Dark Alliance (Irish Kings #8)

Caterina

Rubbing my temples, I glare at the unsigned contract on my desk. When another minute passes with no signature in sight, I recline in the black leather chair and stare at the blank beige wall.

Despite the beauty of my office at the Cosmopolitan Museum of Art—hardwood flooring, window with a picture-perfect view of the park, glass desk holding a state-of-the-art computer—the calming neutral tones and floral potpourri fail to soothe my nerves today.

I’ve already sweated through my white blouse. Which sucks. I just bought this for myself as a Christmas present, and I’m about to end up with pit stains.

I don’t indulge in many luxuries, but this shirt helped perk me up this winter. Between my job as the curator’s executive assistant and helping my brother Nino handle the family business, I’ve run myself ragged. Worrying over my father’s health is just the icing on the cake.

You’d think a family like the Riccis—with all our reach and influence in the city—would be capable of keeping their boss healthy. Instead, no matter what we do or try, he weakens a little more each day.

I run my fingers over my diamond tennis bracelet, a twenty-first birthday gift from my father. The cool gemstones under my fingertips ground my spinning mind.

You’ve got work to do, Caterina.

The Roguilin contract glares from the top of my glass-top desk.

Nino seems to think that climbing in bed with the Russians is a good idea, but I’d rather take my chances under the sheets with Edward Scissorhands.

But what do I know? Ever since he became such a wrathful man, I’ve had zero control over my little brother.

My late mother used to say, “It’s our job to keep our hotheaded men calm.”

So, treating my mother’s words as gospel, I built my life around catering to my father and brother.

That tactic has proven especially helpful these last few years with Nino. I love my him, and whatever his faults, he’s our father’s second-in-command. When Father’s unable to lead, we defer to Nino.

This contract is just one in a string of agreements between Nino and Oleg Belinski, the Bratva’s representative. Another concession, another sliver of our souls sold to former enemies.

Despite Belinski’s promises of wealth and power, I fear we’re playing a long game we can’t win. We’re outnumbered eight-to-one and up against enviable Russian firepower. As soon as we’re not useful anymore, they’ll chew us up and spit us out.

No matter how hard I argue against these deals, Nino just won’t listen to me.

So I have no choice but to do as he says.

“Us women are meant to be seen, not heard.”

Yes, mother.

I check the time, sigh, and sign Emiliano Ricci on the dotted line. The black ink shines like fresh blood as I fold the contract and slip it into an envelope.

After texting Nino so he can update his precious Russians, I shift into my role as Professional Cat.

I scoop up a handful of prints for the redesign of our west wing, grab my long-cold coffee, and head out the door—

Only to slam right into a thick wall of a person.

“Shit!” Coffee splatters across my chest, staining my skin and my shirt. Damn.

At least I managed to save the blueprints.

“Sorry. Are you okay?” A smooth, silky voice hovers above me.

I glance up to find a tall, muscled, sharp-jawed god standing just outside my office door, his suit completely free of coffee stains.

Inky hair tumbles over deep brown eyes in soft curls that don’t quite reach his broad shoulders. His lips spread into the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen.

I must stare for a beat too long because he quirks a brow. “Can I help somehow?”

Mr. Handsome rescues the rolled prints from my hand. His gaze drifts down to the cold mess spattered over the top of my shirt and cleavage.

Great.

“I’m not really sure how you could.” I bend down to set my useless cup on the floor before quickly fastening a button. I can pretend to salvage at least some of this.

“You didn’t get burned, right?”

The concern in his rich, buttery voice is dreamy.

Who is this guy, Henry Cavill’s long-lost cousin?

“I’m fine.” My shoulders heave with a sigh. “I just got this…”

“I can buy you another coffee. It’s the least I can do.”

Such a gentleman. “I meant my shirt.”

“Oh.” The stranger’s eyes drift down to my chest and linger, darkness flickering through the brown depths. “Yeah, that’s a shame. A masterpiece like that should be preserved in a museum.”

My face warms. Is he…attracted to me?

Of course. He’s just a man, and I’m practically flashing him in my damp white blouse. What else can I expect?

You’re at work, Cat! As the curator’s assistant at a museum, a wet t-shirt contest definitely messes with the bougie vibe.

My laugh rings high and false as I swipe uselessly at the setting coffee stains. “I really should take care of this. I’ll just grab those.”

He pulls the prints just beyond my reach. “How about I follow you to the restroom and keep hold of these so you can clean up?”

“That’s very kind, but I’m sure you’re also busy.” Please, just go and leave me to my misery. I want nothing more than to lock myself in my office for the rest of the day.

“I can spare a few minutes.”

My attention falls to his hands. Beneath the prints, I spy a tube wrapped in glassine paper and bubble wrap.

Oh, no.

I force a smile. “Are you an artist, or…?”

“Collector. I have a piece of art for the redesign, Rain on Jupiter. I’m sure you’re familiar with J. Rochelle. My parents are collectors, too, and got me into it at a young age.” He offers his free hand. “Dane Ryder.”

Shit. This is the absolute worst first impression to make on a donor. What a way to end the year.

I never screw up, not like this. I run everything like a well-oiled machine and keep myself out of sight, out of mind.

Having this man’s focus, his attention—does he have to look like that?—is more than I can bear.

When I clasp his palm, his big hand dwarfs mine, and electricity sizzles between us. “Caterina Ricci, the curator’s executive assistant. I’m so sorry, Mr. Ryder—”

“Dane.”

“Dane. Yes, of course. I’m Cat.” Why did I say my name twice?

Heat flashes through his eyes as he pulls away and slides his hand into his front pocket. “Nice to meet you, Cat.”

His smoky voice crawls up my spine, lingering like a brand at the base of my neck.

“Likewise.” I peer down at my shirt again, mostly as an excuse to not have to meet Dane’s eyes.

I know what I’ll find there, but I don’t know what he’ll glimpse in mine.

“Well, please ignore my attire while I take you to Curator Pruitt’s office.

I’m sure he’s eager to meet you.” I skirt around him, desperate to end this humiliation.

Maybe if I just don’t—

“Cat.”

I spin toward his voice, drawn to him like a magnet.

He shrugs off his navy suit jacket, revealing thick arms strangled by white shirtsleeves. “Here. Wear this.”

I don’t have much choice if I don’t want to leave in the middle of the workday. He holds the jacket open as I slip my arms through the sleeves. As I do, his fingers brush my shoulders, the touch hotter than the forced air pumping through the vents above us.

I retreat the second I can without appearing overly rude. “Thank you.” My voice pitches high courtesy of my shallowly expanding lungs. Did we just go up a few thousand feet? I can’t seem to get enough oxygen.

The scent of his cologne—cedar and citrus—washes over me. While fastening the buttons, I subtly sniff the collar.

Dane smirks as he adjusts the jacket over my shoulders. “A perfect fit.”

He’s a damn handsome liar, I’ll give him that.

Though the jacket hides the coffee stains, the sleeves swamp my hands. Rolling them up, I lead Dane to Curator Pruitt’s office while stroking the soft wool with my fingertips.

Julien Pruitt sits behind his ornate wooden desk, surrounded by knickknack-laden shelves and frames full of artwork stacked against the walls. With pale gray hair pulled into a ponytail above his narrow, androgynous face, he could pass for half his sixty-odd years.

Though he’s eccentric—like most artists—he’s always treated me kindly. In a way, he reminds me of my father, with those same crinkles around his eyes and a similar expression of paternal pride.

Curator Pruitt hired me right out of university as a general assistant, then promoted me two years later to serve as his executive assistant. He understands my love for art and depends on me to fix his appalling attempts at organization.

When we enter his office, Pruitt blinks owlishly as he rises to his feet.

“Caterina, there you are. Who have you brought along?” Six-foot-five and rail thin, I’m pretty sure he survives on turpentine fumes and paint chips.

Once I introduce the two men, Curator Pruitt wastes no time in gushing over Dane’s painting. New artwork is just about the only thing that spikes his heart rate. Any other time, he’s chill as can be.

Which is nice, as far as bosses go. I’ve never had to worry about him snapping or writing me up over little mistakes.

As impressive as the artwork is, I can’t seem to look away from Dane Ryder’s hands as he discusses the gallery redesign with my boss.

His smooth voice rises and falls in pitch, catering to Pruitt’s excitement without ever climbing too far from a gentle, velvety murmur. Every few moments, his eyes flick to where I stand behind Pruitt’s desk. My chest clenches each time our gazes meet.

I really can’t deal with all this attention. My role has always been to serve from the shadows, supporting my father and brother from behind closed doors.

People rarely give me more than a cursory glance, so Dane Ryder’s focus unsettles me.

“Mr. Ryder, the Cosmopolitan would be honored to display a J. Rochelle.” Pruitt raises one thin gray eyebrow at me. “Don’t you agree, Caterina?”

Shit. What did he say? “Oh, yes, honored.” I bow my head like a dork.

“This, in fact, is my favorite piece.” Pruitt beams like he personally donated the painting.

“My mother feels the same, Curator.” Dane smiles that gorgeous, heart-stopping smile again. “She says it’s haunting but—”

Pruitt snaps his fingers. “Avante-garde!”

Dane and Curator Pruitt laugh like they’re sharing some private joke. I don’t understand why, but Dane’s laugh—deep, hearty, and a little smoky—is enough to keep me going for the rest of the day.

Dane shakes Pruitt’s hand, gives me a wink, and leaves Rain on Jupiter, a gorgeous abstract piece by any expert’s standards, with us. Not a Jean-Michel Basquiat, and not worth millions of dollars, but still more than worthy of the Cosmopolitan’s walls.

I realize far too late that Dane left his jacket with me. I should try and run after him or get his number from his donation paperwork…but I can’t bring myself to relinquish the soft wool just yet.

Back in my office, I pull off Dane’s jacket and attempt to salvage my mess of a blouse. As I hang the heavy wool over the back of my rolling chair, a thin slip of paper flutters down to the gray carpet.

What’s this?

I try to ignore it, but nosiness wins. Instead of minding my own business, I snatch the paper off the floor and unfold a note.

Great meeting you. I’ll be at The Marq. Eight sharp.

I clutch the paper between my fingers, trying and failing to stop the warmth blooming through my stomach and out to my limbs.

Dane didn’t seem like the sort of man to abandon half his suit by accident. He meant for me to find this message.

How did he slip the invitation into his jacket while I was still wearing it? And does the answer even matter?

A couple of seconds pass before I come to a decision.

Nope, doesn’t matter at all.

Which means…holy shit! I’m going on a date.