Chapter 33 Logan
Logan
The boutique I pull up to is exactly what Nuala needs—exclusive, expensive, and discreet. The kind of place where they don’t ask questions about blood money as long as the card clears.
“I can’t go in there,” Nuala says, staring through the windshield at the Georgian storefront with its minimalist displays.
I kill the engine and study her profile. She’s chewing her bottom lip again, a tell I’m learning means she’s spiraling into self-doubt. The black hoodie swamps her body, and the leggings, while still new, have a small hole in the knee from when we dove for cover in the bar.
“Why not?”
She gestures at herself with a bitter laugh. “Look at me, Logan. I don’t belong in a place like that.”
My jaw tightens as something protective and territorial claws its way up my spine. The idea that she thinks she’s not good enough for anything makes me want to burn down every person who ever made her feel small.
“You belong anywhere I take you,” I say, letting steel creep into my voice. “Besides, we need you looking like someone who can sit across from a private banker without him writing you off as irrelevant.”
“What if they won’t serve me?”
My smile turns cold. “Then I’ll buy the building and fire everyone.”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, but I don’t give her time to refute my words.
“Come on,” I say, already getting out. “Trust me.”
She follows reluctantly, her shoulders hunched like she’s expecting someone to call security. The protective urge intensifies. She has no idea how stunning she is, how her natural grace shows through even when she’s trying to make herself invisible.
The boutique door is heavy glass and chrome. I hold it open, inhaling her scent as she passes.
The interior is cream marble with soft lighting, designed to make wealthy women feel pampered while they spend obscene amounts of money.
An assistant glides toward us. She’s tall, elegant, and wearing something that she probably purchased here with a hefty staff discount.
Her smile is professional, but the coldness in her eyes is unmistakable.
I make a show of looking at her nametag to remind her of her place.
“Siobhan.” I place my hand on the small of Nuala’s back.
She stiffens slightly at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.
The possessive satisfaction that floods through me is dangerous.
“We need a complete wardrobe. Business appropriate.” I hold up the black AMEX card that I used to loathe as a priest, and now I thank God for. The irony hits me hard.
Siobhan’s gaze darkens as she takes in the card and then slides to Nuala, and I watch her make rapid calculations. I can practically see the euro signs in her eyes as she takes in the challenge of transformation.
“Of course. What kind of business occasions?”
“Irrelevant,” I state coldly.
“I see.” Siobhan circles Nuala like a predator sizing up prey, her eyes calculating measurements and possibilities. “Size eight?”
“Ten,” Nuala corrects, color flooding her cheeks.
I want to tell her that her curves are perfect, that I’ve memorized every inch of her body and wouldn’t change a damn thing. But that conversation is for when we’re alone.
“Hmm.” Siobhan tilts her head. “We’ll start with both.” She claps her hands together with practiced enthusiasm. “Right then. Shoes first, I think. What size?”
“Five.”
Siobhan disappears into the back, and I move closer to Nuala. She looks like she’s ready to bolt.
“Relax,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. “You have every right to be here.”
“Do I? Because I feel like a fraud.”
“You’re not a fraud. You’re a woman who deserves beautiful things. Let me give them to you.”
Her breath catches, and I see the moment she stops fighting this. Stops fighting me.
Siobhan returns with an armful of shoeboxes, setting them on a low table like an offering. “Try these,” she says, pulling out a pair of black heels that are pure sin—sleek, dangerous, the kind that would make any man drop to his knees.
Nuala slips off her running shoes and socks. The heels slide on perfectly, transforming her legs, making her look like she could rule boardrooms and break hearts. My mouth goes dry as I watch her test her balance.
“Good,” I murmur. “Try the navy ones too.”
The navy heels are even higher, but she handles them as if she were born to wear expensive shoes. There’s something mesmerizing about watching her discover her own power, seeing confidence bloom across her features.
“Both,” I say before she can protest about the price. “And the black flats.”
“Logan—”
“And something for the evening,” I continue, cutting off her objection. “Something with a bit of sparkle.”
I don’t give a fuck about the money. Watching her face light up as she tries on each pair is worth whatever astronomical figure Siobhan is mentally calculating.
Siobhan practically vibrates with excitement as she brings out strappy gold heels that catch the light. They’re pure temptation, the kind of shoes that would look perfect with nothing else.
“Perfect,” I say, reading the want in Nuala’s expression even as she tries to hide it. “Now clothes.”
The next thirty minutes become an education in restraint.
Siobhan disappears and reappears like a well-dressed magician, each time carrying armfuls of clothing that cost more than most people’s monthly salary.
Blazers in charcoal and navy that would make Nuala look like she owns half of Dublin.
Silk blouses that would skim her curves perfectly.
Skirts that would drive me insane thinking about sliding my hands underneath them.
“We’ll start with business attire,” Siobhan announces, her arms full of what looks like an entire professional wardrobe. “Then perhaps something for evening occasions?”
I nod, taking complete control. The assistant hovers nearby, clearly hoping for an opportunity to please the man who’s about to drop enough money to cover her commission for the month. I glance at her. “I’ll wait.”
She nods but doesn’t move.
“The changing rooms are just there,” Siobhan says, gesturing to a curtained area at the back that looks more like a small apartment than a fitting room. “I’ll gather a selection and bring them to you, Ms...?”
“Quinn,” Nuala supplies softly.
“Ms. Quinn. Take your time. We want everything to be perfect.”
Nuala disappears into the changing room and I rise, moving to the men’s section.
I don’t need an assistant to tell me what I need.
I pick out a navy-blue Tom Ford suit and a crisp white shirt.
Tom Ford loafers and a leather belt that might look good strapped around Nuala’s wrists while she sucks my cock.
The flood of desire is hard to ignore as I take the clothes into the men’s changing rooms and change quickly.
I strip efficiently. The trousers slide on, the fabric cool and expensive against my skin.
I button the shirt, the crisp cotton settling over my chest, hiding the ink but not the man beneath.
I fasten the belt, the leather creaking slightly, a sound that sends a jolt of darker intent through my blood.
I shove my feet into the loafers and shrug into the jacket.
In the mirror, Father Logan is dead. The man staring back is pure O’Neill. Cold. Lethal. Ready to tear Eamon Walsh apart if he lies to me.
I stride back to the main floor. Siobhan stands near the curtained area, looking pleased with herself.
“Leave us,” I murmur, not even looking at Siobhan.
She flusters for a couple of seconds, but then glides off, keeping an eye on us. She doesn’t want to see her commission disappear if we choose to discard everything and leave.
“Nuala,” I murmur, stepping into the women’s area without a care in the world.
“Logan? You can’t be in here,” she says from behind a curtain.
“Who is going to stop me?”
I hear her soft gasp as I step up to the curtain and pull it back to reveal her in a matching white lace underwear set that makes my cock bounce to attention.
With a slow smile, I slip inside the cubicle and pull the curtain shut behind me.