by Sheila Kell
His DEA knowledge on moving money wasn’t enough to answer those questions. According to Jesse—who was also a former FBI agent—and Devon Hamilton—former CIA and computer guru—and Boss, it’d been that DEA background that had made him so valuable to HIS. Yet, they hadn’t needed him often enough to make him feel useful.
“Moira, I’m leaving you money to spend. Don’t touch the account your brother established until I do some research.”
She stilled. “Why?”
He exhaled loudly. “Nothing. I just want everything to be safe. I want to speak with someone who is well-versed in accounts. Until then, we should proceed with caution on anything tying you to Ireland.”
Watching him and appearing to consider what he’d said, she finally nodded. “Okay. I wish this situation was done and over with.”
He agreed with that. While her situation involved threats from overseas, his hands were tied. However, since it was Boyle who was involved, he’d find out if he knew the agent stationed in Ireland and use him or her for information. Shaking his head to wonder about that later, he leaned over the bar and sniffed.
Moira laughed. “I’m still cutting it up.”
Since she’d arrived, they’d taken turns cooking, but her way was by far the best. “The smell of the bread is making my stomach growl.”
She glanced at the oven. “Potato and cheddar rolls. I enjoy it so much more than soda bread, but I love that too,” she rushed to add.
“And, what’re you making?” He pointed to the pot she’d dumped cubes of meat into.
“A simple stew. I haven’t cooked it for you yet.”
He rubbed his belly but decided he wanted to have some fun with her since he hadn’t heard a little Irish rant in a few days. “Hm. Is it as good as your mom’s? Because she made the best Irish stew I’ve ever eaten.” He shook his head, watching the pink creep up her face. “No, I can’t believe anyone could cook it that well.”
For a moment, he wondered if he’d gone too far and insulted her, without her realizing he was joking. Before he could make that point clear, she turned the spoon on him and began to rant. Mostly in English, but some Irish and Gaelic slipped in.
His grin spread across his face, and his heart lightened. She was magnificent in beauty and spirit. He drank in everything about her.
She spoke rapidly, and he couldn’t keep up. He translated some of her Gaelic, although he wished he hadn’t been able to. “Ungrateful.” “Rat’s ass.” He hoped that meant she didn’t give a rat’s ass versus calling him that. “Poison.” That one made him a little nervous. He had to put an end to her tirade, but when he raised his hand to stop her, she just spoke faster, and her accent thickened, ending his ability to understand her words.
Ignoring her verbal assault, that he’d thought would’ve been joking back and forth, he stood, took the few steps to the refrigerator, and opened it. Like nothing was amiss, he asked, “Want something while I’m pouring?”
She stopped speaking as if just realizing he’d left the seat. When she didn’t answer immediately, he looked at her beyond the open refrigerator door and quirked an eyebrow in question. She glared at him with her hand on one hip and the spoon still pointing at him. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? You, you—”
“Rat’s ass?” he finished for her and laughed until he saw her fighting a smile.
Her embarrassment was even more attractive than her raging.
He chuckled and winked at her. “I’m having sweet tea. Want some?”
Controlled, she turned back to the stove and stirred the meat. “Is that all they drink where you grew up in Georgia?”
“Hell, yeah,” he replied without a thought. “Want some?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’d like a glass of wine.”
“Red or white?”
Her incredulous look made him want to laugh also. As he thought about it, since she’d moved in, he’d laughed more than he had in as long as he could remember. All he did was work and hang out with other agents. He’d avoided women because he tended to find the ones he couldn’t connect with and ones who became needy.
Bringing himself out of that morose thought, he wondered if she’d answered more than once. “Red, we’re having meat.”
Stupid statement, he also knew she’d stocked up with Irish wines. Every time they’d entered the Irish pub, Sláinte, he caught some silent communication with her and the owner. Not only had the man put her in contact with a store that carried fine Irish wines, but, because the owner referred her, her wine was delivered.
Danny knew she visited the bar when he’d had meetings and training. Having her country’s music, food, and togetherness seemed to help her acclimate. She’d kept to the area and didn’t balk at his security restrictions. They had no direct threat, but he’d purposefully omitted telling her about the men he’d hired to watch her, so she could feel independent but remain safe.
While the meal finished cooking, he pulled out his laptop and sat on the couch. It’d been a few days since he’d chatted with Justin. According to Justin, Boyle bought the fake deaths. The man hadn’t even choked up over his own daughter’s death. A daughter he’d loved until he found out she was in love with a police officer.
In an effort to keep in touch, he and Justin had set up secure email. It wouldn’t be instant communication, but it’d be something to keep each other updated. When he logged in, nothing new appeared. Danny silently swore. They had a schedule, and Justin had missed his update. Either Justin worried someone would trace their communication, or he— Danny swallowed that thought. If Justin had been questioned, tortured, or worse, he wouldn’t be able to warn Moira or Declan.
Danny kept his hope that nothing had changed with Boyle’s thoughts, but he still felt better keeping a small security detail on her.
Before he logged out, a new message appeared from Justin. Shouldn’t he be sleeping? Danny glanced at his watch, figured the time difference and worried.
Don’t forget to water the roses for me.
In a reply to the email, he typed, Should I add fertilizer?
The quick reply put him at ease—a little. No. I think they’re fine without it.
With the conversation over, Danny deleted the message and double deleted it how Devon had shown him to make sure it couldn’t easily be retrieved.
The aroma coming from the kitchen made his stomach growl as he finished shutting everything down. From his position, he watched her as she pulled out the bread, which made his mouth water. Maybe it was her bending over the stove, that—
He shouldn’t go there. The good news was, according to his brother, there was no word of Boyle suspecting Moira or her brother were still alive. Technically, they were safe. He’d still contact the DEA agent in Ireland. Maybe he could pull some information that Justin couldn’t share, due to communication limitations.
After putting away his laptop, he joined her in the open kitchen-dining area for supper. She’d allowed him to set the table, which made him feel like less of a dud making her cook in his house. It’d been an agreed-upon pattern, but sitting while someone cooked for him was hard. As he imagined it was for her also, especially in a strange house.
Through an excellent supper, he told stories of his teammates and they laughed at the antics of the crew. She looked remarkably enticing, even though he doubted she’d tried. She had that natural beauty appeal down pat.
It’d been tough keeping his growing feelings at bay. The draw to her had begun when he’d spotted her stepping out of the plane. After spending time with her, the more he’d learned about her, the deeper his cravings. It’d also told him that he needed time away from her for all the reasons he’d stated, plus the fact she was taken and didn’t give him the impression she reciprocated his feelings. Abruptly, he stood and tossed his napkin to the table. “I’ll help clean up.”
She looked at him funny
. “Fine,” she agreed softly.
Together, they cleared the table and handwashed the dishes after a fight over who washed and dried. He rarely used his dishwasher as it took too many days to fill.
“You can dry,” she said. “Because your dishes aren’t clean enough when you wash.”
With a hand to his heart and a step back in feigned horror, he didn’t agree, but it didn’t matter. They’d get clean either way.
“I made some friends at the gallery down the street.” She handed him a white plate. He wasn’t very creative with his decor. Maybe she could help him spruce the place up some. He’d love her hand in making his house a home.
Wiping the plate, he nodded. “Wait. You what? When was this?” He hadn’t received that in a report from his men.
“Laura and Luke.”
His hand tightened on the next plate she’d handed him. Luke? “Are they a couple or something?” Please say yes, he thought, because he didn’t wear jealousy well.
With a swift shake of her head, she said, “Nay.”
Before he could probe more, they turned toward each other and Moira’s momentum brought her into his chest with her hands between them. Instantly, he grabbed the sides of her waist to steady her.
Fuck me. His breath caught and his heart squeezed as he held her against him. Gazing down into her bright eyes and watching them slowly darken sent heat south, tightening his jeans. All he wanted to do was take her into his arms and carry her to bed. He almost felt done in when she licked her lips. As if not in control, he dipped his head to kiss the ever-loving hell of her, but he came to a screeching halt. He couldn’t kiss his brother’s girl. But— “I want to kiss you so bad it hurts.”
Her delayed answer began to shatter the moment. He released his tight hold on her, so she could step back if she wished. But he didn’t remove his hands. “I… um… I’m not sure—” Disappointment shined in her eyes when he pulled back and dropped his hands. The heat from her body and touch evaporated, making him want to grab her back.
It was possible they should’ve had this conversation earlier, but it was always an awkward conversation to have. Surprising her by taking her hand, he led her to the table and guided her to a chair beside him.
The jumbled thoughts in his head chose their own path to his mouth, ignoring his honor and integrity. “Moira, there’s heat between us. I can’t hide anymore that I want you in my bed. But I know you’re not here by choice.”
“I um—”
Reaching out with his free hand, he placed two fingers over her lips. “It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything. I won’t push. Now—” He sighed and dropped his hand from her mouth. “—if Justin takes out Boyle, are you going back to Ireland?”
While she looked at him a bit strangely, she nodded. “Of course. It’s my home.”
“Have you ever considered remaining in the States? I mean, you can stay here as long as you’d like.”
“I’d like to visit from time to time. I do love it here.” While the joy in her eyes evaporated, she continued, “You should come visit me once I’m set back up.” A cute blush filled her cheeks, and she lowered a head a tad. “I only have a one-bedroom flat, so you’d have to stay with Declan—if he returns—or in a hotel.”
Undaunted by her not inviting him to stay with her, he wouldn’t give up getting her to stay. With his hand still in hers, he asked, “What if you found a boyfriend or fell in love? Would you stay then?” Before he said the last word, he wondered if he’d overplayed his hand. Although, he really didn’t have a good hand to play.
She jerked her hand from his. “Danny, what’s this all about?”
He dropped his brows as his spirit sank at the concern in her voice. No, her tone held more anger and frustration than anything else. Not ready to admit his feelings without speaking with his brother, he decided it best to drop the subject for now. “Nothing.”
“Is that all? I’d like to make some plans with my friends for tomorrow. Low key. I promise.” Her statement told him the conversation about them had abruptly ended even though it’d never really started. He’d screwed up and lost all chance of turning their conversation into a fun, personal chat to continue getting to know each other better. Oh, and winning her over.
Surprised, he responded, “Sure.”
Once she left the dining room, he dropped his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table. He wanted to continue to be her friend, more than anything else, so he wracked his brain on how he could keep his lower brain from making the decisions.
Only one thing would do that.
Chapter Eleven
“I don’t like this, Franks,” Cowboy said quietly through the comms.
Neither did Danny. It was too quiet. The intel they’d received on this government-sanctioned op sucked monkey balls. Arthur Hall, FBI Deputy Director, and HIS worked together on many ops. Danny Franks never asked why. He did what needed to be done.
This was supposed to be an easy snatch and grab job. Not even snatch. Someone brought the boy to them. Easy for the four of them. Not breaking their arms to pat themselves on their backs, but he, Cowboy, Doc, and Stone knew how to win. This time, something wasn’t right. The air reeked of it. The heavy pressure of getting the boy and team to safety rested on his chest, making each breath painful.
Why the agency—any of them—had farmed this out should’ve set alarm bells ringing in his head when they had off-the-books black ops that could be done with their hands tied behind their backs. Uncle Sam was, at least, providing air transport out of here.
Reaching down beside him, he checked the little boy’s pulse for about the hundredth time. Doc said he’d sleep until they got him nearly home, and that worked for Danny since he’d yet to hear their ride approach.
When the men returned from patrol, he’d find out what disturbed him about this op. “We’ll be fine.” Together, they’d always find a way.
Stone reported in first from his recon of the area behind the structure. “I’d say we’re going to be rockin’ more than we thought.”
“If I didn’t say it before, thanks for joining the party, Stone.” Without him, they’d been benched for this op, and as much as he liked being around Moira, this kid needed them.
Cowboy didn’t wait a beat before he got in some good-natured jesting. “After riding that desk, did you put on your big boy pants to enter our playground?”
Doc reported in, breaking off anything Stone said in retort. “They’ve got a fucking army arriving.”
Shit. How did their contact not tell them that? Dammit, they were a quarter mile away from their extraction point and were nearly boxed in. Why not protect the boy in the first place, instead of bringing in the troops to take him back?
Danny grabbed the bill of his camo cap, yanked it off, then shoved it back on his head. His mind spun fast through idea after idea. No one said it, but they should’ve heard the helo by now, which meant they had to fight their way to a secure location and wait for backup transport. He’d be kicking Arthur in the ass for leaving them like this with an innocent child under their protection.
If HIS had their own helo, he could’ve flown them in and out. No waiting. Wait, did he say he’d fly it? Impossible.
“I found one gap in their coverage,” Doc stated, “but I can’t guarantee it still holds.”
“Ditto,” Stone added.
Danny’s gut churned. The leader in him screamed setup. Their target knew this team would be there. Arthur had a leak because Danny knew HIS didn’t. Shit, it could’ve been a leak elsewhere since the troops were trucked in. Until Arthur found the traitor, Danny would remain wary.
His blood pulsed with a surge of adrenaline in a prepared-to-fight mode, but he wanted the team to be on the same sheet of music. “How many tangos behind us and how large were the gaps?” he asked in a take-charge voice. “Enough for us to slip through?”
<
br /> Doc answered first. “Roger.”
“Negative,” Stone said in a clipped voice.
“Doc?” he prompted.
“Twenty. Ten each side. Either leaving the exit open for us to walk into their trap or closing in on us.”
Definite setup. He hated making the hard decision, but he had to so they could run a successful op. “Well, boys and girls—” Danny started.
“There ain’t no fucking girls on our team anymore,” Cowboy corrected him.
“I don’t know, Cowboy,” Stone taunted, “you seem to get your panties in a wad quite often.”
Too worried about them getting out of here to their extraction point, their friendly banter slid over him, but having it was normal until go-time. “Okay, boys—and I use that word lightly—I’m not saying anything you’re not thinking. This reeks setup. First, our ride isn’t on time, and the enemy provides a perfect path back to them? Only an idiot wouldn’t catch that. Standby.”
Slipping his backpack to the ground, he slid the zipper, greased, so it wouldn’t make a sound, opened, pulled out the sat phone, and dialed the op line. As expected, the answer came before the first ring ended.
“Go,” AJ Hamilton—youngest Hamilton brother—clipped.
“We don’t have a bird or much time,” Danny stated briskly.
“What do you mean?”
AJ’s muffled voice called for Devon to the phone while using another to call about the transport. When would AJ learn to completely cover the mouthpiece when expecting it to mute? Danny shook his head at that.
A second click on the phone line told him Devon—who a few sometimes referred to as Big Voice—had joined the call. Good. He wouldn’t have to repeat anything and Devon would be working that computer of his.
“We’re boxed in.” The rapidly coiling tension in his gut nearly paralyzed him. He’d led his men into a death, capture, or torture situation unless they got the bird where they had a smaller gunfight to make their exit.
When they’d seen two guards roaming the area, they were too far away to waste ammo. On their planned route, they found a location to dig in and wait. He didn’t like being so close to a drop-off on the one side because they could get pinned down if things didn’t go as planned.
