CHAPTER ELEVEN
Raina
T hat Saturday night in Valdrin’s Mercedes, we wait twenty cars deep to get inside the Warwick Hotel.
“You look beautiful,” he says warmly.
The strapless dress I bought, after trying on way too many, clings to my curvy hips and flares out past my butt with yards of midnight-blue satin spilling down my legs.
It has a tight bodice, a drop waist, and sharp reverse pleats.
Not a single bead or rhinestone in sight, and yet somehow, I look expensive.
And out of place. Sequins and leather are more my style, if I had a choice.
It feels too elegant. Too luxurious. I’m an awkward ex-federal agent who still wears her high-school jeans.
The scandalously high slit up my thigh says danger, which suits me.
The rest is all sleek sophistication I never thought I could pull off.
This isn’t me. And yet, here I am, dressed like a woman who belongs in Connor’s world.
“Enjoy the view,” I grumble, answering Valdrin a few seconds later. “It’ll be the last time you see me dressed like a doll.”
“Dolls are what men like Connor Quinlan want.”
I hide a scoff. Not the Connor Quinlan who fucked me.
“But you need to tame those wild waves.” Valdrin presents me with two black tortoise hair combs wrapped in delicate lavender tissue paper.
I don’t bother to argue and push long, unruly blonde strands off my shoulder. “My hair hasn’t seen a blow dryer in a year.”
“You don’t say.” Valdrin swoops up my hair on each side and securely fastens the combs to my head. “That’s better.”
When I catch him studying my face, he turns away.
“Any words of advice?” I ask to break the tension. “I’m more used to hiding in the shadows collecting evidence.”
“Flirt. Make him like you.” Valdrin pulls up to the red carpet, and someone opens the door for me.
“Flirt,” I mutter, stepping out of the Benz.
“Good luck,” he tells me and drives off.
I plaster a snooty pout on my face to look like I belong at this thing. I catch myself in the tall window panels near the entrance and can’t believe it’s me.
I don’t look like me. But I look good. Really good. Connor may not even recognize me.
Stepping into the grand ballroom feels like I’m on a movie set. This doesn’t seem real. Like I’m in another world.
Gold and crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling cast a warm glow over Manhattan’s elite.
Elegant tables with pure white linens, crystal glasses, and white flowers, which I heard were flown in from greenhouses in Japan, look like they’re prepared for photoshoots rather than actual meals.
Every inch of this room and every guest drips with wealth and power.
I don’t need to search for very long. I spot Connor Quinlan leaning against a bar in one corner. The Irish Mob boss is with another man, deep in conversation, sporting neither a smile nor a scowl.
A slow-moving fire simmers under my skin.
What the hell was that?
Aw hell . He is even more stunning than I remembered him.
All the booze that night must have dulled my memory.
The jet-black tux hugs his frame like it’s been tailored just for him.
The crisp white shirt beneath splays open at the collar.
The rebel skipped a bowtie, like he doesn’t care about the formality of these events .
Like, he doesn’t care about anything. He might as well be a beacon, and I’m a boat heading for a crash landing on a rocky shore.
Engage the enemy. Flirt.
I’m two left feet and tongue-tied. I need to get insanely drunk in order to flirt. That’s who Connor liked, apparently. Whoever the hell I am now, he may not look twice at me.
A tray of champagne flutes passes me, and I snag one.
Ignoring Connor’s outrageous and undeniable beauty, I saunter over, looking anywhere but at him. Luck blesses me when the other man he was speaking to walks away. I weave around the crowd and manage to bag a spot right next to Connor at the bar.
I give him a passive-aggressive bump to get his attention. “Sorry.”
“Excuse me , lass.”
Lass...
Oh dear God, that’s right. If Connor wasn’t perfect enough, he speaks with an Irish accent.
“No problem,” I say, resisting an eye roll at how unbelievably sexy he sounds.
“Holy shite. It’s you ,” he drawls in a deep and dangerous tone.
I play it cool and swivel my head his way. Feigning surprise, I purr, “Oh, hi. Cory? Cal?”
He frowns. “Connor. But I never gave you my name.”
Gulp , that’s right.
“That’s why I was guessing.”
“And you are?” He sticks his hand out to me.
“I’m...” I tilt my wrist just enough for my flute to gently tip over. A teeny splash of champagne hits Connor’s polished shoes. “Oh, shoot!” I gasp coyly.
Connor glances down at the golden splotch of wetness beading up on his size-fourteen Ferragamos. He looks up, and when his eyes meet mine again, something dark flickers behind them. Amusement? Interest? A warning? Maybe all three.
My stomach has figured it out. A slow, twisting heat that I have no business feeling for a man I’m supposed to kill spreads through me like a wildfire licking dry kindling.
He laughs in a low, rich sound. “You’re blushing, lass.”
My skin prickles uncomfortably, something inside me going taut. But I force myself to hold his gaze. “I ruined your shoes.”
“That is one way to get my attention, nimh .”
Did he just call me a nymph? As in nymphomaniac ? What in the hell did we do that night?
This man is too cool. Too smooth. And way too confident.
“You look different.” He gives me a once-over, eyes locking on the slit in my gown.
“So do you,” I counter immediately. “We met in a sketchy bar.”
“Dressed up or torn jeans, you are the finest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Haven’t laid eyes on one that matches you, lass. But we’re still strangers. Now, tell me your name, or I’ll force it out of you.” Connor’s deadly voice shreds my nerves. “And not in any way you’d find enjoyable.”
Keeping my voice even since he just threatened me, I say, “Call me Storm.”
He narrows gorgeous blue eyes at me and repeats, “Storm.”
For a second, I wish that were my name based on how he says it. “That’s me.”
“So, Storm...” His tongue sweeps across his upper lip. “If you wanted to sleep with me again, all you had to do was march this lovely body right up to me.”
I bite my lip, pushing away how he can fluster me with that voice. To distract myself, I ghost my finger over his jacket. “I had no idea you’d be here.”
He catches my fingers before I get my hands on his raw silk lapel. Confidence wafting off him, Connor takes hold of my wrist.
“How about we leave here?” His thumb brushes the pulse throbbing under my skin. “Go a few more rounds in my bed?”
Did I give in that easily two months ago? But he doesn’t need the sexy talk. His height, those eyes, full lips, and big hands can get him any woman in this city. Even if he were mute.
“I have a better idea,” I whisper. “I need a refill.”
“Aye, let’s get you pissed again.” He snaps his fingers to draw one of the bartenders to us in the blink of an eye. “She needs another champagne. The Dom P. this time. I’ll pay for the bottle.”
The bartender nods and hurries off.
“I thought you were playing hard to get,” he says, leaning against the bar, looking like a man of the world even though Valdrin described him as a psycho.
“Maybe I prefer men to play hard to get right back,” I quip.
Connor smirks. “That’s how men end up in bed alone. With their hand.” His eyes rake a trail down my body, like he’s mapping out the quickest way to get me out of this dress.
“Noted.” I clear my throat at the visual, resisting the urge to see if he’s tenting his tuxedo pants.
Connor watches me with hooded eyes while I stare at other couples flirting for both business and pleasure.
Female bodies sway against well-dressed men.
Sure, they can flirt with their lingering touches between sips of champagne, whiskey, and scotch.
The air in this place is thick with wealth, power, and desire.
The bottle of Dom P. and a fresh chilled flute arrive just as Connor turns to face the bar with a hardened expression from the irritating forty-second wait. He drops several one-hundred-dollar bills on the smooth granite surface, effortlessly opens the bottle, pours, and hands me my flute.
I take a cautious sip and nearly choke on how much richer Dom P. tastes compared to the swill in my glass from earlier. Looking down, I’m surprised the leather isn’t peeling away on his shoes.
“Christ, that’s good,” I say, and wipe my bottom lip.
“Not as good as me, right? Care to meet me in a private lounge and refresh your priorities?”
I arch a brow and do away with the smoothness. “Were you this forward that night?”
His jaw ticks at my question. “Aye. I saw a woman I wanted and I got her.”
“You sure did.”
If this weren’t an assignment, I’d have followed Connor to a lounge and would have been riding him five minutes ago. I love sex. Probably a little too much and think with my clit at the worst times.
I feign amusement. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
Connor steps in a fraction closer, the heat of his body and his cologne mixing to make me dizzy. He gazes at me like he’s remembering the weight of my thighs tightening around his hips. And his face. “Why waste time? I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you.”
The confession stuns me into silence. A rush of me riding his tongue cracks me wide open.
Dear God.
I bring the flute to my mouth so I can’t respond and buy myself time .
“You here alone?” he asks, low but demanding.
“Maybe.” I smile coyly.
“That’s not an acceptable answer,” Connor responds like he’s on to me.
“I support the governor as much as the next guy. Or girl.”
“The plates cost two hundred grand,” he says. “I didn’t take you for—”
“For?” I look up, challenging him to say out loud that just because I got a little crazy with him one night, I can’t drop that amount of cash on one dinner.
He studies me. “Are you a reporter?”
“No.” I straighten my back.
“Are you here with another man?” The visceral tone in Connor’s voice is sharp as a blade.
“No. I’m here for my father. He couldn’t make it.” All of which is so ironically true, I could pass a polygraph.
Connor studies me. “Who’s your father?”
“He donated...” I hesitate. “Anonymously.”
“Hmmm.” His phone ringing and him answering it, speaking Gaelic, reminds me why I’m here.
He’s part of the Irish Mob, and he killed my father. I’m supposed to kill him. Not fuck him.
“Aye?” he answers, looking at me. “Handle it.”
“Problem?” I ask, smiling.
“No, nimh ,” he murmurs, finishing his drink. “Are we getting out of here? Are you going to let me make you scream again, or what?”
I feel cold-cocked at the challenge, and all I can do is utter, “Um.”
He smirks wickedly. “Afraid? Of me? ”
That did it. I set my glass down, my taste buds weeping goodbye to the delicious drink I’ll never taste again. “You want me right now?”
“Come outside with me.” His warm mouth hovers over the shell of my ear. “My car can bring us back to my place. Maybe this time I won’t let you leave after one night.”
Heat crawls up my spine, and I’m lightheaded from the Dom P. already. So, I force that shit down. Focus.
I might leave in a body bag when I try to kill him.
Could he know I’m working with the Albanians? Could he have figured out that I’m the daughter of the man he killed? Is this car he mentioned filled with guards at the ready to haul me away?
No, I have to keep control of this.
The warm night air floats into the ballroom from an open French door to the fragrant courtyard, refocusing my mission. Make contact. According to Valdrin, this is our first meeting. To get a leg up for when I strike. God, I want my legs on his shoulders while he plows into me.
But I have to keep him wanting me.
I never forgot about you.
“Well, nimh ?” Connor’s eyes sparkle with a dark promise of danger and ruin. “I haven’t got all night. And I promise you, there are plenty of women here who would kill to go home with me.”
We’ve never seen him with a woman.
I study Connor, wanting to spend the next few minutes asking about this nympho nickname he gave me. But I take a deep breath and step back. “Actually...”
Connor’s eyebrows furrow in disbelief, like no woman ever says no to him. “Aye?”
I smile and grip my silver satin clutch. “Rain check, Mr. Quinlan?”
He stills. “How do you—”
I glance at his breast pocket and the table card with his name peeking out. I lift it and show it to him.
“You know my name.” His voice drips with menace. “But do you know who the fuck I am? ”
I went to bed with a hot stranger. I didn’t care how powerful he was.
“You’re Connor Quinlan.” I bat my eyelashes. “Originally from Dublin? Gallway?”
He narrows his eyes. “Waterford. The accent is quite distinct.”
I shrug. “Never been to the Emerald Isle. And I never heard of Waterford.”
A series of chimes signal that the cocktail hour is over, and donors should make their way to their tables.
“I’m sure there’s room at my table.” He holds out his arm. “Have dinner with me. ”
This man is used to getting exactly what he wants. Something tells me letting him get too close this soon isn’t the best way to proceed. He’ll figure me out.
“Meet you at the dessert cart later?” I wink and put down my empty flute.
“I miss you already,” he breathes against my cheek.
And before he can say something else to melt my panties, I spin on my heel and disappear into the crowd.
With every step, my heart pounds, expecting Connor to chase after me. Hearing nothing but my heartbeat, I look over my shoulder and take in the empty sidewalk.
“Well, damn.”