Chapter 9 Siobhan
SIOBHAN
The artist’s studio occupies the third floor of a repurposed textile factory in Portobello.
It’s technically neutral territory, though trending toward O’Neill influence in recent months.
I wouldn’t normally venture here alone, but Eamon Lynch’s work has captured significant collector interest, and securing his next series exclusively for the gallery justifies the calculated risk.
The building’s industrial aesthetic of exposed brick and steel beams, contrasts with the delicate nature of Lynch’s glasswork.
I navigate past other studio spaces, nodding politely to artists who recognize me from previous acquisitions.
My presence here isn’t unusual; unlike other family members, I can move through certain spaces without raising immediate alarm.
This is one advantage of cultivating legitimate business connections.
“Ms. Kelly.” Lynch greets me with characteristic reserve as I enter his workspace. Late thirties, with prematurely silver hair and hands constantly in motion even when not working. “I wasn’t expecting you until next week.”
“I was in the area,” I explain smoothly. “Thought I’d stop by to see the progress on the exhibition pieces.”
Actually, I needed to clear my head after my father’s demands, and Lynch’s work always centers me. Something about the purity of his creative process, untainted by the kind of calculations that dominate my days.
He gestures toward a workspace where several glass sculptures in various stages of completion catch the afternoon light, transforming it into fractured rainbows across the concrete floor.
This is genuinely breathtaking work. It’s the kind that reminds me why I fought to make the gallery more than just a laundering operation.
“The central piece isn’t quite ready for viewing,” Lynch explains, leading me around the workshop. “But these companion pieces should give you a sense of the direction.”
I examine each sculpture carefully, asking appropriate questions about technique and inspiration.
This is the part of gallery work I genuinely love—engaging with the creative process, recognizing artistic merit, and facilitating the connection between creator and appreciator.
There are no family politics, no hidden agendas, just authentic appreciation of human creativity.
We’re discussing installation requirements for the most complex piece when a change in Lynch’s expression alerts me to someone entering the studio behind me. The slight widening of his eyes, the fractional step backward are signs of recognition and apprehension.
I turn, with a professional smile in place, and find myself face to face with Liam O’Neill.
Fuck. He’s dressed more casually than at the auction in dark jeans that I want to unbutton, just to see how far down those tats across his chest go, a charcoal sweater pushed up to reveal forearms crossed with lean muscle and more ink, no visible weapons though I’m certain at least one is concealed on his person.
His presence transforms the spacious studio into something more confined, as if the air recognizes the density of power he carries.
“Ms. Kelly.” His greeting carries perfect public politeness undercut with private recognition. “What a surprise.”
“Mr. O’Neill.” I maintain professional composure despite the heat rushing straight to my pussy. “I wasn’t aware you had interest in contemporary glasswork.”
“I have diverse interests.” His eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes me acutely aware of every inch of my body, and makes me glad I matched my underwear today.
Lynch looks between us, clearly sensing the undercurrents but unsure of their nature. “You know each other?”
“Our paths cross occasionally in the art world,” I offer smoothly, a sanitized truth that doesn’t begin to capture the history between our families.
“I need a moment of Ms. Kelly’s time,” Liam states, not quite a request. “Business matters.”
Lynch retreats without hesitation, murmuring about checking his kiln. His self-preservation instinct is well-developed despite his artistic temperament.
Once we’re effectively alone, Liam moves closer, invading my carefully maintained personal space with deliberate intent. The scent of him—clean, masculine, with hints of expensive cologne—wraps around me, making it suddenly difficult to maintain clear thoughts.
“Your father’s men are watching this building,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Three of them, in a black Audi across the street.”
That’s not what I expected him to say.
“I’m aware,” I reply, though in truth, I hadn’t noticed the surveillance. An oversight that concerns me. “Standard procedure when I visit artists in certain areas.”
“And are you aware of the Garda drug unit two blocks south?” His eyes hold mine, searching for a reaction. “Moving in this direction with specific intent.”
Fuck again. That information is both unexpected and panic-inducing. “No,” I admit. “Are you certain?”
“Very.” He glances toward the large windows overlooking the street. “Which presents a situation, given that I have business materials on the premises that wouldn’t withstand official scrutiny.”
Understanding clicks into place. He’s here conducting some form of O’Neill business, likely using Lynch’s studio as a meeting point precisely because of its neutral status. The coincidence of our simultaneous presence is problematic for both of us.
“I need to leave,” I say, reaching for my handbag. “You can’t drag me under with you.”
“Too late.” His hand closes around my wrist, the contact sending a shock of heat straight up my arm. “They’ve entered the building. We have perhaps three minutes before they reach this floor.”
I should pull away. I don’t. His thumb rests against my pulse point, and I wonder if he can feel how rapidly my heart is beating.
“I have nothing to hide,” I remind him, though my voice sounds breathy. “My business with Lynch is legitimate.”
“And yet you were afraid a minute ago that I’d drag you under with me?” His question exposes the real danger, but his eyes drop briefly to my mouth, suggesting danger of an entirely different sort. “How will your father greet you when he has to bail you out from a cell next to mine?”
He’s right, damn him. The risk extends beyond legal consequences to family politics. My father would see conspiracy in our simultaneous presence again, regardless of explanation.
“How would yours?” I spit out.
“Oh, he’d be impressed,” he says with a wicked smile, that tells me he is playing a game that is so far above my head, it might as well be in outer space.
“What do you suggest?” I ask, acutely aware that he hasn’t released my wrist.
“Alternative exit.” He releases me with what seems like reluctance, moving toward the back of the studio. “Service stairs lead to the loading dock. We can be gone before they complete their search pattern.”
Lynch reappears, anxiety evident in his movements. “Problem?” he asks, having clearly overheard at least part of our conversation.
“Nothing concerning your work,” I assure him smoothly. “I’ll need to continue our discussion another time. Perhaps you could call me tomorrow to arrange?”
Understanding passes between us. It’s the implicit agreement to forget he ever saw me with Liam O’Neill. Lynch nods once. “Of course. Tomorrow.”
Liam has already located the rear exit, and is standing beside it with contained urgency.
I follow, maintaining professional dignity despite the residual awareness of his touch still burning on my skin.
As we pass through the door into a narrow service corridor, raised voices become audible from the main stairwell.
Official tones demanding compliance, the professional language of law enforcement.
“This way.” Liam moves confidently through the service area, navigating with the familiarity of someone who always identifies alternative exits upon entering any space. A habit born of his particular profession.
I follow, noticing despite the circumstances how his shoulders fill out his sweater, how he moves fluidly through the gloomy space.
Focus, Siobhan. This is not the time.
We descend two flights of utilitarian concrete stairs, the space growing progressively dimmer. Above us, doors slam, and voices carry through the systematic search of a building suspected of containing illegal activity.
“What exactly were you conducting here?” I ask as we reach a landing, curiosity overcoming caution.
“Meeting an associate,” he answers vaguely. “Information exchange, nothing physical.”
“Information significant enough to warrant surveillance and raid?”
His mouth quirks slightly, but it’s not quite a smile. “Significant enough.”
We reach a heavy metal door marked Loading Bay, but Liam bypasses it, instead pulling me toward a smaller unmarked exit. “The loading area will be covered,” he explains. “This leads to the alley behind the electrician’s shop.”
The door opens to reveal a narrow passage between buildings, dumpsters creating shadows perfect for concealment. Liam checks the sight lines before proceeding, his body positioned slightly ahead of mine in a protective stance I find irritating, presumptuous and ridiculously sexy.
We’re halfway down the alley when voices at the far end signal police presence.
Liam reacts instantly, pulling me into a recessed doorway scattered with empty beer cans, his body pressing against mine as he shields me from view.
The space barely accommodates us both, forcing a proximity that sends every nerve ending into high alert.
“Don’t move,” he whispers, his breath warm against my hair.
As if I could. The constraint of the doorway presses us together from chest to thigh, his body hard and warm against mine. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, nowhere near the rapid pace of my own.