Chapter 4 Siobhan #2
The contact feels physical, like fingertips brushing skin.
His assessment is comprehensive. He knows who I am as much as I know who he is.
I was born to hate him, he was raised to take me out.
He takes in my copper hair, emerald dress, the confident stance I’ve maintained despite the disruption of his arrival.
Something shifts in his expression. It’s dark, heated, possessive, even though we have never met, followed quickly by calculation.
One of my father’s security men moves slightly closer to me. Liam notices, his mouth curving in a brief, cold smile that acknowledges the territorial display without respecting it.
Judge Brennan approaches him again, murmuring something that causes him to nod once, decisively. Then, the judge turns and walks in my direction, clearly intending to make an introduction. Liam follows, moving with the confident grace of a predator who never needs to rush.
I have perhaps thirty seconds to decide my approach.
I could retreat to the office, citing gallery business.
It’s a coward’s move that would damage my reputation but buy time.
I could advance to meet them halfway, which means I’m eager and potentially submissive.
Or I could remain exactly where I am, forcing them to come to me in my territory, confident but potentially provocative.
I choose the third option, adjusting my position only slightly to ensure the sculpture beside me provides both an aesthetic backdrop and a subtle barrier. My chin lifts a fraction of an inch, and my stance widens imperceptibly for better balance.
As they approach, Judge Brennan’s expression reflects the satisfied look of someone facilitating an important connection. Liam’s face reveals nothing; his eyes are now fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle despite the gallery’s perfect climate control.
The gallery assistant nearest me notices their approach and quickly refills wine glasses on a nearby table, creating the appearance of busy work while positioning herself to intervene if needed.
It’s a small act of loyalty that touches me.
She senses something amiss and places herself as a buffer, though she can’t possibly understand the complex criminal politics at play.
I draw a slow breath, centering myself, preparing for whatever comes next. The Celtic Cross gleams in my peripheral vision, a multimillion-euro fulcrum around which dangerous forces now pivot.
Liam is close enough now that I can smell his expensive cologne, the fresh air of the night outside and see the cold assessment in eyes that miss nothing. Judge Brennan reaches me first, his social smile firmly in place.
“Ms. Kelly,” he says, “allow me to introduce Liam O’Neill.”
Liam steps forward with a subtle assertion of dominance that the judge immediately accepts, falling silent and stepping back.
“No need for formalities, Judge,” he says. “Ms. Kelly and I have mutual interests to discuss.”
The word ‘interests’ carries weight beyond its literal meaning, laden with significance about business, territory, and the complex, yet brutal relationships between our families.
His gaze hasn’t left mine, examining me with the detailed attention he earlier gave the Celtic Cross, assessing value, authenticity, and usefulness.
I maintain eye contact, refusing to be the first to look away despite the discomfort of such direct scrutiny. My father taught me that much, at least. Never show weakness to those who would exploit it.
Something like approval flickers across Liam’s face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. He turns slightly to include the Celtic Cross in our visual field, a deliberate reminder of what truly brings him to my gallery tonight.
“A remarkable piece,” he says, the statement somehow both complimenting and challenging. “Ninth century, from Ulster, if I’m not mistaken. With an interesting journey to your gallery.”
The comment confirms what I suspected. He knows exactly where the cross came from, how it was acquired, and what channels it moved through before reaching my ostensibly legitimate business.
The question is whether this knowledge represents a threat or merely a demonstration of his own information networks.
I straighten my spine, preparing for a conversation where every word will carry multiple meanings, where the true exchange will happen beneath the surface pleasantries. Whatever game we’re about to play, I refuse to begin at a disadvantage.
Especially with him.
I reach for a flute—a casual movement designed to appear natural while giving my hands something to do.
He moves at the same moment, his hand extending toward the same glass I’ve targeted. Our timing could not be more perfectly synchronized if choreographed.
Our fingers brush. It’s the lightest contact, skin against skin for less than a second. The sensation is electric, a shock that travels from fingertips straight to my clit. Heat floods my chest, the sudden awareness of my body that feels foreign and intensely familiar.
I pull back instinctively, too quickly to disguise it as anything but reaction.
His hand completes the motion, taking the glass I’d reached for with a fluidity that suggests he’s adjusted mid-movement.
The slight arch of his eyebrow tells me he felt that unexpected current between us too, but his self-control allows only this minimal acknowledgment.
My fingertips tingle where they touched his, the sensation both unsettling and oddly persistent. I reach for another glass with more deliberate care, annoyed at my body’s betrayal.
“Your gallery is impressive,” he says, raising his glass slightly but not drinking. “You’ve accomplished much in three years.”
The compliment carries weight beyond its words.
It’s an acknowledgment that he’s tracked my business, monitored my progress, compiled information.
I wonder what else is in the file he undoubtedly has on Siobhan Kelly, the prodigal daughter who fled to America only to return to her father’s city where a savage legacy awaits.
“Thank you. Though I suspect your interest tonight extends beyond mundane appreciation.”
His eyes never leave mine. He assesses, calculates, and sees more than I want to reveal. Our contact has shifted something, creating an awareness that feels dangerous precisely because it’s not as entirely unpleasant as it should be.
“Direct,” he responds, something like appreciation flickering across his features before he presses his previous point home. “The Celtic Cross is a remarkable piece. Its provenance raises certain questions.”
The threat is velvet-wrapped but unmistakable. The cross’s documentation would collapse under serious scrutiny—we both know this. What matters is why he’s choosing to acknowledge it, what leverage he seeks to gain.
“All our auction items are fully authenticated,” I say, the practiced lie smooth as silk. “Though I’m happy to address any specific concerns.”
“I’m sure you are.” His finger traces the rim of his glass, the movement hypnotic in its precision. “Perhaps we might discuss those concerns privately. Your office would provide suitable discretion.”
His security detail shifts slightly, preparing to follow if I agree. The crowd around us maintains a respectful distance, creating an island of space in the packed gallery.
I should refuse. Should insist on public conversation, on witnesses, on maintaining the advantage of open space.
But curiosity mingles with caution. What does Liam O’Neill want that requires privacy?
What game is being played between the families that has brought him, of all people, to my gallery tonight?
Beneath these considerations lies something more disturbing. It’s the lingering sensation of his skin against mine, the awareness that refuses to fade despite my ruthless suppression. This attraction is a liability, a weakness to be controlled rather than indulged.
“My office is currently occupied by auction staff,” I say, buying time rather than committing. “Perhaps after the bidding concludes—”
“Before,” he interrupts, the single word carrying absolute certainty. “Some matters are best resolved before public proceedings begin.”
Our eyes remain locked in silent assessment, neither willing to yield advantage by looking away first.
“Ten minutes,” I finally say, the decision made as much to understand his purpose as to regain control of the situation. “My office. After I’ve checked on the auction preparations.”
Something shifts in his expression. It screams satisfaction at getting his way tempered by what might be genuine curiosity. “Ten minutes,” he agrees, raising his glass slightly in acknowledgment before setting it down untouched.
As I turn to leave, I feel his eyes follow me.
His gaze is a tangible weight between my shoulder blades.
The electricity of our brief contact lingers like a warning or a promise.
Whatever Liam O’Neill wants from me, from my gallery, from tonight’s auction, I suspect it will change everything I’ve built these past three years.
My fingertips still tingle with the memory of his touch as I move through the crowd, an unwelcome and impossible sensation to ignore.