Iron Princess

by Meghan March

  That’s not the truly impressive part, though. The impressive part came when she got off the phone and I asked, “Were you bluffing about walking on the deal?”

  She raises a dark eyebrow, crosses her arms over her chest, and purses her lips. “I never bluff.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Her lips ease into a smile. “It’s the truth. If he doesn’t want to deliver on time without charging a premium, we already have his competitor lined up to fill the gap. Keira and I negotiated the contract last month, and they’re ready to deliver on forty-eight hours’ notice—without a premium. If the jackass wants to be difficult, we can pivot. It wasn’t the plan, but I’m not going to let him think he can hold Seven Sinners hostage. Nothing slows down distilling operations, certainly not arrogant assholes who think they’ve got us by the balls.”

  “Is there anything you can’t handle?”

  Already today, I’ve listened to her deal with an employee dispute, a customer incident, schedule three consultations for special events, test the receptionist on her tour skills, and that was on top of her fingers flying across the keyboard to answer emails, review contracts, and argue with the lawyer about a negotiation point she wouldn’t agree to.

  The woman is easily doing three people’s jobs instead of one, and I’m beginning to think she isn’t totally human.

  “You need an assistant. Or three.”

  She shoots me a wry look. “I was the assistant.”

  “You still need more help.”

  “Trust me, I know. Keira knows too. She left a note that interviews will be scheduled for next week as soon as I’m finished reviewing this stack of résumés and highlighting the most qualified applicants who don’t sound like assholes.” She pats a pile of papers on her right, which is next to a stack of contracts she already told me was up next on the to-do list.

  “Does it ever slow down?”

  “It hasn’t yet,” she answers with a shake of her head.

  I glance at the clock on the wall and realize it’s nearing noon, which explains my growling stomach. “Do you ever stop to eat?”

  Before she can answer, her phone rings and she grimaces.

  She answers with a cheery greeting, but I hear the stressed edge of her tone. She might be good at this job, but she doesn’t love it. Right now, she’s in grin and bear it mode.

  “Today? I . . . well, I could probably make that work. What time?” She pauses and glances at me. “Now? I guess I can do that. Meet upstairs in the restaurant? I’ll bring my planner. Thanks for calling, Yve.”

  Temperance hangs up the phone.

  “What’s that about?”

  She picks up a pencil and spins it between her fingertips. “Another possible event.”

  “Woman, you need to eat.”

  “I will. Lunch meeting just got scheduled.”

  “Jesus Christ. It never ends. Who are you meeting? I need background. You’re not sitting across the table from anyone I don’t okay.”

  Temperance rolls her eyes. “She’s not a threat. She’s a friend. A new friend.”

  “New friend? I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it, but Yve isn’t a threat. She owns a couple of shops in the Quarter.”

  “What kind of shops?”

  “Well, lingerie, for one.”

  “So after work . . . you’re planning on shopping.”

  “You wish,” Temperance says as she rises and gathers up her planner and a notepad.

  Oh, princess, you have no idea what I wish.

  19

  Temperance

  After a warning from Kane not to disclose anything about his identity, my brother, or our current situation, we head up to the restaurant to meet Yve.

  I can feel his gaze on me from his position near the bar as I take a seat at the booth across from her. You’d think after being near him all day, I’d be used to his scrutiny, but it’s still unsettling. As are my warring feelings when it comes to him.

  Before I knew who Kane was, he fascinated me. Now? My fascination is growing to unhealthy levels.

  He’s nothing like I expected. I thought he’d sit in the corner of my office and watch the door, like Scar does when he’s guarding Keira, but Kane shocked me by helping. When I dumped an entire stack of invoices off the edge of my overwhelmed desk, he picked up every single one and reordered them.

  It took me a few minutes to process the fact that a man who is probably more accustomed to handling bullets than paperwork was alphabetizing my invoices.

  It has to be completely beneath him, and yet, he didn’t hesitate.

  I’ve been the low woman on the totem pole at Seven Sinners for so long that it’s strange to have someone take anything off my plate. And now, instead of looming over me in a semi-public space, he’s watching from a nondisruptive distance. Well, nondisruptive to everything but my concentration.

  “You’re as jumpy as a cat in heat. What’s going on?” Yve studies me, seeming to zero in on my every fidgeting gesture.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. Drank too much coffee this morning.”

  “Should probably have some whiskey to help tame that buzz then, yeah?”

  “Not for me. I don’t drink whiskey, especially during work hours.”

  “Fair enough, but I’m ordering some. I took the afternoon off. JP is holding down the fort, along with a few new employees, and I’m calling for a ride home.”

  “Feel free. I’m happy to serve you all the whiskey you could possibly drink.” I wave over one of the waitstaff, and Yve orders her whiskey and I order us an appetizer. As soon as the server steps away, I get down to business. “Tell me about this event you want to plan.”

  On the phone, Yve mentioned setting up a whiskey-tasting night at her boutique as a way to drive people into the new lingerie store.

  “I want to call it Frisky Whiskey Night at the Pretty Kitty.”

  I grin. “That’s perfect.”

  “I thought so. My competition is big into champagne and shopping nights, but that’s boring. Whiskey is so much more fun, and I think it would really suit my clientele better.”

  I flip open my planner. “When are you thinking?”

  We discuss a few dates, debate them, and finally settle on a winner. During our conversation, I can’t help but look over Yve’s shoulder a half dozen times at Kane.

  When I shut my notebook and attempt one more surreptitious glance, she shakes her head.

  “Really, girl? You aren’t subtle at all.” She casually glances over her shoulder, and from her shift in posture, I know the moment she spots him. Her attention swings back to me.

  “Now I get it. Who’s the lucky man?” She pauses, holding up a finger. “Wait. That’s him, isn’t it? The one you had the thing for that you didn’t know his name?”

  “Shhh. Please don’t say anything. It’s not a thing. There’s nothing happening. It’s no big deal.”

  She leans back in the booth and tilts her chin. “You’re a terrible liar. That’s totally him. Now I see why you kept going back. I would’ve too. You know, if I didn’t have my own man. He’s delicious.”

  “It’s nothing. Really. It’s not going anywhere.” Even as I say the words, I want to snatch them back because I don’t want them to be true. Then again, how can they be anything but the truth?

  He’s a hit man. We’re going to track down my brother, figure out how to keep him and me safe, and get rid of the people who want him dead. And then . . . it’s over. Simple as that.

  Yve’s gaze turns mocking. “Girl, I know all about not wanting to get involved with a guy. I even know all about hating a guy, or at least telling myself I do, which clearly isn’t your issue here. Sometimes the universe has different plans than you do, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” She pretends to reach for her purse that hangs on the end of our booth and glances over her shoulder again. A moment later, she turns back to me. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”

  “It’s not what you th
ink.”

  “Pshh, girl. He’s practically eating you alive. That man looks like he’d drag you into a corner and have his way with you just as soon as eat that burger in front of him.”

  She isn’t lying. When Kane’s gaze sweeps over me, there’s no denying the hunger.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.

  “Is he a good man?”

  Yve’s question should be an easy one to answer, but I freeze. Is Kane a good man?

  “I guess that depends on how you define good.”

  “He hit you? Talk down to you? Make you feel stupid?”

  Yve’s stare is intense, and I hate to think she has experience with any of those things, but given the sharpness in her tone, I know she must.

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Is he inconsiderate? A liar? An asshole? Mean to kids and dogs?”

  I shake my head. “No. Although I’ve never seen him with a kid or a dog.”

  “You think he’d be a dick to them?”

  I try to picture it, but I truly can’t. “I can’t imagine he would be.”

  “Would he hide a body for you?”

  That question takes me completely off guard. “What?”

  “Would he cover your ass no matter what? You get that feeling from him?”

  She doesn’t know it, but he’s already committed to physically covering my ass and doing whatever else he can to help me.

  “Yes. He would,” I reply unequivocally.

  “He’s kind to you? Helpful? Always make sure you come?”

  It’s lucky I’m not chewing because I would have choked. “Oh yeah.”

  “Then he’s a good man, or at least a good enough one.”

  I contemplate her requirements for being a good man, and I’m a little stunned. All the things she said—the positives and the negatives—would separate bad from good . . . but there’s so much more to it. Isn’t there?

  “No amount of money can make me take a job if I won’t be able to live with myself after it’s done.”

  That’s what Kane said when I dropped the bomb of a question on him this morning.

  He might do bad things, but does that make him a bad person? My brother does things that plenty of people would classify as bad, but he loves me like crazy and would do anything for me. I don’t think he’s a bad person.

  At the end of the day, that’s what truly matters. Isn’t it?

  * * *

  Yve’s comments leave me with plenty to think about for the rest of the day, made even more complicated by the man across the desk from me.

  Kane’s presence makes me hyperaware of every movement I make, down to the slide of my blouse across my skin. In the middle of reviewing résumés, my mind wanders to what happened in the shower last night, and the strange mix of vulnerability and strength it revealed.

  My concentration completely blown, I slap my laptop closed. “I’m done for the day.”

  Kane’s eyebrows rise. “You sure?”

  I nod. “Yep. Hit the wall.”

  He stands and stretches. “Finally. I pull plenty of long days, but you’re a workhorse.”

  “I’m not sure I like that description.”

  I unplug my laptop and spin my chair around to grab my bag off the floor to pack it up. Once I have it in my hands, I straighten in my chair, intending to spin back around, but Kane is behind me. I didn’t hear him move, but I can feel him there.

  “You’re smart. Determined. Disciplined. I’m impressed. I meant it as a compliment.”

  I want to curl up in his heat and his clean, spicy scent, but his kind words make me wary. Like I’m missing something.

  I spin around in my chair to face him. “Why do I feel like you want something from me?”

  He wraps a hand around each of the arms of my chair, caging me in. “Because I do.”

  My heart stutters. “What?”

  “You, naked.”

  Heat flares in my belly, not just at his words but from the need rolling off him. I want to bend. Give him everything he wants. And that scares me.

  How did I let him gain this much power over me?

  “You don’t need to soften me up with flattery to get that, as we both know.”

  I try to look away, but he rolls the chair closer to him and captures my attention once more.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  I glare. “I’m already fucking you. There’s no need to turn on the charm now. It’s pretty much a foregone conclusion . . . unless there’s something else you’re after.”

  His gaze narrows, and for long moments, a heavy silence builds between us like crates of dynamite.

  “You don’t see it. How the fuck do you not see it?” His brows dive together as he shakes his head.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You still don’t have the first clue about your own self-worth.”

  I bristle at his comment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Obviously.” He pushes off the arms of the chair and rises. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  20

  Temperance

  The tense mood lasts until we’re back at Kane’s place.

  How dare he say I don’t know my own self-worth? Like he’s some kind of authority on me, and I’m clueless? I have no illusions about who and what I am.

  When the garage door closes behind us, I yank the beanie off my head. “Are you going to make me wear that every time?”

  He grunts.

  Oh, great. Now he’s not speaking. Excellent.

  I’m still collecting my things when he opens the door to let me out of the car we drove today. I didn’t see this one in the collection of four-wheel drives, but that’s probably because it’s not quite as tall and was hidden between them. It’s a nondescript black Audi sedan with blacked-out windows that makes me think of the Transporter, which is probably appropriate. Although, Kane has Jason Statham beat on every level, including sheer badass-ness.

  He takes my bag from off my shoulder and carries it to the elevator, but lets me keep my purse.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” I ask to break the awkward silence growing in the elevator.

  “Gator.”

  I whip my head around to look at him. “Seriously? Trying to make the swamp girl feel at home?”

  His expression darkens. “You need to work on knocking that chip off your shoulder. It’s starting to get bigger than your head. Maybe I just like gator. Lean meat. Healthy. And I started it marinating this morning.”

  “Oh,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t reply, and the elevator clangs into place when it reaches the third floor.

  “What’s on the second floor?” I ask as he opens the gate.

  “Nunya.”

  I open my mouth to ask what? But then it clicks. “None of my business? Like your company name? Very cute, by the way.”

  His expression finally softens. “I do have a sense of humor.”

  As we exit the elevator, I’m still holding on to my question like a dog with a bone. “You’re really not going to give me a clue? None at all?”

  “It’s where I work.”

  “Ah, the heart of the bat cave.” This comment at least pries a laugh out of him.

  “Something like that.”

  “Still nothing on my brother?”

  Kane shakes his head. “I’ve got trackers set up to ping if he uses a credit card or surfaces in any other traceable way, including a network of contacts. But Ransom is good at going to ground. Using you is the best leverage they’d have to draw him out.”

  “But that’s not going to happen.”

  “No. We’re not going to let that happen.” He turns away and heads for the fridge. “If gator isn’t okay with you, I’ve got chicken.”

  I take a seat at the bar. “Gator’s fine. Tastes like chicken anyway.”

  * * *

  I never knew watching a man cook could be so sexy. I’m also one hundred percent sure I’m not the on
ly woman to have this thought. However, I’m pretty sure I’m the only woman to have this thought with Kane . . . whatever his last name is.

  I tell myself I don’t need to know it, but I’m lying.

  I want to know it and every other damn thing about him, which is all wrong. I cut things off at the club when I was starting to get attached because I knew better, but now that things have shifted, it’s like my common sense has left the building.

  Kane is dangerous, and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the fact that he could probably skewer me right now with the knife in his hand as he chops veggies. Being in close proximity to him and seeing him as more than a guy who fucks like a god is wearing me down.

  Speaking of fucking like a god . . . I remember what he said in my office about wanting me naked, and my nipples peak against my blouse. Why I wore white with a sheer bra when I knew he was going to be around is another fabulous question.

  Removing that combination from my wardrobe.

  I spin around on the super-cool industrial barstool and tear my gaze off the muscles in his arms as he slices and dices, because I can’t handle the sexiness.

  I pop off my seat, determined to put distance between us so I can clear my head of all the crazy in it. I stop in front of a shelf that has books stacked haphazardly that somehow manage to look messy-chic. Next to the books is a carved wooden bowl with feet that has smaller wooden bowls resting inside it.

  I lift a small one out carefully. “Is this . . . a coconut shell?”

  Kane looks over his shoulder, sees where I’m standing, and nods. “It’s for kava.”

  “Kava?”

  “It’s a drink usually made by island people. I was gifted those bowls by a village elder in Fiji.”

  From the photographs around his loft, I assumed he was well traveled, but tossing out phrases like village elder in Fiji makes me think that his travel is nothing like that of the distillery employees going on their cruises to Mexico out of Port of New Orleans. One more thing I’ve never done.

  “Fiji? Wow.”