8. Ciaran
Ciaran
“How the fuck did you get a meeting with Henson?” my cousin Seamus asks over the phone. I’ve got it on speaker, my hands playing with the strands of my hair. My beard is tidy, and my suit jacket is hanging on the back door.
“Seriously,” he keeps going. “If you’re going for favorite nephew status with Uncle Cormac, you’ve got it.”
“I’m not going for a gold star.” Though, I smile as I remember breaking the news this morning to our uncle.
My plan is already working.
Last week, I was some Irish tourist sniffing around parts of town I had no business in. Now, with an Akatov daughter on my arm, I can angle myself into places, and it looks natural.
Henson controls contracts that my uncle has been curious about forever.
He’d been on a list of potential clients we wanted to rub elbows with while we’re in town.
He rarely takes meetings and doesn’t like networking.
But he likes getting out of the office and spending a few hours at a restaurant where the staff wine and dine him.
I’d take pub food over that overpriced crap they served any day of the week. I might pride myself on carrying my head held high, but I knew I would’ve stuck out if I’d waltzed right in and tried to chat him up.
I’d honestly still been on the fence about speaking to Henson. If it wasn’t for Adeline’s bratty prodding, I might not have gotten up. Then when I got closer to him, I realized he was watching Liverpool. It gave me the perfect excuse to ask him the score.
“He was a lot easier to talk to than I would’ve thought,” I tell Seamus. With his polo shirt and wire-rimmed glasses, Henson looks like he could work in personal finance. I thought he was about to toss his phone at the wall when Liverpool gave up their advantage.
“You did fucking well,” Seamus compliments. I like him because it’s always genuine. There’s no underlying tension, unlike some of my other cousins. Seamus is everyone’s cheerleader, in a way that reminds me of Ian. “So the question is, why aren’t you coming out to have a drink with us?”
I fix my tie. “I’ve got plans.”
“Oh, sweet lord,” Seamus mocks. “So you have decided not to go celibate. Thank Christ.”
“Focus on your own sex life.”
“Who is it then? What sweet, innocent American has fallen for your charms?”
Adeline’s wide brown eyes flash in my mind. Her thick brown hair and plump lips. She tried to pull her hand out of mine when we went to get coffee. I’d refused, and at some point I’d grown used to the heat of her at my side.
“Cousin?” Seamus prods. “Don’t tell me it was the other way around and you’ve fallen for a charming American princess.”
I can’t help the laugh. Adeline sat with her arms crossed throughout most of lunch. Since then I’ve texted her daily, only to receive one word responses.
But I’m not pushing. Bending a person isn’t the same as breaking. I need her pliable. Willing to understand that she’s got more to gain by keeping her reputation intact instead of running off to her father and admitting all the shit that went down with her bodyguard.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Oh,” Seamus trills. “That her? Fuck, lad, at the very least take her to dinner first.”
“Don’t do anything stupid while you’re celebrating my success,” I tell him, a smile spreading across my lips. The boys will be toasting me tonight.
Since I’m still paying for my flat in Dublin, my options were limited. As soon as I moved in, I placed cameras throughout this shitty building.
My eyes have flickered to the camera feed the past five minutes.
Because Adeline stood outside for five full minutes before she found the courage to enter, the busted lock doing nothing to impede her.
She’s in jeans as she carefully walks up the stairs while balancing a garment bag.
She wanted to meet at the fundraiser tonight, but I refused the offer.
The event is similar to the one the Akatovs threw several weeks ago.
A chance for people to rub elbows while they drink.
Only this time the event is supposedly for those who don’t play in the shadows.
For golden boy politicians and civic minded donors.
Naturally, there will be quite a few people who are much more nefarious than anyone wants to think.
I don’t know what Adeline had to do to get us on the list, but she did it. If I’m able to make new connections, then I’ll be forced to start thinking of her as my lucky charm.
Though, who am I kidding? She already is.
I open the door before she knocks again.
I fix my cuff sleeves. She’s pale, her dark eyes taking up most of her face. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”
She’s made up, her hair and makeup done. The jeans aren’t going to work, though.
“Leave the door open,” I say when she tries to lock herself in the bathroom.
She slams the door shut. It takes nothing but a shove of my shoulder to pry it back open; the thing is so cheap.
“Are you fucking kidding me!” she yells, covering her breasts.
I lean against the frame. “Do you ever wear a bra?”
“Do you know anything about dresses?” she huffs.
I shrug. Guess I don’t.
“Move!” she orders. But I’m not inclined now that I’ve gotten an eyeful of her curves.
She huffs under her breath again, stomping her foot. I keep my own feet rooted to the floor, fighting the urge to pull her into the living room and flip her over the couch. Spank her fucking arse until it’s red, and make sure she’s uncomfortable the entire ride to the fundraiser.
She turns away from me, trying to scoot out of the mirror so I can’t catch her reflection either, but it’s all in vain. I watch her move, pulling out a white floor length gown.
“You’re fucking out of your mind.” I cough. “You’re not wearing that.”
Adeline shoots me a furious look over her shoulder. “I thought we already agreed you know nothing about fashion.”
“Your fucking arse is on display.” I cross my arms, my shoulder digging into the doorframe. The white dress is a halter, but the back dips so low there’s little left to the imagination.
Adeline stares at her reflection. When I think of scandalous, I think of red. Of that scrap of black material she wore when Jack attacked her.
White means purity.
She’s nothing but a sinful dream.
“I’m going to drive us tonight,” she says, struggling with her shoe. The dress is so tight it threatens her movements. I bend down, grabbing her foot.
“What no chauffeur?” I mock. I’ve already seen texts from her father. He’s aware that Jack has disappeared. She’s got a new security detail. I planned on one of her fleet vehicles driving us tonight.
Adeline takes in a deep breath and rolls her shoulders back. She does this often, like she’s enduring my presence.
I finish buckling the strap of her heel, and my hand crawls up her dress, pinching her arse.
She smacks me, stumbling back.
I smirk and grab her left foot to put on her other shoe.
“I like driving,” she blurts, and I pause. Wasn’t she bred to be a passenger princess? “I find it soothing.”
The traffic in this city is the opposite of soothing.
I smooth the skirt of her dress as I stand back up. “Are you stressed about something?”
I receive a classic Adeline look. Her face pulls down, her eyes roll in disdain. “I’ve had a long crappy week and now I’m in a ballgown. I’m going to be driving tonight, and you will be silent because those are the car rules.”
My lips twitch. “Are they?”
“My car. My rules. And I’ve decided I never want to hear an Irish accent again.”
I kiss her forehead, ignoring how she stills. She jerks when I slap her arse.
“Fine.” I’ll put up with her ridiculous rules because I find it more amusing than anything else. Until we get downstairs.
There’s a black SUV at the curb, but Adeline heads toward a car parked behind it. A bodyguard opens the door for her, and I stop, a laugh tearing from me.
“There’s no fucking way.”
“What?” She pauses, clutching her coat closed, hiding her dress.
“This is your fucking car?”
It’s a black vintage sports car. An Aston Martin, for fuck’s sake.
“This is my fucking car,” Adeline says. I’ve heard her fear, her annoyance, and her dry, sarcastic tones. This time she speaks with a clear certainty that has me blinking.
She thanks the guard, who heads back to the black SUV. I ignore the bald man’s cold gaze as he passes by.
“You drive this car?” I’d seen it posted on her social media, but it’s different seeing her treat the car with reverence.
“Remember the rules.” Adeline shuts her door, clicking her seatbelt in place. The perfect doll turns on the engine, not bothered at all about wrinkling her dress.
I buckle my seatbelt, stretching my legs as best I can in the sports car. “What?” I ask a minute later, when we’re still idling at the curb.
Her eyes are narrowed on me. “I thought you’d argue more about me driving.”
“What and give in to the gender stereotypes that only men should drive their girls around?” I pick an invisible piece of lint off my suit. “I’ll be your kept man, if that’s what you want, Adeline Marie.”
She shifts gears, smoothly pulling away from the curb. “Someday I’m going to kill you, Ciaran.”
My laugh fills the car. Even close to eight at night, traffic is at a standstill. Adeline fidgets with the radio, turning channels. She merges easily and at one point makes a face at another car on the road. She’s the calmest I’ve ever seen her, though
But when brake lights illuminate us, I catch the weariness falling around her shoulders. “School go all right this week?” I ask quietly.
“It was fine,” she murmurs back, her gaze on the cars in front of her. We’re quiet the rest of the ride.