Chapter 11
Kellin
I should have chased that bastard down and ended him.
The second he reached for her and called her that vile name, I saw red.
Fuck, I should find him, pulverize his face with my fists, and then put a bullet between his eyes.
Or through his dick.
That would be more gratifying.
When I entered the room, her shoulders were rigid, her mouth thin as a blade as she jerked away from him.
She handled herself well. Didn’t flinch under the asshole’s leering gaze. Probably been fending off guys like that for years, thanks to her father.
But that doesn’t diminish the dark rage spiraling in my chest.
How dare he lay his hands on her? Even attempt to touch her?
And a guy who would brazenly attack Declan Gallagher’s daughter like that has definitely hurt other, more vulnerable women. Shout, as she called him, possesses no redeeming qualities. Even the air around him stinks of decay.
That man—a term I use lightly—couldn’t satisfy a blow-up doll.
The temptation to yank his belt right out of the loops and string him up by his ankles, cover his body in tiny slashes, and watch him bleed out drop by drop almost overpowers me. Or strap him down to a chair and crush his fingers in a vice, one by one, before moving on to the rest of his bones.
Castrate the sick fuck so he can never act on his perverse instincts again.
More than anything, I wish I could snatch the fear from Maeve’s eyes and bury it beneath the Pacific.
Acknowledging that desire is…dangerous. A fraying at the edges of my control.
I close the door with a quiet click and let silence calm the space.
After a few moments, she sighs softly. “Really, I’m fine.” Though she steadies her voice, the blood has yet to return to her face.
I approach her and touch her elbow, relieved when she doesn’t flinch away. “Sit down, Maeve. Breathe. I’ll get you some water.”
She sips the air in tiny gasps until her chest releases the fear. “There’s a mini fridge over there.”
Following her directions, I grab a small bottle of mineral water and crack the lid. “That guy was security, right? I thought I saw him this morning.”
She shudders around a gulp of water. “Technically, he works for my father.”
So he’s mafia, not hotel security. And not Maeve’s ex, thank fuck.
I ignore the little burst of vindication that flares in my chest.
Does Declan know that his men paw at his daughter like untrained dogs? If so, does he give a shit?
I glare at the floor and wait for the fury inside me to settle. “Should we reschedule?”
“No.” She squares her shoulders, and I can’t quell a flurry of admiration over her show of strength. “No, I’m okay. I’m good.”
She twists her chestnut locks into a messy bun at the back of her head. The next instant, she’s back to all work, no play.
That sexy bun, the way she shakes off an attack and returns to business like a pro…
I’m not sure which trait I find more attractive.
Desire blazes through me, and for several seconds, I gawk like I’m sixteen again and trying to muster up the nerve to ask Maddy Wilson to homecoming.
Luckily, Maeve’s not paying me any attention.
She adjusts her computer chair and points across the room at a leather one near the bookcase. “Grab that and come sit.”
I take the opportunity to glance around her office. She showed me the door on our tour, but we never ventured inside.
Gray leather furniture and rich, colorful rugs. Tall bookcases, even taller windows, and blue walls that encourage relaxation and calm. Breezy, colorful artwork depicting ocean waves and sleepy beach towns. Every inch screams “Maeve.”
I pull the chair over to the desk and sit down across from her. “Let’s do this.”
It took a call to New York and a little scrambling, but I gathered the materials Maeve requested. Zenith is real, these records are mostly real, and as far as anyone is concerned, I’m an actual employee at the firm.
“Prospectus.” I offer her all the documents Rory painstakingly procured and that I spent a few hours printing in the hotel’s business lounge. “AUM list. Annuals. Portfolio. Everything you asked for.”
She eyes the binder, tracks its thickness, then lifts a file box from the floor. The tremor in her hands has vanished, the steel once more apparent in her spine. “Two hours with mine. And we’re both staying right here.”
“Good.” That way, if that bastard comes back, I’ll be here to teach him a lesson.
Everything Maeve touches at the hotel is impeccably organized, so I’m not surprised by the meticulous documents she hands over. The whole system’s filled with enough tasteful labels and tabs to make a CFO cry with envy.
But she still only provides a single box. Just a carefully chosen selection. Thorough enough to keep a real investor in the dark about the sort of money that really funds this fine establishment.
I respect the hustle. Curation is control, and control is—in this room and in our world—survival.
A minor inconvenience, but one I anticipated. Maeve’s sharp, and I’d be lying if I claimed that her craftiness wasn’t a huge turn on.
I sit across from her as we pore over each other’s materials. Paper shuffling, pens clicking, and our inhales and sighs—now steady after the prior excitement—are the only sounds in the otherwise quiet office.
I pretend not to notice the glances she sneaks as she checks for my reaction to different pages.
My charming, easy smile remains firmly in place.
I’ll give her nothing and watch her squirm.
Eventually, the silence proves too much, even for me. When I spy her attention on me again, my smile widens. “I thought you kept all your paperwork in your room.”
She huffs and returns her focus to the profit report she’s skimming. “Since you’ll never get a mile within my bedroom, I guess you’ll never know.”
I cover the laugh that slips out with a cough. “I’m pretty sure I’m already within a mile.”
I wiggle my eyebrows, and for a heartbeat, surprise, amusement, and irritation war on her face. Her pretty lips nearly settle into a frown before a quiet chuckle wins by a hair.
Good. She’s no longer thinking about what happened earlier.
I want that bastard’s ghost eradicated from this room.
I flip open the P&L statement, because that’s where people snitch on themselves without meaning to. I scan for anomalies, any references to unexplained expenses, any new influx of money, any new moves. Information that might point to Declan Gallagher or Nolan Doyle.
I follow the money. Linen service up six percent with occupancy flat. Food costs holding at an admirable margin that suggests someone in the kitchen knows the difference between elegance and waste.
Spa revenue dipped against trend for this zip code. Interesting. Housekeeping overtime spiked where it shouldn’t but corrected with a neatness that snags my eye. Maintenance bled for two months, then behaved like choirboys.
Idiosyncrasies, but nothing too revealing yet.
As we bend over the papers, an extra hour ticks away without either of us realizing. She asks me questions, and I make up replies. The room grows warmer by degrees.
Every accidental brush of our gazes heightens the tension between us.
Focus, Kellin.
I keep digging.
The truth lives with the vendors. House electricians, historic consultants, a landscaping outfit that bills quarterly to maintain the rooftop.
Then I strike gold.
Security. In-house payroll is light, vendor coverage even lighter. Shift differential at night is anemic. There’s enough here for maybe two full-time guys at most: one day shift, one night.
Not even close to reality.
Though the figures appear sound, her numbers are lying. I’ve walked these halls enough to know there are more bodies on the carpets after nine in the evening than this ledger can afford, even if they’re paid in drinks and comped rooms.
The cost for that kind of muscle, at that density, should be its own line item, but there’s nothing.
Security this visible doesn’t come for free. If the money’s not on her books…
Then they don’t belong to the hotel at all. Instead—like that fucker called Shout—the guards all belong to Declan Gallagher.
I continue working the rows, and the numbers tell the same story.
Someone outside the hotel pays for the night watch.
Someone who could claim ownership.
Declan. Must be. Which marks the hotel as an active, if unofficial, Port Kings asset.
I’d still bet money that Declan’s in that penthouse.
Which means Nolan Doyle and his encrypted files may be there too.
Maeve’s focused on a spreadsheet, brow furrowed, lips moving faintly as she checks sums.
Beautiful, brilliant, and utterly unaware of the danger sitting across from her.
I found what I needed. Holding patterns and holes in all the right places. Her father’s reach bleeds through the reports.
I close the folder and recline in the chair, letting the silence pull her attention back to me.
“Your operating costs are remarkably clean.”
Her head tips in a silent challenge. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”
“An observation.” I rise and walk around the desk, invading her space.
Her breath catches, and she sucks her lower lip between her teeth.
Bending down, I brace my hands on the armrests of her chair and press in close, watching intently. At the slightest hint of fear, I’ll back off. I may be a bastard, but even I won’t push seduction on a woman who just fended off a sexual predator.
Her pupils dilate, and her cheeks flush, but she shows no signs of alarm and doesn’t move. Satisfaction unfurls in my gut.
“What aren’t you telling me, Maeve?” My voice is low, my eyes glued to hers.
I wait for her reply as she lifts herself from the chair.
Inches separate us. I swear sparks crackle in those empty millimeters.
Our negotiation, no longer about numbers, has become personal, growing more intimate by the moment.
She’s hiding things, but in an effort to protect her father or herself? Is she attempting to distance herself from Declan or closing ranks?
I have to know. Am possessed by this overwhelming demand for her honesty.
Because I want her.
I hunger for that not yet to become a right now.
I burn with the urge to bend—not break—her, to prove she can lean on me. To feel her hands under my shirt, her breasts against my chest.
I long to wrap my arms around her and trace circles on the small of her back. For her to push up on her toes and claim my mouth the way she almost did last night.
I seethe with the need to erase that bastard from her memory…and for the two of us to quit wasting time and surrender to temptation.
But I don’t do any of those things.
Instead, I place my palms on the desk behind her hips, building a cage and trapping her without touching a single inch of her. I lower my head until my mouth hovers next to her cheek, near enough that my breath stirs the tiny hairs at her temple.
She smells of vanilla and jasmine. Warm, soft, and delicious. Tempting. I could drag my tongue over her throat and taste her like an ice cream cone.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Maeve stares up at me, chin tilted, eyes defiant but soft at the edges. The kind of softness that undoes men who should know better.
Her throat moves, but nothing comes out.
Is she wondering why I’m still here?
I’m not.
I’ll be damned if I give another Shout the opportunity to corner her again.
I don’t trust myself not to care.
Because I already do. And that’s a problem.
Her eyes flutter shut, her lashes leaving soft shadows on her cheeks. When they open again, those clear brown irises ignite with a challenge. Clear, dangerous, intoxicating.
For one long minute, we don’t move.
I shouldn’t be this close. Maeve is not a woman I’m allowed to want.
She’s an assignment. A variable.
A means to an end.
She licks her lips, and I devour the act, a spark of white-hot lust scorching my veins. “I could ask you the same thing, Kellin. What aren’t you telling me?”