Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harper
I t’s nearly nine o’clock that same night when I step out of the hotel bar with Anton, the last traces of whiskey still warming my throat. The meal was forgettable, but it did the job—fuel for another long night of research.
Anton walks beside me, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his mind elsewhere. It’s always elsewhere.
I don’t blame him. His sister is missing, and his family needs him to come home. He’s torn.
“Tomorrow’s a new day. We’ll keep trying,” I say, reassuring him.
His jaw flexes, but he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
He stops at the elevator, pressing the button as I spot movement further down the hall.
Bryan has just come out of another elevator bank and stomps off in the other direction, heading toward the gym. He’s wearing gray sweats and a tight black T-shirt that clings to his body like a second skin. His head is down, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
And he looks pissed .
I watch the way his muscles coil beneath the fabric, his broad shoulders taut with barely contained aggression. Is this because I brought up is dead love?
“You coming up?” Anton is standing in the elevator, holding the door so it doesn’t close.
I blink and drag my gaze back to him, guilt knotting my cheeseburger into a rock in my gut. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you in the morning.”
Anton gives me a look and frowns. “You’re not going to go out and get yourself into trouble, are you?”
I smirk. “Me? Never. No. I’m not leaving the hotel, I swear.”
The doors slide shut, and I turn toward the gym.
The moment I push open the door, I find him over by the wall of floor-length mirrors. He’s shirtless, shadowboxing with his reflection, his fists cutting through the air in a steady rhythm.
Oh, hell.
The muscles in his back ripple as he moves, each twist and flex a display of raw power. His shoulders, broad and adorned with tattoos and a few scars, bunch and release as he throws a precise, practiced combination—jab, cross, uppercut.
His breath is measured, but the aggression behind each movement is unmistakable.
He’s fighting something that isn’t there.
Or maybe someone .
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the controlled violence play out. He’s not just training. He’s beating the tar out of his imaginary opponent.
“I hope I’m not the one you’re envisioning, but I’d understand if I was.”
Bryan’s gaze flicks to meet mine in the reflection, but his flying fists don’t even falter. “I don’t hit women, no matter how much they annoy me.”
“Noble. But you are upset with me.”
He grunts. “No. I’m upset. Given the mountain of shite I’m dealin’ with, yer not even a factor.”
I push off the door and walk further in. “Then maybe you need more from a workout than punching air.”
He slows his movements and drops his stance. “I just told ye, I don’t hit women.”
I stride across the gym floor toward the pads and gloves on the shelf. “And I told you—I can hold my own. I grew up around testosterone-driven anger. I’m not afraid of it—or of you.”
His lips press into a thin line. “Then yer not as bright as ye think ye are.”
Ignoring him, I study the rack of equipment and slide my hands into a pair of curved punching pads. They’re not as good a quality as the ones my brothers train with, but they’re in a hotel gym, so I’m not surprised.
Swinging my arms, I loosen my shoulders, then turn back to him and step into his space. “I’ll call it. You do it.”
He looks down at me, skeptical. “Ye know how to call boxing drills, do ye?”
I smirk. “Among other things.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse, but then he exhales sharply and nods. “Grand. Have at it.”
I lift my hands, falling into a ready stance. He mirrors me, and then I get us started. “Jab cross combo.”
He throws a slow jab, and I arch a brow. “Don’t patronize me, Irish. You’ll hurt me if you don’t trust me.”
“And why the fuck would I trust ye? I don’t even know ye.”
Fair. I raise my palms, shifting my weight smoothly. He follows with a cross. I roll my shoulder, letting it glance past me.
Over and over, I call the drill, and he responds. His strikes come faster, testing my reflexes, and I meet each one with a block, a dodge, or a counter.
We slip into a rhythm, our movements in sync, the space between us growing warm with the scent of sweat and leather. Every solid thud of glove against glove sends a spark through my system.
I push it down. It’s obviously been too long since I’ve been ravaged by a man with passion and power, because my body doesn’t usually weigh in when I’m working out.
“I’m sorry I upset you earlier.” I dodge a quick cross and reset my position. “I honestly bumped the table and saw the photo. I wasn’t snooping but I regret my comment because it obviously brought up something that hurts you.”
His jaw tenses. “All right. I apologize for snapping. Now, move on.”
Move on? Is that an invitation to change the subject or him telling me to mind my own business? Only one way to find out.
“So, what brings you to Liverpool? You seem to be a man on a mission—a mission that doesn’t seem to be going your way.”
His gaze narrows and I wonder if I’ve asked the wrong question and shut him down again.
“Ye don’t filter much, do ye?”
“Sorry.”
He chuckles. “Ye say that a lot.”
“Sorry. It’s a Canadian stereotype for a reason.”
He arches a brow. “Canadian, eh?”
I chuckle. “Yep. I say that, too. And you’re obviously Irish.”
“Aye, a Dublin boy, born and raised.”
I absorb a jab and step back. “So what brings you to Liverpool? A big Beatles fan?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer, but then he surprises me. “I’m looking for someone. And yer right, I’m no closer to findin’ her. You?”
“Same.” I absorb a jab and step back. “So, finding this mystery woman. Is it business or personal?”
“Och, a fair bit of both.” He shifts his stance, and I pivot to stay in position. “Speakin’ of business or personal, I’ve seen ye in the hotel with the Will Smith lookalike. He yer boyfriend?”
“Anton? Nope. I just met him a couple of weeks ago. He’s looking for someone, too.”
His eyes flick to mine, questioning. “There’s a great deal of that goin’ around.”
“Seems so.” I debate whether I should tell him details. He seemed to know Eddie Mason and wasn’t fond of the man. That’s a point in his favor. He might be able to tell me something I can’t glean from research alone.
I consider it for a few more swings of his fists and then decide—screw it. “Two of my best friends disappeared in Liverpool this summer. The police haven’t been any help. I came to investigate myself.”
He steps back, lowering his gloves. “And ye thought the best way to find out what happened was to get yerself abducted by the scum of the city?”
I shrug. “Anton knew every part of the plan and was my backup. If I failed to let him know I was all right, he had what he needed to take to the police.”
Bryan stops, his jaw flexing. “Why the fuck would he agree to riskin’ yer life in the off chance ye could learn about yer friends? Has the man no stones of his own?”
“I can’t comment on his manliness, but he’s been both worried and supportive. His sister is missing, and we both agreed that I—as a woman fitting the targeted pool of women going missing and a trained investigator—had a better shot at finding answers.”
He pulls off his gloves and walks over to the shelf to clean the equipment and grab a towel. Tossing the rolled fabric behind his neck, he turns back to scowl at me. “What kind of investigator? Are ye law enforcement, then?”
I roll my shoulders and shake my head. “No, I’m an investigative journalist.”
His gaze narrows, something unreadable flickering in those emerald eyes of his. “Ye need to stop. I commend yer intentions, but yer not of this world, lass. Mason isn’t just some low-level scumbag. If ye piss off men like him, ye don’t get a second chance.”
I snort. “That seems like a pot calling the kettle black situation. Aren’t you the one who pushed into his business and punched him in the face?”
For the first time tonight, he cracks a smile.
“Aye, ye got me there.” He takes the end of the towel and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “But I’ve got enough of a reputation and clout that he’ll think long and hard before he ever comes after me.”
I toss my gloves onto the shelf and look him over. “Oh, yeah? And why is that?”
His grin is dangerous, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Yer not the only one with brothers, ponytail. I’ve got four, and no one wants to piss them off.”
I hear the warning in his words and my heart picks up, beating too fast. “You told me that I need to stop because I’m not from Mason’s world. Does that mean you are?”
He winks. “Aye, now yer gettin’ it. And believe me when I say that if yer friends have been gone since the summer, yer not likely to find them. Go home, lass. They wouldn’t want ye to die for them.”
I lift my chin and meet the emotion in his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere, but I have an idea—a proposition, really. One that could benefit both of us.”
Stepping closer, he backs me up against the mirror. He presses his hands against the wall on either side of my shoulder and leans in. “A proposition, ye say. Och, I can’t wait to hear this.”
“I, uh…” My traitorous mind goes blank.
A jolt of adrenaline passes through my body as the air between us crackles. I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, thinking that might save me from truly embarrassing myself.
He leans closer, running his nose along the edge of my jaw as his lips brush against my ear. “Ye what, lass? What idea came to mind? What benefits were ye in search of?”
His breath tickles the sensitive skin on my neck, raising a trail of goosebumps. Oh, hell.
I feel his chest rise and fall steadily in front of me and decide to rip the bandage off. Yes, obviously I’m horny and he’s likely the hottest man on the planet, but sex wasn’t what I was proposing.
Straightening, I open my eyes and meet his gaze. His liquid emerald eyes search mine, and it’s like he’s taken possession of all my girl parts. My nipples harden. Warm heat pools between my thighs. And a small moan falls from my lips.
Dammit. That shouldn’t even be possible. I clear my throat. “I was thinking…”
“Aye, I’m all ears.” He arches a brow and my heart rate doubles. “Spill it. What’s the idea?”