by Jane Henry
“McCarthy.”
Awareness dawns. I know the oily voice behind me. It’s one memory I wish I didn’t have. I turn. Another memory triggers.
My brother. I have a brother. Blaine. His name is Blaine, and I hate him.
“Martin.” Cormac nods. The tension in the little shop visibly heightens. He doesn’t even look at me, but I know him. Visceral hatred boils in my stomach, making me nauseous like I was before. He’s cruel and vicious. He’s hurt me before, I know he has. He doesn’t even look my way, but I stare at him. He looks bloody awful, his eyes sunken, his nose damp and reddened.
Cormac turns back to me as if my brother’s of no consequence. “You ready to go to the shops?”
“Running, then,” my brother says in a near whisper. That gets Cormac’s attention.
“Cormac, no,” I whisper, when he gets to his feet and draws himself to his full height. He’s massively huge, much larger than my brother, and I have to admit it pleases me to see the wide-eyed fear that suddenly takes hold with my brother, the way he cowers and takes a step back. He’s a weasel that’s poked a lion.
Cormac stares my brother down, then walks to the counter in front of my brother. “Bag to go, will you?”
“Certainly,” Isobel says. She looks nervously to Cormac. “Please, keep it civil, son,” she whispers.
He nods. She hands him a paper sack and shoots daggers at Blaine. Cormac walks past my brother, ignoring him. I decide I’ll do the same.
“We can take the rest with us.”
“I’ll take the shortbread in my hand,” I say, rescuing it from the tray before he piles them in the bag. He grins.
We leave the shop without saying another word to my brother. I happily munch the shortbread. It’s rich, mildly sweet, and delicious. Blaine won’t hurt me anymore, not when the McCarthys are at my back.
“He’s afraid of you,” I say in a singsong voice, not even bothering to hide how this pleases me.
“Aye. He ought to be. Busted his arse a week or so ago.”
“Would’ve paid to see that.”
He laughs out loud. “I think you might’ve said the same when it happened. You remember, then.”
“That my brother’s a prick?” I sigh. “Aye.”
He nods and smiles ruefully. “We’ll have to make sure some of the memories you have are better.”
I think for a moment before I reply. We’re walking down the street toward a shimmering assortment of brightly-lit shops down the road. It feels so good to be out, in the sun, a light breeze stirring my hair and making me draw nearer to my husband.
“It would be nice if you could do that,” I tell him. “Though I’m beginning to wonder how many I have?”
“Nice memories?”
“Aye.”
He doesn’t respond at first, but gives my hand a little squeeze. “We can remedy that.”
We shop the rest of the afternoon, even though it looks as if it’s almost physically painful for Cormac to endure. The third hour in, he’s holding bags of things. Shoes and new knickers, a pretty little jumper, and a few wee things for baby Seamus.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ve had quite enough of this now.”
“Just one more place, the little—”
“No.”
I sigh, but I’m not really disappointed. I was only teasing him.
“Dinner,” he says stoutly.
“Dinner,” I repeat. A fair compromise.
“Italian?”
“Mmmm.”
We get a table at D’Agostino’s, and I feel a little underdressed. No, I feel a lot underdressed. The people around us wear cocktail dresses and suits, and I’m still just wearing my jeans and a top.
“Okay, this isn’t good,” I tell him with a frown. “I’ll be right back.”
I take one of my bags, go into the restroom, and emerge a few minutes later wearing a new dress and shoes. He blinks, and the corners of his lips quirk up.
“Did you just get changed in the jacks?”
“Aye,” I say, picking up the menu.
He doesn’t say anything at first, then just smiles and shakes his head.
“You’re something else, Aileen McCarthy.”
“Thank you?”
He snorts. “You’re welcome.”
We eat the calamari he raves about, though I happily give him the tentacles and stick to the little rings, thank you very much. I dig into a large platter of ravioli we share with delicious, fragrant pasta sauce swimming with garlic and herbs. We dip bread in fine olive oil and sip glasses of wine.
“This is so decadent and delicious,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
He’s pleased, I can tell by the way he smiles at me.
“As I said…”
“I can thank you at home,” I say, warming up to the idea on my second glass of wine.
He winks. “Aye, lass.”
He tells me of his childhood, regaling all sorts of humorous stories until I’m snorting with laughter. Seems he and his brothers got into all sorts of mischief. I wish I could tell him stories of my own, but I have so few.
I think to myself, as I listen to him speak, his hands gesturing as he talks of many things, watching his eyes light up and his deep, rumble of a voice… I could love this man. I could.
We walk back to the mansion, hand in hand, as the sun sets in the distance.
“What a lovely date that was, Cormac McCarthy,” I say, as we walk up the steps to the house. “I enjoyed myself immensely.”
He pauses on the front steps, leans down, and cups my jaw. I know then that he’s going to kiss me like this, right here, right now, bathed in the magical glow of moonlight like teenagers on a first date. And I know then that I want him to, that I’m falling in love with this man. My heart flutters, and he draws me closer, his warm, strong hand on my jaw. I close my eyes, as his mouth meets mine. I sigh into his mouth, inhaling his masculine scent, reveling in the strength of his touch, moaning when his tongue explores my mouth.
“Ahem.” Someone clears his throat.
I jump, and Cormac growls, before we even see who it is. It’s Nolan, standing against the top rail of the stairs on the little porch entrance, plumes of smoke rising upward from his cigar.
“Did you break curfew, son?” he asks, wagging his cigar at us.
“Shut it,” Cormac says through tight lips, uttering a litany of profanity. I stifle a giggle.
“Told you to be sure you had her home before—” but he pauses, tipping his head to the side and looking out toward the garden. I follow his gaze, but see nothing. The teasing, playful look on his face vanishes in an instant. With a curse, he throws his cigar down, grinds it out with his heel, and takes off down the steps. We stand to the side to let him pass.
“Son of a bitch,” Cormac mutters. He snaps his fingers, and it’s as if the guard emerges from the shadows. How do they do that? Two large, uniformed men with comms in their ears approach us. I don’t need to see the weapons they carry. Though they’re concealed, I know they’re heavily armed.
Is this to be my life, then?
Caitlin and Maeve accept it. Can I?
“Take her to my room,” he orders.
I don’t question it. My heart dances in my chest when two of his men flank my sides and escort me upstairs. He chases after his brother.
And as I sit in the room, memory after memory surfaces. I didn’t have a guard, not like this. I had one guy who used me, and he’s paid the price for that. I had no friends. No fellowship like they have in this clan. People hated my mother, but in this family, they love Maeve, our matriarch. Will I find that I belong here better than I did at home? Or will I remember things that taint this place, too?
I sit by the window in our room, looking out at the darkness below. Will it always be like this? Normalcy interrupted with the duties of The Clan? Will I ever feel at home?
Chapter 13
Cormac
Once Aileen is secured and I know she’s in good hands, I take off after Nolan. His blond
hair glints in the moonlight, and it’s the only way I know where the hell he’s going. He’s faster than I am.
“Nolan!”
He doesn’t respond, but I can hear him racing ahead of me, and another set of footsteps in front of him. Who the hell did he see? He shouts something, there’s a crash, then a decidedly feminine scream. I almost trip on a tangle of limbs.
I stop short in surprise. Nolan’s got someone in his grasp, but I can’t see a damn thing. I pull out my phone and slide the flashlight on. The beam falls on Nolan wrestling a disheveled, furious redhead.
“Get it outta my fuckin’ eye,” Nolan growls at me. I swing the beam away so it doesn’t blind him. If it were a man he held, he’d subdue him in no time, but he won’t use his fists or vicious force on a woman.
“You need help?” I ask, standing to the side.
“No,” he snaps. “I’ve got this one.”
“Let me go, or I’ll call the police!” she howls, wriggling fruitlessly in his grasp. “I’ll scream!”
He gets to his feet, and holds the woman to his chest, his arms like a straightjacket around her.
“Go ahead,” he says with nonchalance. “Explain to the police how you trespassed on my property, will you?’
She huffs out in indignation.
“I’ll tell them how you abused me!”
“Abused you?” he says, with the bored drawl of someone waking from a nap. “Go ahead, lass. I’ve got my brother as witness.”
“I’ll—I’ll—”
“Make another threat and leave here with your knickers around yer ankles and yer ass reddened? Aye.”
“How dare you threaten me!”
“You’re the one issuing threats, doll,” he says evenly. “I’m only tellin’ you how this’ll go.”
He’s walking her back toward the house. Dragging her, more like. I keep the light trained on the ground in front of him.
“You want me to call in anyone at all? Keenan?”
“Oh, no,” Nolan says, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s taking immense pleasure in overpowering the woman. “I’ll see to her on my own, and will fill you in in the morning. You’ve a wife to see to, Keenan’s got his own family. Little miss nosy and I will have a bit of a chat then she’ll be on her way.”
“We will not,” she says.
“Aye,” he says cheerfully. “But we will.”
It finally dawns on me who she could be, the reporter he mentioned to Keenan that night in the club. “She the reporter?”
“Oh, aye,” Nolan says when we reach the steps.
“Just doing my job,” she says to me. “Tell him to let me go.”
“Ah, no. Sorry ‘bout that,” I say. “Can’t do that.”
I can’t see her in the poor light, save the masses of red hair.
“Aye, lass,” he says. “And I’m just doing mine.”
I open the front door and he drags her in. Several uniformed servants stand nearby, but no one even looks their way. They’re used to us bringing folks in, and they’re paid well to mind their own business.
“Night, then, Nolan,” I say, and head for the stairs.
“Night, brother.”
Aileen’s waiting for me upstairs. I hope I have nothing else that draws my attention tonight. Nolan will sort out the spy we’ve got downstairs, and the few jobs I’ve got to do can wait until the morning.
Eagerness gathers low in my belly. I enjoyed the hell out of Aileen tonight. I intend on enjoying her even more later.
When I get to the room, I’m pleased to see my guard’s waiting beside the door.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “The lass is safe inside, then?”
“Yes, sir,” they say in unison.
“Good job. Everything’s fine. We had a spy, but Nolan’s got it under control.”
I open the door and leave them there. They’ll stay the night and a new guard will come in the morning. I close the door behind me and listen for Aileen, but hear nothing. I kick off my shoes and walk into the bedroom. She’s lying on the bed, a book in hand that’s fallen to the side, forgotten. She falls asleep so easily, living life at full throttle, until she collapses in exhaustion. Her eyes are closed, her mouth hanging open. Christ, she’s pretty as a picture, wearing the dress we bought only today that she changed into at the restaurant. Her shoes are kicked to the side, her hair hanging about her in golden waves.
I take the book out of her hand and lay it on the bedside table, and she wakes with a start.
“Did I doze off?” she asks in bleary-eyed confusion.
“Aye.” I sit her up to help her undress, and she doesn’t protest.
She yawns widely. “I’m so… so tired.”
“Must’ve been the wine?”
“You think? Seems it’s knocked me on me arse.”
I can’t help but smile at that. I love how unpretentious she is. What you see is what you get. I tug down her zipper, and she shrugs out of the top of the dress.
“Lay back,” I tell her. “I’ll help y’out of it.”
“Course you will,” she says coyly. “Isn’t that what you do best?”
“Christ, I hope so.”
She giggles and obeys, lying back and letting me shimmy the dress down her body. I stifle a groan when she’s undressed. She wears a delicate, silky pink bra and matching knickers that dip low below her navel, just a wee scrap of a thing. She yawns and stretches her arms up over her head.
“Aren’t you a sight,” I murmur to myself. “Goddamn, woman.”
“What?” she says. I fold her dress and place it on the bedside table, then kneel one knee beside her. I trace the delicate curve of her breast, just under the lacy bits. She bites her lip and watches me, her breath hitching when I slide my finger to the edge of her bra.
“You’re absolutely gorgeous,” I tell her.
“Curvy,” she says with disdain.
“I fucking love those curves. I’ll kiss every one of them and give thanks to the gods.”
“Do it,” she whispers with a grin. Her eyes twinkle at me as she bites her lip.
A challenge.
I lift her back and unfasten her bra. The fabric gives way and her breasts swing free. I groan and swallow.
“So fuckin’ gorgeous.”
I toss the bra up with her dress, then return to her. Kneeling on either side of her, I take hold of her knickers and drag them down over her hips. She lifts up to help me, watching as the thin fabric glides over and down her hips, her thighs, past her knees, then down to her ankles. I tug them off and fold them with her other clothes.
“You’re still fully dressed,” she says with a coy smile. “However will we do what we came here for like that?”
“Quite true,” I say with mock seriousness. “Why don’t you help me with that?”
She trembles a bit when she reaches for me, her voice low and husky when she responds. Christ, but the woman’s as attracted to me as I am to her. “Happily.”
She reaches for my collar and unfastens the button. One. Then two. Three, four fall away. I can feel the heat of her hand just inches from my chest. My cock strains against my trousers.
When she reaches my lower abdomen, she takes her time unfastening the buttons, gliding one hand past the shirt to my undershirt. Her hands span my waist, and her eyes meet mine.
“Whatever you do,” she whispers. “To keep your body looking like that? Keep doing it.”
“Aye,” I say, amused. “You have my word.”
She tugs first one shirt sleeve, then the other. I’m bathed in her soft, feminine scent, her gentle touch, the way her eyes meet mine in unadulterated lust. My shirt falls to the floor. She tugs the hem of my t-shirt from my trousers, then tugs that off as well.
“God, Cormac,” she breathes. “You’re bloody hot.”
She gets a kiss for that, a chaste brush of lips to cheek. She sighs when I pull away.
Next, she reaches for my belt buckle, unfastens it and pulls it through the loops. That falls to th
e floor, then she fumbles with my zipper. My cocks strains against the fabric when her hands reach my waist, her warm touch making me long for more.
Soon, we’re both naked. My cock throbs, and the sweet, seductive scent of her arousal spurs me on. I lay on the bed beside her and draw her onto my chest. She hitches one knee up over my body, and drapes her arm over my chest.
“Come here,” I whisper.
“Is this when you kiss me?”
“Aye,” I say on a growl. I lift her and arrange her so that she’s straddling me, then draw her closer with my hand on her lower back, bringing my mouth to her shoulder, and kiss her lush, velvety skin. She braces herself on my shoulders as I kiss lower, to the swell of her breasts.
“Gorgeous,” I whisper. “And all mine.”
I can tell she likes that, by the way she grinds herself against me and her eyelids flutter. I kiss each beautiful curve of her breast, then drag my tongue across her nipples on my way to her other shoulder. Kissing, licking, worshipping.
“Cormac,” she moans. “Oh, God, don’t stop.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve hardly begun.”
I roll her over onto her back and grasp her wrists in my hand, holding her in place while I continue my adoration of the curves, valleys, and slopes of her body. I kiss and lick my way down her chest to her belly, holding her in place. I love the way she squirms and moans when I kiss her nipple, lick her belly, trail my tongue down the fine line of hair that leads to her bare, shaved pussy.
I kiss the warm, damp place where her thighs meet until she pitches off into a pleased moan.
“Cormac, please,” she whispers. “I want more. I want you.”
I position myself above her and grind my hips against hers. The flush of her cheek and soft, labored breathing make me hard as hell.
I kiss her cheek. “Mine,” I growl.
She tips her head to the side, and I kiss her neck. “Mine.”
She pushes her wrists against my hold but I hold fast, bringing my lips to the valley between her breasts. “Mine.”
I kiss the length of her body, down her full, vivacious curves until I get to the apex of her thighs. I kiss her bare pussy. “Mine.”
“Yours,” she breathes. “Yes.”
She’s drunk on sex and arousal, and hell if that doesn’t make me even harder.
