2. Avery
AVERY
Mouth open in horror, I stare at the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
He has black, curly hair, moss-green eyes, and a hard, masculine jawline, and stubble so long it’s become almost a short beard.
It suits him, only making him look rugged when his hair and big eyes would otherwise tip him into being pretty.
He’s stunning. He has effortless presence and power.
And I was doing the silly “you can do it” dance to pep myself up.
My face heats. I gurgle helplessly.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t…” Oh no. This can’t be happening.
I swallow hard. “Know anyone was here.” I manage to spit out the explanation.
Hopefully without actual spit. “Or I wouldn’t have been…
” humiliating myself by doing a ridiculous singing and dancing routine that is strictly “dance like nobody is watching, but first, double check that no one is watching”. “It’s a popular thing on…”
I trail off as he smirks. He doesn’t need to know about my little self-help and confidence video addiction.
“It was certainly a thing,” he says with a hint of amusement.
And his accent? Ohhh wow. His Irish accent is like dark liquid honey with a kicker of expensive alcohol.
I straighten and attempt to rewind the past two minutes with the sheer intensity of my humiliation as my face flushes the colour and temperature of a strawberry being thrown into the sun.
There aren’t words to describe how embarrassed I am.
And as I gaze at him, I realise it’s so much worse than I thought.
He isn’t just any random gorgeous man in the beautiful old headquarters of the Archway and Highgate.
He’s the mafia boss. I’ve grown up with rumours and whispers about the Farrell family.
Killian Farrell. The Devil of Archway.
Known for having charm but no mercy, for being sadistic, feared. He’s the reason I hesitated before entering this building. The reason my stomach twists, even as I die inside that I’ve made a fool of myself.
“Sorry.” I cringe. “I’m trying to get a job.
” I pluck the pile of printed CVs from my bag on the floor and wave them, as though paper that details my law degree and the fact I ran the historical society at university will convince him I’m not insane.
“I’ve been doing this all day, and I just ducked in here to give myself a little pep talk because…
” This is the headquarters of the Archway mafia, and it’s silly to think that they’d hire me.
His eyebrows quirk up. “You’re going door to door?”
I nod and bite my lip. “Over two hundred today. I’m going to every business, without exception.” Annnddd now I’ve made it sound like the Farrells are just one of any number of companies, and not the biggest and most important in this part of London.
Nice.
His brow furrows.
“I tried the job websites and things, but I get auto rejected most of the time,” I blurt out, because I would love this man to not think I’m a complete idiot.
Plus, I can’t stop talking now I’ve started.
“Everyone pre-screens applications these days and I’m…
” I’m young, a girl, and inexperienced. I have no chance.
“Then I went to all the legal firms. But none of them are taking on entry-level staff, because, well. You know.” I shrug helplessly.
I don’t mention anything about modern technology.
People can be unpredictable on that topic.
And this is the Devil of Archway. It’s a bad idea to annoy him any more than I already have.
He holds out his hand. Big, and tattoos over his knuckles are visible before he turns his palm up.
He has long, blunt fingers. A vision of what his hand would look like spanned over my skin forms in my mind.
How the black ink would be stark contrasted with my thigh.
How he’d be able to hold any part of me easily.
Crazy thoughts.
“Your CV,” he says mildly when I manage to drag my eyes back to his face.
“Right, yes, sorry.” I’m flustered by the magnetic appeal of this man, and my cheeks flame again. I’m at risk of heatstroke from my blushing.
I snatch at the stack of paper, and the top one rips with a sound like a thunderclap.
“Oops!” I try to make light of it, and grab the next.
It crumples under my clumsy fingers. I’m trying to do the simplest task on the planet, and failing.
No wonder I can’t get a job. “Not that one, it’s creased.
” My face might be permanently singed from how hot it is.
“I’ll just…” The next piece I fold the corner.
Finally, I pass him a pristine copy. “Here.” My chest is heaving as though passing him a CV is a marathon.
Phew. Okay.
Calm.
He scans down the page. “Avery Morgan.”
“And you’re Killian Farrell.” I press my lips together as he switches that dark-green gaze from the CV to me.
He’s a predator, and I’m a stumbling little doe.
“You can call me Kill. For short.” A second of his intent gaze almost makes me faint, then he glances back at the paper.
Kill. It really suits him. Brutal as the word is, it has unexpected depth. But it also shows very clear who I’m dealing with.
“Kill,” I repeat stupidly.
“You live in my territory.”
I give a jerky little nod. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” It’s a low, thoughtful sound, as he continues reading.
Seconds tick past.
I don’t know what to do with myself. My hands feel weird. What should I do with my arms? I shift, thinking about picking up my bag. Ready to run?
The heat reduces to a manageable burn on my face, but my skin itches. I remember what I wrote on the CV. My grades from school exams. Everything on it seems so pathetic when a man like this is reading it.
I put my first-aid certificate and swimming badges on, because I didn’t have enough to fill two pages. Swimming badges.
I guess at least he’ll know I won’t drown if he throws me in the Thames River.
“It’s not much, but I’m a hard worker,” I say into the silence.
“A degree is more than I have.” He lowers the paper and levels me a look. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult. His green eyes are the infinite dark limits of a forest that disappears at the horizon.
“You don’t need a law degree.” I’m unsure whether to be pleased or fear for my life. “You’re a kingpin.”
He nods. There’s a long pause where he’s obviously assessing me. “I’ll offer you a job, Avery.”
My whole body jolts.
“Yes!” There’s no hesitation, just gratitude spilling through me so hard I could cry. A job. Finally. “Thank you so much! That would be amazing!”
The corners of his mouth tug upwards. “You haven’t heard what it is yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. I need a job. I can’t return home as a failure for another day. So long as I can put it on my CV, I’ll take it. Honestly, thank you,” I gush.
“Good.” His smile spreads into an expression that’s downright panty wetting. In both senses of the word.
Terrifying, yes. Sexy? Double yes.
“You’ll be my insider in a little ‘competition’ my mother has arranged.”
“Okay,” I reply, confused, but this seems possible?
“I need you to be a contestant, and I need you to win.”
I blink. “Win?” My stomach sinks. “I don’t know if I can do that. What if I—”
“You will.” He says it like it’s fact.
“What’s it for? I mean, if it’s terrible dancing, or being awkward, or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, I’ve got that licked. But otherwise—”
“To be my wife.”
My ghost drifts up to the ceiling. I’m dead. This is the end, because I think this gorgeous man just said his mother is running a competition to marry him.
There’s no way this is real.
“But, why?” I gesture at him stupidly, as though I could make him see what I see. The amazing good looks, the obvious wealth, the influence, the reputation as a man who gets what he wants, regardless of morals or legalities.
A devil.
Someone who doesn’t need to have his mother find him a woman. He could crook his finger to anyone. In the street, probably. Just “hey, you, come over here” and they’d comply because not only is he dangerous and powerful, he’s stunningly handsome.
He sighs and runs his hand through his hair in frustration. The gesture returns my attention to how big his hands are, how touchable his hair is, and the strength in his shoulders even when it’s not in use.
“I’m forty years old, and my mother is a menace,” he says with affectionate irritation. “She’s been on at me to provide her with a grandchild or six. I’ve been focused on the business of the mafia, especially since Dad retired. I don’t have time for dating. But with my dad’s declining health…”
“You decided to get married?” I say when he doesn’t continue.
His beautiful mouth twists like he tasted a lemon. “More I gave in. I promised when I was twenty that if I wasn’t married by the time I was forty, I would let my mother choose my bride.”
I gape. “Why would you agree to that?”
“Because when you’re twenty, forty seems a lifetime away.
” He smiles wryly, and I’m suddenly very aware of how much older he is.
Twenty was only two years ago for me. It was twenty for him.
He’s almost twice my age. “I thought I’d meet the right person years before now.
Or at least someone I could tolerate. It was the stupid agreement of a twenty-year-old who thinks he’ll never grow up.
” He shakes his head. “Or thinks he has infinite time to get to this problem. But I’ll be forty-one in a couple of months’ time, and my promise has been collected. ”
“But you’re the kingpin. You could just refuse? Is it legal? Is there a contract? If she made you sign something when you were young, it could have been under duress.” My mind whirrs. Maybe I can be useful to him. I could fix this. “I can look through it for you?”
He laughs softly. “You haven’t met my mother. There’s nothing written down, and she won’t give in. She’s waited twenty years. She’d sooner murder me than lose this chance.”
“Oh. She feels strongly then? My parents never seem to feel strongly about anything. Maybe just enough to grumble, but not to…” I don’t know why I’m saying this. I must have a death wish. “Change, or take a risk.”
“My mother is the opposite. And to be honest, my father’s illness has made me more aware that life isn’t forever.” There’s a flash of bleakness in his eyes.
“I’m sorry about your father.” It’s such a helpless thing to say. For all their wealth and power, even the Archway mafia can’t escape time.
“You’d think a mafia boss wouldn’t need reminding that life is short.” He looks at me intently.
I nod, but I don’t understand. Not really.
“My mother promised to arrange everything. She said we’d whittle down to a reasonable number, and I’d just have to choose one. A baby or two, a couple of years, and then I’d have done my duty.”
“Oh.” This is how the rich and notorious live, I guess?
“I agreed, and now she’s gone crazy. She has a whole process planned out, a contest. And I’m concerned that she might have candidates who aren’t in it for the right reasons. That’s where you come in.” His green eyes gleam.
“Me?” I still can’t believe this. “I pretend that I’m a candidate, and instead help you avoid marriage?” He said I needed to win, implying we’ll get married, but that’s clearly absurd.
“Exactly.”
“But how do I get a place in the competition?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says smoothly. “I’ll arrange it. I’m the prize, after all.” There’s a hint of weariness as well as grim humour in that statement.
“What exactly will this involve?” I ask nervously.
“There won’t be anything you’re not capable of. Now, do we have a deal?”
A shimmer goes down my spine. Something in his expression is so feral. Wild. It’s as though he’s cut all the dozens of leashes that hold him down to being civilised.
I take a deep breath. “You’ll pay me? As a proper job?”
“Of course. We’ll say you’re my legal advisor, and you can have a salary of…” He pauses, as though he really doesn’t know about such triflingly mundane things, then names a figure that makes my head spin.
“A year?”
“A month.” He smiles, and it’s so savage that despite his neat suit and the fact it’s not cold, I shiver.
But it’s a job. And I’m desperate.
“Okay.” I hold out my hand to shake his, but when he takes it, he brings it to his lips, his green eyes gleaming as he views me through long, sooty lashes, his head bowed. The kiss he places on my knuckles shudders all the way up my arm and then down my spine, pooling heat between my legs.
A deal with the Devil of Archway.
What have I done?