7. CHAPTER THREE
One drink with Trista turns into two, then three. Then… I lose count.
“Holy shit,” she mutters into her water because she’s driving. “It’s after seven.”
She’s a mother with an adorable two-year-old and a husband at home. I’ve made her miss dinner with them with my complaining that slowly morphed into drunken whining.
Food would be a good idea, but the Jameson is meeting my caloric needs at the moment.
“Did I mention what I just told you was off the record?” I say, holding my breath.
“I know how to douse the truth with enough sources say about an unknown entity blah, blah, blah.” She waves me off.
Trista will add just enough fluff and drama to keep people reading without ever divulging anything sensitive. Or meaningful.
In the hours since the trial, while drowning my unease over the dismissed case, I did some digging of my own on Eoghan O’Rourke. He’s the consigliere for his older brother in Astoria, New York. There are plenty of notes about him and his family entered into the task force databases we share with the FBI.
One note from a special agent left chills in my veins:
Don’t let the Harvard education fool you. This man is high ranking and very dangerous.
Just being a lawyer for the mob isn’t evidence of a crime. If he’s committed any crimes, he has the power to cover them up.
“Anyway, there’s another case brewing that I want to work on,” I say to fool Trista into thinking I have my shit together.
I’ll just have to work harder to convince Daniel I’m director material and strong enough to take down Borgia Cosa Nostra Underboss Lazaro Scava.
I choke on my drink as piercing blue eyes from across the bar shatter my train of thought.
Eoghan O’Rourke.
He glances from me to Trista, eyes narrowing.
Does he know she’s a reporter?
“You should get going,” I warn her.
Eoghan got his brother’s case dismissed because he’s a dangerous man who even got to Daniel.
Would he actually hurt the mother of a two-year-old?
Not wanting to game-theory that out in my head, I hug Trista.
“You sure you’re all right here alone?” she asks with a tight squeeze.
“Of course.”
“And you’ll call for a lift, and not try to walk home?”
“Promise.” But I cross my fingers behind my back, because I love walking the strip at night.
The energy, the lights, and the hum of the crowd excite me. Loving the Bellagio fountains is a cliché, but it’s my favorite spot to zone out. The buzz and the gushing water just turn me the hell on.
As Trista leaves, I swallow that down and all the dirty fantasies I can’t get out of my head.
I plan to give Mr. Harvard lawyer a piece of my dirty mind. A man who is so off-limits, he’s not a fantasy, he’s a death-wish.
I may not have a fancy Harvard degree. (I pronounce it nasally, like a four-year-old.) But I do have a solid one from good ole UNLV.
The near constant perfect weather and a plethora of corruption cases to work on trapped me here in Sin City like I’d stepped in wet concrete, and it hardened around my ankles. This is my home, where I belong.
As I approach Satan, he turns in his seat, one hand clasped around a tumbler, the other between his legs in a sexy taunt. His eyes draw me in and my ankles wobble at his cut square jaw, chiseled cheek bones, and dimpled chin.
Watching me, his full lips part and they tease a smile, but he immediately frowns as I get closer.
“A word, Counselor,” I say, clenching my stomach.
“Speak.” He levels his gaze at me, and I can’t remember my name for a moment.
“I don’t know what kind of deal you made with Director Vance, but I had charges a mile long against your brother with no firm defense from him. That case was important to me. We can’t all be rich like you with your fancy suit and expensive cologne.”
“You’re pissed,” he scowls into his drink, one I recognize by the sweet scent of expensive tequila.
Figures…
“Yes, I’m pissed.”
“I mean, you’re drunk.”
“You’re observant. But how much I drink is none of your business.”
“You’re a prosecutor in this city.” His brawny hand closes around my right forearm, the touch so personal and intimate, it rattles me. “You want people to see you like this?”
“I…” I hate that he has a point.
Before I argue further, he drags me to a tufted vinyl booth in the back of the bar. “Sit your arse down.”
“My… My bar tab and my purse,” I shriek, feeling around my shoulders, realizing I left it hanging off the back of my leather stool.
“I’ll take care of your tab and get your purse. Do. Not. Move.” He stalks off, signaling to a server and pointing to the booth.
It wouldn’t make sense to run. I won’t get very far without my phone, money, or keys.
A few moments later, while I’m hugging myself in embarrassment, O’Rourke returns with my purse clutched in his fist.
He places it next to him, and when I reach for it, he nudges it out of my way. “I talk. You listen.”
“I was assigned your brother’s case, but that didn’t mean I…” The rest of that sentence dies in my throat at the look he gives me.
“You’re a corruption prosecutor. Seeing the name O’Rourke didn’t give you pause?” How he says his last name with such pride but also fury at my disrespect is chilling.
“Can I have my purse?” I’m seeing two of him at this point.
“No.” He leans back, and when a server places a cup of coffee on the table, he slides that in front of me. “Drink.”
“I don’t need coffee,” I scoff and push it away.
A smile spreads across his lips and reaches his eyes for the first time. “Then I’m going to babysit you until you sober up.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be sober.”
“That brings me to my first point. You shouldn’t be publicly drunk.”
“This is Las Vegas. Everyone gets drunk. And every other person is…” I stop, fearing I’ve said too much.
“Every other person is…” He taunts me to finish.
“Corrupt,” I say, like I said Harvard in my head earlier.
Eoghan’s face turns to stone. “Time to go.”
Before I know it, I’m hauled out of my seat and we’re behind the bar in a dark alley.
He pushes me against the brick wall, and with my purse tucked under his arm, he makes a call. He may be sober, and I may be drunk, but I can see he’s trying to manage three things with two arms, so I use my self-defense skills and take advantage.
I kick his shin and grab my bag.
A ruthless mob boss like Eoghan O’Rourke has skills that keep him alive on the streets. But he grunts at my kick, and puts me in a bear hold, my face now squished against the bricks.
Eoghan’s groin jams my ass, and I must be really drunk because I feel a thick, stiff erection. The long line of it bulges from his pants and nudges firmly into my crack.
Sweet Jesus.
“Are you hard?” I moan.
“Aye,” he drawls in a lilt that melts me.
But I shake away any feeling of arousal. “Get off on brutalizing women?”
“I’m protecting you. Not brutalizing you.” His hot breath fans the shell of my ear. “And that gets me hard.”
“Who are you calling?”
“A car service to get us.”
“Us?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
He spins me around and wedges that stiff erection right between my thighs. “I know exactly where you live.”
My heart pounds, my brain screaming mob boss, mob boss, mob boss.
“Don’t hurt me,” I whisper.
“You think I’d harm you?” His blue eyes shine as he blinks in shock.
“Because I tried to put your brother away, yes.”
He studies my face, the light from a nearby lamppost shadowing the other side of his. “I don’t hurt women. And you were never going to put my brother away.”
“I wanted to, though. I could taste it.”
“You’re young. Ambition is intoxicating.” He smiles wickedly. “I get that.”
“The Jameson is, too.” My cheek twitches from a stab of pain.
His eyes stray that way. “What happened to your face?”
“You just shoved me against the wall.”
Everything about him changes, seeing what feels like a scratch on my cheek. “I’ll take care of you when I get you home.”
“You don’t have to take me home.”
“I am taking you home.” The authoritative tone strikes a nerve and heat coils low in my belly.
A black sedan pulls up and with his arm around my waist, Eoghan leads me to the car. He opens the door and with impressive finesse, lowers me inside, cupping my head so I don’t bang it.
“Do not move.” He closes the door and gets in on the other side.
He’s so damn big, even though this is a full-size Mercedes, his tree-trunk thighs brush against mine.
“Is this your car?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think it’s wise that my car is seen parked at your building.”
My blood runs cold when, without asking me, he tells the driver my condo’s address. Then he leans toward my ear to whisper, “Unit 707, correct?”
“How… How do you know my address?”
“I know everything, Jillian Diamond.” His fingers cup my chin and his eyes settle on my mouth. “I’m willing to forgive you for trying to put my brother in jail.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Let me fuck you.” His blazing look of lust has my thighs clenching.
Every cell explodes with need. My hormones are out of control because I’ve never actually had sex. Dating is difficult when you’re a thirty-year-old virgin, and men in Sin City want experience.
“I could charge you with extortion,” I mutter.
“You thinking you could beat me in court has my cock dripping with precum to take you so hard, you’ll see stars.” He scoops up my hand and presses it on his groin. “Go ahead, love. Squeeze.”
Good fricking Lord, the size of that thing…
“I would have beaten you in court today.” I close my fingers around his length, tightening my grip on it the way I read in the romance novels I devour for my book club. “If it was a fair fight.”
“Fuuuck, yeah.” He gives a throaty groan. “I’m so bringing you home to fuck you all night. Get it out of my system before I go insane.”
“I don’t think this will fit inside me.” My clit throbs as I fight the mental image of being on my back, legs spread for him.
“It will fit. I’ll get you so wet with my mouth, my cock will slide right in. All ten inches.”
My eyes flutter, and I wonder if I’m so drunk that I’m imagining this conversation.
I’m drunk!
“You know I’m three sheets, right?”
“Aye,” he says all gravelly and pleased with himself.
“And you’ll take advantage of me?”
“When we get into your apartment, I’ll put my face between your legs and find out if you’re sober enough to consent to me.”
“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
“Better than burying my cock inside the feistiest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?” He presses down on my hand. “You have my dick harder than it’s been in a very long time.”
I take that as a no, and having him close like this, I ask the question that swirled in my mind all afternoon.
“Where’s your brother?”
“On a plane to Ireland.”
I bite my lip, fighting a rude response.
“And Ana Michaels?” I ask instead since she wasn’t even in court.
He studies me. “Ana is now married to Cormac’s twin brother, Darragh. Her name is Ana O’Rourke.”
Holy Mother of God… What the hell did I step into here? Married to the twin!
The driver announces we’ve arrived, and Eoghan pushes his forehead into mine. “Do not move. I’m getting out. I open the door for you. Do you understand, brat?”
Throat tightening, I nod.
Eoghan pulls himself out of the car like it’s an effort with all his weight which I’m sure is mostly hard muscle and arrogance.
I snatch my purse against my chest to hide how this dirty-talking lawyer makes my body respond. My car door opens, and Eoghan’s brawny hand reaches for mine.
He helps me out and with his arm around my waist, he says to the driver, “You can go.”
You can go… He plans to stick around. And do what?
Oh right, take me hard enough so I see stars.
I must be dreaming.
And if I am, please don’t let me wake up…