Chapter 6 Kellin
Kellin
By the time we sit back down, Maeve appears to have shaken off the entire incident at the bar. A shame that she’s not more off-kilter. An unbalanced target is weak and easier to manipulate.
Though she is Declan’s daughter and has probably seen and experienced a lot worse than an encounter with a drunk nuisance.
When I remember her pained whimper after that fucker grabbed her, my hands curl into fists. His timing couldn’t have been worse. Everything was flowing perfectly. After two and a half wine glasses, her guard was slipping.
And then that asshole appeared and caused a scene. Though I have no room to complain. I’m the one who offered him a huge sum of money to pull the stunt. I wanted a setup so I could rush in and rescue her in an attempt to gain her trust. But I never told that cocksucker to put his hands on her.
The second he touched her, I saw red.
I was already behind her, ready to intercede as planned. The moment she cried out, the play changed. The next thing I knew, I had the man by his shirt so I could drag him away.
I’ve never experienced anything close to the white-hot rage that boiled beneath my skin.
Sure, I’ve killed people. But I’ve never wanted—needed—to hurt someone as much as I wanted—needed—to hurt him.
Maeve’s expression when she realized what I’d done, that brief flash of relief…
I don’t understand the protectiveness that reared its ugly head in that moment. Don’t have time to think about the implications.
Once I threw the man in the elevator—with a fist to the gut for good measure—I was hoping Maeve and I could continue our evening where we left off.
But of course, she’s walled up again. Even on a normal night, dealing with that scene would rattle anyone, but given how much effort she’s put in to impress me and my “company”…
Maeve is rightly anxious that our evening might be ruined.
By the time we sit back down, Maeve’s guard seems to have lowered again, though not as much as I’d hoped. Not as much as before that bastard grabbed her.
She still doesn’t trust me.
That’s okay. This is only the first night. I have time.
I can still use this incident to my advantage.
I shift in my seat and reach for my glass. Maeve tenses, her eyes flicking over me.
She’s jumpy. Good.
I give her a sympathetic smile. It’s all right. These things happen. “Still thinking about that mess?”
Her gaze drops to the table. For a moment, she curls in on herself. Then she straightens, shoulders back, chin up. “All in a day’s work. I apologize that you had to witness that.”
Deflecting. A familiar game.
“I’m sorry I didn’t step in sooner.” The words are scripted and expected but oddly true.
Yanking his arm like that—nearly ripping it out of its socket—mollified my anger over his outburst just enough that I didn’t have to kill him.
She’s not a bitch. Maeve is clever, dedicated, hardworking, and sexy as fuck.
But she’s also my mark. A way for me to obtain the information I require for my mission.
I need to remember that.
I only have two weeks before Declan unleashes hell on the Gallaghers of New York. Pleasant conversations and idle strolls around the hotel, while nice, won’t garner me the necessary intel. I don’t have time to piss around.
And I have to ensure my attraction to her works in my favor and doesn’t trip me up. I’ll get her in bed, if necessary, but I can’t let even the best sex distract me from my primary goal.
Maeve twirls a lock of hair that’s fallen over her shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to step in at all.” Her voice softens, her face growing solemn.
Though I wish I could read her mind, I settle for reading her body language and micro-expressions.
She’s fidgeting with her hair, her free hand tapping on the table. She’s embarrassed, or ashamed, to have a potential business partner witness that.
She’s also avoiding my gaze. Speaking in a subdued tone. There’s a finite slump to her shoulders. Maeve’s disappointed in herself, and I can almost see her self-confidence faltering.
I ignore the pang in my chest. All of her reactions show vulnerabilities I can poke. “Does that happen around here a lot?”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “No!” She exhales, sharp and quick, displeasure etched into her features. “What I mean is…we don’t get any more idiots here than any other hotel.”
“A normal number of idiots come through here. Got it.”
She blinks, a small smirk sneaking onto her face when she realizes I’m teasing.
After a moment, she huffs. “Anyway, I’m sorry for that brief disturbance. Ready to get back to business?”
I jump in with more questions about the hotel. Their renovations to the original building, how many rooms it has, the facilities, the amenities. Though I don’t care that much about the answers, she does, and an investor would too.
Maeve showcases her professionalism as she responds to my queries. It’s obvious how knowledgeable she is and how much she cares about this hotel.
Even after all the wine, her replies are smooth, her mind quick. The alcohol simply loosened her up a little and tinted her cheeks a rosy shade of pink.
This woman is a mesmerizing distraction.
Her tone warms when she describes the process of choosing one style of hardwood flooring over another.
Her brown eyes sparkle as she points to the chandelier above us, explaining how she commissioned it from a famous German designer.
She chats for at least ten minutes about hiring the right sommelier for the downstairs bar.
She laughs when I tease about the need for emergency wine, and fuck if the sound doesn’t shoot a spark through my whole body, curling to a stop deep in my chest.
She’s enthralling. Infectious. I could listen to her discuss her hotel for hours.
But I’m still on a mission.
“Could you tell me a little bit about the other owner?” I steeple my fingers, trying to keep my manner open and warm. “Declan Gallagher, right? Given the last name, I assume you’re related.”
Her face becomes stone. “My father. But I’m afraid there’s not much I can say that isn’t already public knowledge.”
The shift in her demeanor snags my attention. Catching and analyzing these little tells is in my wheelhouse.
Sounds like she and Declan aren’t exactly planning weekly father-daughter dates. Interesting.
“Oh? Why’s that?” My question is curious rather than pushy.
“He’s a very private man, very busy, and rarely accepts meetings. I handle all outward-facing business transactions here at the Cypress.”
From that, I infer that Declan doesn’t conduct any direct dealings with or for the hotel, but he’s often around. Does she mean he works behind the scenes, or that anything he does here is unrelated to business operations?
Her earlier caginess about the penthouse tracks. I’d bet the contents of my bank account that’s where Declan’s conducting business this very moment.
I hide the excitement of my discovery by sipping my whiskey. “Is there anything you don’t do, Maeve?”
My compliment thaws the tension I created easily enough, though I note her discomfort.
Anything that makes her defensive or uncomfortable is a potential weak spot to exploit later.
Perhaps the greatest surprise of the evening is that I’ve enjoyed our dinner so far.
I keep the conversation flowing, shifting to casual and personal topics before cycling back to business. Sharing a personal detail always acts as an effective softener before I sneak in the leading questions.
“I’ve always loved the East Coast, don’t get me wrong, but the Pacific just hits differently. It’s no wonder the Cypress does so well. Though I imagine things might slow down in the winter. Do you tend to lose revenue over the cooler months?”
Maeve’s response includes some probing of her own.
“We manage our budget to cover year-round profitability. Some of our busiest times are actually in Santa Monica’s offseason, because locals love hosting winter weddings and conferences here.
Plus, our weather’s always good.” The smooth, evasive retort comes without a beat.
“I read that Zenith recently lost a rather large contract with that real estate developer in Virginia. Were you involved with that?”
Admiration fills me as she turns the tables. There’s nothing I enjoy more than facing a worthy opponent…as long as I win in the end. She’s forcing me to conjure up lies on the fly.
Lucky for me, I’m great at my job. Even if he didn’t know this at the time, Finn sent the best.
Another man might find her unpredictability frustrating, but this sort of challenge excites me.
The hunt is never any fun when the prey is too easy to catch.
Under different circumstances, I might even ask her on a real date.
Maeve Gallagher is quick-witted, savvy, and funny. Her physical beauty is just icing on the cake.
But I can’t get distracted. Not even by that cute little beauty mark on her cheek just below her right eye.
I have a job to perform, and nothing will get in my way. Not if I hope to earn a high-level role within Finn’s operation, as well as his trust. With a little luck, I’ll get to fuck Maeve in addition to extracting the information I need on Nolan Doyle’s whereabouts.
Apart from that, she means nothing.
Eventually, our server returns to the table with the dessert menu. While Maeve declines any sweets, I know from my research that she likes them.
I give the server a breezy smile. “I’ll have the tiramisu.” Turning to Maeve, I hold out the menu. “You sure you don’t want anything?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine, but thank you.”
When the tiramisu arrives, a layered square of creamy, espresso-soaked perfection, I raise an eyebrow at Maeve and gesture toward the dessert. Her online habits point to a serious sweet tooth, and a post from a few months back identified tiramisu as her absolute favorite.
“Care for a bite?”
Her eyes fall straight to the plate. The hungry expression she directs at the little confection—a slight widening of her eyes, a flick of her tongue against her lips—conveys that I’m in.
“If you insist.” She begins to reach for her fork, but I spear a piece on my own and offer her the bite.
I’m seducing her for the job. Logically, I remember that. But as I watch her hesitate, desire gleaming in her eyes before she closes her sumptuous lips around the fork…
Her soft moan of pleasure as she explores the flavors on her tongue…
Fuck. Now all I can think about is how to put those lips to much better use.
The fact that indulging myself could restore my spot in Finn’s good graces seems too good to be true.
I track the little dip of her throat when she swallows, and I resist the urge to drag my mouth over her neck. Her tongue snakes out to lick a bit of mascarpone from the corner of her lip, and I’d give anything to fist her hair and claim her mouth with mine.
For a moment, I wonder who’s seducing who.
When dessert is nearly complete—with my pants tighter in front thanks to her sexy little display over the tiramisu—a man enters the VIP section.
Her shoulders tense once she spots him, and at a jerk of his chin, she rises and crosses the floor to join him without even a farewell to me.
As she whispers to the man, I seize the opportunity to examine him.
Broad shoulders and chest. Short, functional brown hair, skin more olive than tan. A nose just off-center from a few too many breaks and hasty resets.
I recognize him from my research. Maeve’s younger brother, Brody.
The siblings step down into the main restaurant and head for the bar, their heads bent together.
I sip the last of my whiskey, my senses tingling as I train my attention on their backs.
Just what are they talking about?