His breath caressed my ear. "Only the special ones.” He chuckled. "You've caused quite the disruption to Flanagan operations," he added, coming back around and rolling up his sleeves with deliberate slowness. The movement revealed forearms corded with muscle and decorated with intricate Celtic tattoos—the Triskelion spiralling around his right wrist, the Tree of Life stretching up his left forearm. I recognized the symbols instantly. They were traditional Irish warrior markings, the same ones my father had shown me once. On Alexander, they seemed less like decoration and more like a proclamation of identity.
Then, that interesting scar on his wrist…
Standing at least six-foot-three, he towered over my seated form, his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, his body clearly honed through disciplined physical training. I couldn't help but notice how his tailored shirt stretched across his chest, how gracefully he carried his considerable strength. Despite my circumstances, my heart beat traitorously, a reaction I despised yet couldn't entirely suppress.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, warily watching his movements.
He laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Let's not waste time with denial." He leaned forward, bracing his hands on thearms of my chair, caging me between his body and the cold metal. "We both know exactly what you've been doing."
His proximity was suffocating—intentionally so. I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body. My heart hammered against my ribs, a mixture of fear and something more hazardous.
"You had this on you. I know it belonged to your father," he said, pointing at the knife, watching my reaction closely. "I wonder if he thought of you in his final moments before he died."
Rage burned through me, though I allowed none of it to show on my face. Instead, I looked up at him through my lashes, a technique I'd perfected in Monaco's high-stakes poker rooms.
"You seem to be dedicating a lot of effort to baiting me, Alexander," I said, letting his first name roll off my tongue like a challenge. "I'm flattered."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't be. I study all potential threats with equal attention. Also, your father did something very, very bad. "
"And yet," I countered, "you’re not above doing the same, I see. Don’t put yourself on a pedestal."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "I don’t have to manufacture my skills. I show them. In fact, someone like me can appreciate both your intelligence and your... creativity."
"A compliment? How unexpected." I allowed a hint of amusement to colour my tone.
"Merely an observation." He sighed and resumed pacing around my chair. "The shipments to Cork—redirected rather than stolen. That was clever. Most would have simply taken the product."
I shrugged. "Theft is traceable. Redirection creates confusion."
"And the funds from Manchester?"
"What funds?" I asked, all wide-eyed innocence.
His laugh was unexpected—infused with a warmth that seemed at odds with our circumstances. "You're good at this, Aoife O'Malley. Better than your brothers ever were. I know about them. It’s surprising that one of them is still alive."
I said nothing in reaction. He was doing his utmost to get a rise out of me, but fact was, nothing he said was untrue. What a strange dance this was…
"I know the name of your childhood dog—Killian," he continued. As he stopped behind me again, he settled his hands on my shoulders, fingers pressing, kneading, walking the line between relief and pain. I didn’t even know why I liked that feeling for I fucking loathed him. I did. "I know you kept an art gallery in Paris while studying history. You’re not only creative yourself—you like beautiful things."
His hands slid down my arms, his chest nearly touching my back as he leaned down to whisper, "I know you have a distinctive birthmark on your inner left thigh. After all, I’ve seen all of you already…"
My breath caught, and my body stiffened—a definite tell that he was affecting me. His laugh was soft, triumphant.
"Oh, did that surprise you?" His fingers traced along my collarbone and a cold shiver crawled down my spine. I had no idea why his touch affected me so much. Whatever happened years ago had been the subject of my nighttime fantasies, but all of that was in the past. Try as I may, though, I wanted to ignore it but couldn’t. "I wonder what else might surprise you tonight."
He paused, then continued, “Tell me about the warehouse in Galway," Alexander demanded, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that sent unwelcome shivers down my spine.
"What warehouse?" I maintained eye contact, my breathing carefully controlled despite his proximity.
He leaned in until his face was inches from mine, close enough that I could smell the expensive whiskey on his breath. "The one where you're storing the redirected Belfast shipments."
I said nothing, though my pulse betrayed me, racing at my throat where his eyes lingered. His hand came up, one finger tracing the line of my carotid artery.
"Your body is more honest than your mouth, Aoife," he murmured, his touch leaving fire in its wake.
"Professional curiosity or personal interest?" I challenged, hating how breathless I sounded.
His smile was slow, predatory. "Can't it be both?"
