know he was working for a criminal empire?
He had to, right? From the few episodes of The Sopranos she’d managed to stomach after she’d learned who Killian was, it seemed like the kids knew at least the surface level of what their family was involved in even if they didn’t know the ins and outs of the business. So it seemed unlikely the baby-faced guard didn’t at least know something about how the O’Rourkes operated.
Which meant she had absolutely no reason to feel guilty about slamming the door in his face. None at all.
Ugh.
She’d just about made up her mind to open the door again and apologize when said door swung open, revealing an amused Killian.
“Stubborn little princess,” he said, that same amusement coloring his words as he slowly made his way across the room to the bed she’d once more planted herself on. “Or maybe you just wanted to see if I would come running when you called. Which is it?”
He stalked her, with the same slow, easy grace of a panther slinking through the jungle. In direct contrast, her heart was galloping in her chest just at the sight of him, beating harder and faster with every step he took toward her.
“Well?” He asked when he reached the edge of her bed, his voice a low purr that once again put her in the mind of some kind of sleek jungle cat. “Which is it, Aria?”
Swallowing the mix of fear and desire that had lodged itself in her throat, she raised an eyebrow in what she hoped was a regal manner. “Maybe I just don’t like being ordered around by proxy.”
Interest glinted in his eye. “Just by me directly, then.”
Dammit. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, but I think it is, princess.” Leaning in, he placed his hands on the bed on either side of her, caging her in, his lips a whisper from hers. “You certainly enjoyed being ordered around when I had you tied to that bed in your father’s club, forcing you to come until you forgot your own name.”
Heat pooled low in her belly as the memories crowded her. And it was very definitely just from the memories, not from the man himself invading her space. “You think very highly of yourself, O’Rourke.”
His expression shifted, ever so slightly, revealing his irritation before he smoothed it over into an amused mask again. “You may call me Sir, or Killian, or even Daddy if you prefer.”
Oh, she’d hit a nerve.
Good.
“Why are you in my bedroom, O’Rourke?”
Again there was that little flicker of irritation before he managed to smother it. “You need to eat. Come.”
Stepping back from the bed, he held out a hand. Part of her, the part she recognized as completely childish, wanted to stay put. But that would be cutting off her nose to spite her face seeing as how she actually really was hungry.
So she ignored the offer of his hand and slid out of the bed. Killian dropped his arm with a shrug and turned to lead the way out of her room.
As she followed, she scanned her surroundings. Now that her emotions were a bit more under control than they had been when Reagan had been showing her to her room earlier, she could take things in with a more critical eye.
The house was just as gorgeous as she remembered it, a fact that burrowed under her skin like an itch she couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t right that people could generate this kind of wealth, generation after generation, by breaking the law. Not when there were families doing the right thing, following all the rules, and still struggling to just put food on the table.
More than that, though, she hated how much she liked his home. Under different circumstances, she would have taken the time to stop and admire the artwork scattered throughout the house. Would have enjoyed the simple elegance of her temporary home.
But these weren’t different circumstances, so instead she found herself searching for cracks in the armor. Places where there might be gaps in surveillance, areas she could slip into unnoticed when the time came to make her great escape.
