“Thank you.” She doesn’t even gloat when she says it. It’s as though it’s no big deal.

  “Who taught you?”

  This does bring a grin to her lips. “Cian. When I was twelve.”

  It doesn’t surprise me in the least. “And you’ve been fleecing people out of their money ever since.”

  Caitlín glares, her hackles clearly raised. “Excuse me, but I’ll have you know I’ve never fleeced anyone out of anything. I play fairly and with a skill I’ve cultivated over the last thirteen years. It’s not my fault I’ve learned how to read people and can tell when they’re bluffing. That’s part of how you play the game.”

  I throw my hands up in defense. “My apologies.”

  She huffs a little, but relaxes her tense frame. The attendant hands her her cash winnings. She stuffs several bundles of notes in her purse and then turns to me, holding out two more. “Here. Carry these, please. I don’t have room.”

  I glare at her since I’m not her personal assistant, but apparently Caitlín doesn’t care because she just pushes them against my chest anyway. With an annoyed sigh, I take them and slip them into the inner pockets of my jacket. “All right. You’ve had your little adventure for the night. It’s time to go.”

  She pouts, the expression drawing my eyes to her plump lips, and toys with a lock of hair that rests right above her breast. No doubt that’s her intention. “Don’t be such spoilsport. We’re already in town. Why don’t we go out and have some fun? Although, I’m sure the concept is foreign to you.”

  Refusing to be baited, I repeat myself. Something I don’t usually do. “It’s time to go.”

  “Fine, be lame. I shouldn’t be surprised you’re ready to leave. It’s probably past your bedtime. Men your age need their sleep.” With that dig, she sweeps past me and heads for the exit.

  Chapter 14

  Caitlín

  * * *

  Roarke’s presence behind me is almost tangible. Heat radiates off him warming my bare skin despite the coolness of the night air as I step outside the casino. I almost feel bad for my several digs about his age. Especially when he winces with each one. I’m not even sure he’s aware he does it. Yet I can’t help myself. It’s as though there’s this continuous need to push if only to see just how far I can.

  It’s always been that way. Toeing the line of what’s appropriate to say and what isn’t, and more often than not, falling onto the wrong side of it. I learned at a young age that if I didn’t want to be bartered away, I had to be just obnoxious enough to make myself an annoyance but not intolerable enough to be gotten rid of. It made Grand-da so angry, too. No one wanted to deal with the hellion child. Or the hellion teenager. The habit has become so ingrained, it’s a part of who I am. A part sometimes even I don’t like.

  Shaking off that depressing thought, I let Roarke lead me to his car. The street is dark with minimal lighting. Shadows shift and move as though they’re a living entity. A shiver rolls down my spine. It’s far too quiet. I’m used to the sounds of the city surrounding me. The sirens that are often heard in the distance. The general buzz of the neighborhood as people walk the streets or exit and enter nearby restaurants. New York is known as the city that never sleeps for a reason. There’s never any quiet moments. Not like this. It’s eerie.

  Out of nowhere, two men step out of the darkness. Beside me, Roarke curses and reaches inside his jacket, but before he can pull out what I assume is the same weapon he wore the other day, the strangers attack. I scramble backwards, nearly tripping over the concrete, as one of the men lands a blow to Roarke’s face. He barely moves. Instead, it’s as though that had been a spark to ignite the fuse. My bodyguard launches himself at the man who threw the punch. There’s no mercy in any of his strikes.

  Except the distraction leaves me open. The second man grabs me and drags me out into the road. I kick and scream, losing one of my shoes in the process. My fingernails dig hard into the hand clamped around my waist. I reach behind me with my free arm and scratch at my captor’s face, using all the moves Aidan had taught me to defensively protect myself. He swears and cuffs me upside the head hard enough that spots dance in front of me, and my ears ring. Still, I continue to fight and flail. Anything to make it more difficult for him.

  A gunshot rings out and I frantically blink, trying to clear my vision and bring my surroundings into focus. My gaze lands on a single man standing, but I can’t make out if it’s Roarke or the other guy. Please be okay. Please. The man holding me curses again. Before I can guess his intent, he throws me to ground, ripping my purse off my arm, and dives for the vehicle we’re next to. I hit the pavement and cry out in pain.

  Then he’s behind the wheel and tearing out of the parking spot, nearly ripping the bumper off the car in front of him, his tires squealing as he races down the street. Pounding footsteps grow close. A hand clamps around my arm and I lash out, my hands and knees screaming in agony. The strong grip tightens around my wrists, holding them.

  “Caitlín, stop. It’s Roarke. Stop, you’re safe now,” he says firmly, but gently.

  Finally, the panic recedes and with a tearful cry, I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, clutching him hard. I sob against his shoulder, the adrenaline crash hitting me. He holds me close, murmuring words I can’t make out, but that are soothing all the same. I lose sense of how long Roarke and I sit in the middle of the road, but finally I’m composed enough to rouse myself.

  Pulling away, I swipe at my tears and runny nose. He stands and holds out his hand to help me off the ground. Then, he walks to the other side of the street and bends down. When he straightens, he’s holding my lost shoe in his hand. Silently, he helps me back into it while I balance myself on his shoulder.

  “We need to get going before the authorities show up. We’ve been here too long.” It’s said gently as though it’s not an accusation, but rather a warning.

  Gingerly, I walk with him until we reach the Vanquish only a few vehicles away. He opens the door for me and then closes it once I’m settled in the seat. Then, he gets in and we make our way down the narrow street and away from the casino. A short distance down the road we pass the city limits. I stare straight ahead and shake. Roarke reaches out and turns the heat on.

  “You okay?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

  I nod, unable to get any words out. All I can do is replay the whole incident over and over again inside my mind. A shiver wracks my body.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His apology makes my head snap in his direction. “Sorry? For what?”

  “For not doing my job.” Roarke’s voice is haggard. “For letting you get hurt.”

  I reach across the console and clasp his arm, my palm stinging. His muscles are rigid beneath my touch, flexing and shifting as he loosens and tightens the white-knuckled grip he has on the steering wheel.

  “You protected me.”

  He growls. “They never should have been able to touch you. It’s my fault.”

  “Fuck that,” I snap back. “The only people to blame are those two assholes. If it weren’t for you, I would have been thrown in that car and god knows what would have happened to me. I hope you killed the first guy. I only wish the other bastard hadn’t gotten away. He deserved a bullet as well. The piece of shit.”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him. I swear to you,” Roarke vows in a tone so deadly I should probably be terrified.

  Only it has the complete opposite effect .

  His bloodthirsty promise is a turn on. Has anyone ever been so passionate about my protection before? Not even my brothers have sworn to murder someone who hurt me. Granted, I’ve never been in a situation like tonight. I’m sure they’d go after the person as well, but with Roarke, it’s different. He’s not a family member despite his affiliation with Uncle Carrick. He’s an employee. Yet, the strength and determination behind his threat leaves no doubt that he means exactly what he says. Whoever that second man is, he’s as good as dead. And I don’t feel even a shred of guilt about the fact.

  The rest of the drive back to the estate is quiet with only the soft hum of the hot air blowing out of the vents to disturb it. By the time we stop in front of the house, the warmth of the vehicle and the lull of the silence has made me drowsy. I’m half asleep.

  “Little bunny, we’re here,” Roarke says softly.

  It takes a lot of effort to open my eyes, but finally I manage and lock onto him. The security lights spill into the car casting his face in shadows. I can’t make out his features, yet I can’t bring myself to look away either. He holds me spellbound. The air inside the vehicle shifts. There’s a new tension—an awareness—that always hovers between us. Roarke clears his throat, blinks and turns away to open his door, breaking the connection.

  I sigh and get out of the car as well. The palms of my hands and knees sting again and I’m slowly becoming aware of more aches and pains throughout my body. I circle the back of the car and he’s standing there waiting for me.

  “Come out to the guest house and let me take a look at those wounds,” Roarke says.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He takes one step forward, closing the distance between us. I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze. That spark crackles between our bodies again.

  “It wasn’t a question,” he rumbles in that deep growl of his.

  Too tired to argue, I walk in that direction. Just as I round the corner around the house, I stumble in my high heels. Before I can fall, Roarke catches me.

  “Thanks,” I mumble and bend down to yank the offending things off my feet. The soft grass tickles my soles.

  Minutes later, we reach the darkened guest house. He opens the door, flips the light switch just inside of it, and steps back to let me walk in first. I’ve been in here many times since I was a kid, but even in the few days Roarke has occupied it, his rainy pine scent has already taken over. I breathe in the fragrance. He closes the door and passes me on his way to the kitchen where he grabs a first aid kit from under the sink.

  “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the couch.

  I drop onto the cushioned surface and set my shoes on the floor. Roarke places the first aid kit near my hip and kneels before me. He opens the small box and rifles through it. I’m acutely aware of how close he is. I stare at his face, counting each of his eyelashes, then tracing a path down the bridge of his crooked nose, an indicator that it’s been broken. Maybe more than once. A dark bruise has formed along his cheek bone from where the bastard hit him.

  He picks up my right hand and a sting of pain makes me hiss. Roarke glances up at me before returning to his task of gently swabbing my palm with the alcohol pad. While he ministers to me, I return to studying him. I trace the line of his scar on the other side of his face from top to bottom. I can imagine him rushing to defend Finn. God how that must have hurt.

  Roarke switches to my other hand, and this time, I hold back my reaction. Cold pain flares up the entire length of my arm. I force myself to keep focusing on him. On the silver flecks in his close-cropped hair that sparkle in the bright light from the overhead fixture. On the bulging muscles of his biceps stretching his jacket tight, especially at the shoulder seams.

  “Let me look at your legs.”

  I blink at the command and meet Roarke’s crystalline eyes. There’s an emotion deep in their depths that brings an answering flame to life inside me. Slowly, I grasp the flowing fabric of my dress and curl my fingers, scrunching and dragging it up, exposing my shins, then my knees. His gaze drops toward my lap and grows heated. That little voice inside urges me to tug it a fraction higher to bare my thighs. I part them slightly.

  Roarke’s eyes dart back up to meet mine. His nostrils flare as though he can smell my arousal. He clenches his jaw and the muscles along it shift. I could almost swear he grinds his teeth, too. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, I reach out and brush my fingers across his forehead and along the silver that lines his temple. His whole body freezes. Yet he does nothing to stop me as I explore his features.

  I trace the edge of the bruise and down his cheek. Roarke holds perfectly still, with his fists clenched on his knee. I’m not sure he’s even breathing. I run my fingertip along his bottom lip. It catches in the middle and separates it from the top one creating the tiniest opening. I slip inside. The jagged edges of his teeth graze my flesh. Before he puts a stop to this madness I lean forward and press my lips to his. They’re dry, so I flick my tongue out to wet them.

  I could swear he returns the gentle sweep with his own, but then a rush of air hits my face and Roarke is gone. He stands with his back to me, breathing heavy.

  “There’s more alcohol pads in the box for your knees.” He storms out the door, slamming it behind him, and leaves me sitting there completely alone in stunned silence.

  Quickly, I tend to my knees, discard all the trash, and put the first aid kit back where it belongs. Still, there’s no Roarke. He wouldn’t have gone far. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s not coming back. Picking up my shoes, I take another glance around the place and then walk outside. I stop just on the other side of the closed door and lean against it as I scan the grounds. Not a single shadow moves. Still, I sense Roarke out there. Somewhere close by.

  “Thank you for…everything,” I call out softly.

  There’s no response. Not that I expected there to be. Slowly I make my way across the grassy terrain and up the slight hill until I reach the entrance leading into the kitchen. Then I take one final glance behind me before I go inside and close the door quietly behind me.

  Chapter 15

  Roarke

  * * *

  I pace the length of the living room and glance at my watch. Caitlín is supposed to meet Nathan’s wife, Lucia, for dinner and drinks soon. Impatience nips at me. It’s been two days since the attack not far from the casino. I’ve let word get out that I’m looking for the remaining man who dared to touch Caitlín. I didn’t need to worry about the other one, since I’d left him to bleed out on the sidewalk. I don’t expect it will take long before someone gives the second guy up. Especially when they discover I'm looking for him and what will happen to them if they knowingly help him.

  It’s also been two days where neither of us has mentioned the attack or what happened after. It’s as though the kiss was merely a figment of my imagination. I can still feel the press of her sweet lips against mine. The gentle touch of her tongue swiping across them. I remember her taste. Hell, I dream about it. For the past two nights, it’s all I’ve thought about. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve stroked myself to completion.

  Caitlín and that fucking kiss take up every corner of my mind. She’s been oddly subdued since that night as well. I don’t trust it. I glance at my watch again. Cursing, I don my cross strap and shove my gun in the holster. Then I throw my jacket on over it and head out the door up to the main house. Nora is in the kitchen.

  “Good evening, Mr. O’Sullivan. Caitlín should be down in a moment,” she says, glancing up from whatever dish she’s making.

  I’ve already eaten one of the pre-made meals she’d prepared and left for me in the fridge. I haven’t enjoyed this much fresh cooked food in…well, ever. Mrs. Murphy’s tins of biscuits don’t count. I managed to make a trip back to my flat long before the sun rose this morning to check on Portia. Of course, the little gremlin head-butted me several times and then sent me a disgruntled glare when I walked out the door. I didn’t want Caitlín’s scent to invade my place any more than it had.

  I move to stand against the wall and wait. It isn’t long before footsteps come galloping down the stairs. I’m not sure Caitlín knows any other speed. She careens into the kitchen and comes to a jerky and abrupt halt. The tipped up corners of her lips drop and she glances away before sedately walking toward the fridge.

  “Roarke,” she greets me.

  “Caitlín.”

  Nora’s discreet cough breaks the silence.

  “You about ready?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I just need to speak to Nora for a minute.” Her tone indicates that I’m an unwelcome presence.

  I walk out of the kitchen and stop at the bottom of the stairs to wait for her. It isn’t long before she joins me. Without a word, I walk out the front door and get behind the wheel. Seconds later, Caitlín’s beside me and we’re on our way.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Frederick Street.” She doesn’t give me anything more specific than that.

  “I assume you’re referring to the city center?”

  “Yes. Just off Nassau Street,” she says.

  At least that narrows it down. I run through all the restaurants in that area. There’s some fancy Greek restaurant, an Italian restaurant, and some other one that serves a bit of everything. There might be a few more, but those are the ones that come to mind.

  When the silence grows, I have to admit that I miss Caitlín’s chatter. I’ve never been one who feels the need for conversation. I hate small talk. But apparently I hate the quiet even more. At least when it comes to her. Her endlessly invasive questions would be welcome. I clear my throat.

  “So, you’re meeting your sister-in-law for dinner?” Jesus, is that the best question you could come up with? This is why I fucking hate small talk.

  Caitlín glances over at me like she can’t believe I asked such a stupid question either. My neck heats. Something I’m not sure has happened in years. What the hell has this woman reduced me to? The people of Dublin fear me. At least the ones who should. If they could only see me at the moment.

  “Why are you acting weird?” she asks.

  My shoulder jerks. “I’m not acting weird.”

  “Yeah, you are. ‘You’re meeting your sister-in-law for dinner’?” she parrots in a poor attempt at my voice and accent. “Since when do you ask me personal questions? Hell, since when do you talk to me first, period? I always have to drag every word out of you.”