Black Irish

by Tricia Andersen

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” She flew from the room and down the corridor.

  »»•««

  Sloan watched from a distance as Aubrey fought to keep Abbey from dashing away, a frightened doe in the terrifying forest named New York. Apparently, up to this point, the vicious predators of the city hadn’t sent her fleeing home.

  Until he entered her world, obviously.

  Sloan had to admit something about her alarmed him too. He knew many women and had been with many. At one time it had been a different one every few nights for months. But none of them like her. Innocent. Naïve. True. Or so she seemed at first glance.

  He couldn’t pull away from her wide-eyed hazel gaze. He wanted to free her shining brown tresses from her ponytail and bury his fingers in the locks. He wanted to taste her plump rose-colored lips. He wanted to caress her curves, feel her warmth.

  Sloan could hear Abbey beg for another illustrator. He heard Aubrey counter that there was none better. He was part of the deal, or there was no deal. She was ready to walk away from a contract potentially worth millions over a fear of him.

  He wouldn’t let her do that. He wouldn’t let her leave his life before she ever became a part of it.

  Slowly approaching the two women at the end of the hall, Sloan asked, “Aubrey, can I have a moment please? Let us talk it out and see if we can come to an agreement.”

  Aubrey looked uneasily from him to Abbey then nodded. “Sure.”

  Sloan waited for Aubrey to return to the conference room. He shot a warning glare at the associates who had gathered to watch the scene unfold before turning his attention back to Abbey.

  “What’s the matter, miss?” Sloan took Abbey’s hands in his as he smiled encouragingly.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re very talented. But I don’t think I would be comfortable working with you,” she confessed.

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know.” He watched her gaze wander across him. He could have sworn he saw her shudder. “This whole thing is overwhelming. I don’t think it’s for me.”

  “You won’t know unless you try.”

  Abbey’s voice came out a soft moan. “I would certainly like to try.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry to waste your time, Mr. O’Riley.”

  Sloan caught her hand in his before she could escape. “Then don’t waste my time.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Give me a legitimate reason why.”

  Abbey’s mouth opened in protest then snapped shut. Finally she huffed. “I don’t need to.”

  “I believe you do. If you leave, I lose fifty thousand dollars. So I think you owe me fifty thousand reasons.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  “Reason one. You’re an ass.”

  Sloan chuckled. It helped hide the burning lust building in his core. “You’ve got quite a mouth, lass.”

  “I’m just getting started.”

  “Does your man approve of such language?”

  “My boyfriend…” Her words trailed off as her eyes grew wide. She ripped her hand from his grip as she looked away.

  Ah. There it is. I hit the nerve. A boyfriend. Sloan silently berated himself. He should’ve known a woman so beautiful would have already given her heart to someone. He couldn’t, however, allow her to get away so quickly. He was almost willing to surrender to her naïve beauty alone. But after this hellion laid into him he wasn’t about to let her go.

  Thinking quickly, Sloan pressed one of her hands to his lips. “No worries, luv. I’m no threat to you or this boyfriend of yours.”

  He could hear her voice quake. “I never said you were a threat.”

  “Then there isn’t a reason for you to go.”

  Abbey paused. “Why exactly aren’t you a threat to us?”

  He smirked. “I’m gay.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, Abbey. Gay. You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

  “Is this all worth walking away from your dream?”

  Abbey stared at him. A smile spread across her face. “No. Of course not.”

  “So you will stay and undertake this project with me?”

  “I would love to.”

  “Then let’s go sign the contracts and get started.” Sloan motioned for her to precede him back to the conference room. He watched her walk before him, his gaze transfixed on her hips, her slim waist, and her luscious curves. So she believes I’m gay. I’ll go with it to keep her here. A little white lie. She’ll never know. At least not until I’m ready for her. And when that time comes, she’ll be mine.

  Hours had passed since the meeting at Panda Publications had come to a close and Sloan had said his farewells. The first thing he did once he stepped foot in his penthouse was pour himself a large tumbler of whiskey. He leaned his elbows on his knees as he sat on the ottoman of a lounge chair. Rolling the glass between his palms, he stared into the amber liquid pensively.

  The clearing of a throat turned his attention away from his drink. “Penny for your thoughts?” Robert leaned back on the couch, watching Sloan intently. Robert was a massive man—six and a half feet of pure muscle. He ran his hand across his shaven head and then rubbed his goatee. His tailored suit and paisley tie barely muted his intimidating presence.

  “Signed my contract with Panda today.”

  “And? It’s not your first one. Hell, you don’t even make decent money with that, compared to your art. How much did you sign for?”

  “Fifty thousand advance against royalties for five books.”

  “Quite a bit of work. And the author? Is she some elderly schoolteacher from Nebraska? Just like last time?”

  Sloan set his glass on the end table. “No. Young woman from Iowa. English degree from a college in her hometown. Smart, timid, gracious, funny. Eyes sparkle when she laughs.” He raked strong fingers through his rumpled, black locks.

  Robert sat forward, chuckling. “Son of a bitch. You can’t tell me a wee woman has gotten the best of the legendary Sloan O’Riley?”

  “Shut up, Robert.”

  Robert shook his head, amused. “She must be something.”

  Sloan sighed. “She has a boyfriend back home.”

  “Oh. Rough. She confessed that at your first meeting?”

  “She nearly walked away from fifty thousand dollars because of him. Because of me. Because she thought of me as a threat to their relationship.”

  Robert chuckled again. “She’s a smart girl. How’d you convince her to stay?”

  Sloan exhaled slowly. “I told her I was gay.”

  “How the devil do you plan to pull that off?”

  Sloan raised his gaze to meet Robert’s. It took a moment for the other man to realize its meaning. “Hell, no. Bloody hell, no. I will not play your lover!”

  “How many times have I had your back in a fight? How many women have I sent your way?”

  “Not enough to say I’m your lover.”

  Sloan stared at him in stone cold silence.

  “Hell, no. I’m proudly heterosexual.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then why, of all the things you could have told her, did you tell her you’re gay?” Robert demanded incredulously.

  “I couldn’t have her leave.”

  “I would’ve given you the fifty thousand.”

  “I don’t need the money.”

  “Then why?”

  Sloan sighed. “There’s something about her. The moment I looked into her eyes, I knew. There’s something about her.”

  Robert watched his friend closely. Sloan could almost hear his thoughts. Robert knew Sloan wasn’t a homebody. And Sloan had no trouble attracting women—beautiful ones at that. Robert had to know that for Sloan to create such an outrageous lie and coerce him into the venture, that it was important. No woman had this sort of effect on Sloan. Ever.

  Finally, Robert sighed. “All
right. I’ll do it. But absolutely no displays of affection. You’re an attractive man, but in no way do I want to kiss you.”

  “Agreed. I agree most emphatically.”

  Chapter Three

  Abbey balanced her coffee cup, laptop bag, purse, cell phone, and a half dozen other objects as she maneuvered through the crowds on the busy streets of Manhattan. She carefully tilted her arm up to take a sip of her hot beverage, a double shot white chocolate mocha. After wiring her advance from Panda to her bank in Mount Vernon, she could certainly afford a luxury or two. Or ten.

  For the first time since leaving her hotel, her phone was silent. One call had been her mom just checking in. I miss her.

  The next half-dozen calls were from Michael. She made the mistake of telling him where she planned to spend her afternoon. Michael was furious. He raged. He threatened. He accused her of cheating on him despite her assurances that Sloan was gay.

  However, he became strangely complacent when she explained she would have to forfeit her advance if she didn’t work with Sloan. It baffled her. Fifty thousand dollars was quite a bit of money. She understood that. But if anything it was a decent down payment on a house. Michael acted as if she had won the lottery.

  Abbey stopped at the DON’T WALK sign and sighed deeply. She loved Michael. She really did. But there was something about him, something she couldn’t put her finger on, something she couldn’t trust. It made her apprehensive.

  Michael and his friends went out almost every night with a posse of girls dying to sleep with them. He never invited her along. Most of the time, he never mentioned it until it was too late.

  But then, when the night was over, he wanted her—naked and in his bed. The answer always ended up being no. She could never understand how a night of drinking with the guys got him that hot and bothered for her. At the beginning of the relationship Abbey was ready to go. She dressed in lingerie that first night together. But when she got a whiff of cheap perfume on his skin in places it didn’t belong, she dumped him and stormed out. A couple of weeks later, a cute guy from work named Sam asked her out. The first date went well. Almost too well. She ended up back at Sam’s place in only her bra and panties. Sam would have been her first had the phantom voice of her mother nagging that only hussies gave it up on the first date not constantly rang in her head the whole time. She couldn’t believe how incredible he had been about it. Before the good night kiss, they planned their second date including breakfast the next morning once they crawled out of bed.

  The next Monday, Sam was sporting a black eye and a split lip and he avoided her like the plague. She heard someone say that all four of his tires were slashed that weekend. He broke off their date by text message. Abbey responded that she understood. She didn’t have to ask who hurt him. She had seen Michael and his short temper in action before.

  That next weekend Michael appeared on her doorstep with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He begged, he pleaded, he acted like a perfect gentleman. Like an admitted idiot she took him back. He took her to dinner and the movies. They went for long rides on his motorcycle. If he did go out with the guys it was only for an hour or two. Most nights he ended up at her place to watch television while she read. He was suddenly fascinated with the place and methodically fantasized where his things would go. He also asked when her mom would retire. When Abbey asked why he cared he just brushed it off as curiosity.

  The crowd that had gathered around her shoved, bringing her out of her thoughts. She shuffled with the herd across the street.

  Abbey journeyed past the delis, boutiques, and other shops, gazing in bewilderment at the towering skyscrapers—and accidentally ran into a randomly placed trashcan. With a sigh, she threw her empty cup away.

  At the end of the block, a steel and glass behemoth waited for her. Beneath a small canopy, well out of proportion with the rest of the building, stood a tall, well-built man who appeared to be about the same age as her. With his immaculate black suit, crisp pressed white shirt, and black tie, he looked more as if he belonged in security detail than as a doorman for a residential building.

  She glanced at the number emblazoned on the awning and then timidly approached him. “Sir, I am looking for Sloan O’ Riley.”

  The man gave an indifferent snort.

  “I was given this address. Does he live here?”

  “Yes. But he doesn’t accept visitors.” Eying her from head to toe, the attendant huffed.

  “But he asked me to come here.”

  The doorman snorted another chuckle. Abbey stared at him in dismay. She had an appointment with Sloan to work on their book. Why won’t this oaf let me into the building to meet him?

  “Bartholomew,” a familiar Irish lilt spoke. She spun around.

  Sloan had just exited a black Hummer, its rear windows tinted smoky charcoal to prevent the average person from peering inside. He stepped up onto the curb, his Gucci T-shirt stretched tight against his sculpted chest. Snug, low-slung jeans partially hid soft black boots. His wavy ebony hair glistened in the early afternoon sun. Abbey stifled a moan. Sloan’s a walking fantasy.

  The driver came around the car and flanked Sloan on his right side. He was roughly the same age as Abbey’s mother, his frosted black locks framing a square face. Like his employer and the doorman, he looked like he would be lethal to the person who crossed him.

  “Sir,” Bartholomew answered, deep respect resounding in his baritone voice.

  Sloan glanced between Abbey and the doorman, amused. “Is there a problem, Bartholomew?”

  Bartholomew snorted again. I’m really beginning to hate that snort. “This girl says you know her. That you invited her up to your penthouse.”

  Abbey watched as Sloan gazed at her, his ice blue eyes glittering as he slowly smiled.

  “Do you know her?” the doorman pressed.

  Sloan’s smile deepened. He strode to Abbey’s side, pressing his palm to the small of her back.

  “Bartholomew, I’d like you to meet Abbey. We’re working on a children’s book together. She’s welcome to come up to my apartment anytime.”

  “Sir…” Bartholomew insisted.

  Sloan raised his hand, silencing any further protests. Then with the same one, he grasped the steel handle of the glass door. He pulled it open and guided Abbey inside, his fingers still pressed to the small of her back. The sensation of his touch made her shiver. As they entered the building, she noticed Sloan’s driver a few paces behind.

  The three of them walked through the lobby—a fortress of glass, steel, and charcoal granite. Steel sconces dimly lit the lobby with artificial, fluorescent light. Sloan led her to a pair of elevators in the middle of the room. He pressed the call button as they waited in silence.

  When the steel doors opened, Sloan nudged Abbey inside before turning. With a brief nod, he parted ways with the other man. As the doors closed, Sloan pulled a key free from his jeans’ pocket and slipped it into the control panel. With a flick of his wrist, he turned it to the right then pressed the button for the top floor.

  Abbey stared at the lit button in amazement. The penthouse? Sloan owns the penthouse? She glanced at him. Astonishment must have been evident on her face. Sloan flashed her a sly grin. Blushing, she turned back to the doors.

  The elevator opened into a small vestibule. The scheme of steel and granite spilled into the small lobby, leading to a pair of frosted glass, double doors framed in steel. Sloan turned the knob, pushed them open, and gestured her inside.

  The sight of his home took her breath away.

  Inside was a cavernous foyer of white walls and black marble that opened into an expansive living area. Sunlight bathed the room through two-story, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the never-ending life of Manhattan. The living area was modestly decorated with furniture more bachelor pad than modern décor, complete with overstuffed leather sofas, recliners, and a flat screen TV. A few paintings, random splashes of violent color, hung on the white walls.

  She slowly
turned her head to the far end of the apartment to find a hallway leading to what she guessed to be bedrooms. A door left half open at the end of the hall revealed the shadow of a bathroom counter. An ebony wood dining table was nestled against the wall next to a set of open French doors that led to the largest, most opulent galley kitchen Abbey had ever laid eyes on.

  In the corner, an art studio was assembled, complete with easel and every artistic medium imaginable. Turning again, her gaze rested on the L-shaped, suspended staircase leading to a loft on the second level. Abbey’s eyes grew wide—she didn’t want to think of what might be up there. Beneath the loft was another set of French doors that opened up to a study, complete with a large mahogany desk and rows and rows of books.

  She was startled back to reality by the familiar brush of a hand on her lower back.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Sloan asked.

  “Water?” she squeaked.

  He smiled then disappeared into the kitchen. His voice lofted out to her. “Make yourself at home.”

  Abbey wandered to the wall of windows leading to a lush, green—yet modestly decorated—patio. Beyond the cement wall, the busy life of Manhattan carried on.

  Feeling a cold damp pressure against her arm, she turned, finding Sloan behind her. She could sense the heat rolling off him, despite the small distance between them. In one hand, he offered her a bottle of water. In his other, he cradled a long neck bottle of Guinness.

  He grinned as she accepted her drink. Then, cocking his head to the side, he gazed at her. Despite his warmth, the chill of his eyes as he examined her gave her the shivers.

  “Abbey. That’s a beautiful name,” he crooned. “Is it short for anything?”

  “Abigail.” She felt the word rush out of her mouth with a gust of breath. “My father wanted to name me Abbey, after Abbey Road. You know—the Beatles? He loved the Beatles. My mom named me Abigail, after Abigail Van Buren.” She bit her lower lip to stop from rambling. She felt like she was unraveling at the seams, pouring out her life story to a near total stranger. What’s this sinfully attractive man doing to me?