25. Saoirse
Saoirse
Head to Head
The phone on my desk rings. Landline, not the smartphone that’s twinned with Declan’s… and which probably has spyware on it too.
I must be on edge, because I jump in my seat. A tingle of excitement courses through my body. I think I might be conditioned to expect a certain degree of arousal whenever I think of seeing Finn again.
I try to suppress it, but give up when I hear who’s calling. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Maguire. This is Jack.”
“Saoirse’s fine.” It’s the second time I’m telling him this. I want respect on my own terms, and not because I’m Dec’s wife or Patrick’s daughter.
“Saoirse. The associate reached out to me.”
“D?” Hell, yes, I’m paranoid. I’m pretty fucking sure it wasn’t Finn who killed the baker’s boy who used to stand guard for us when we visited the apartment above the bakery.
I know how guilty men act, and Finn’s slate is clean when it comes to the bakery. Damien seemed willing to listen to me when I visited his home.
I’m swimming in deep, dark waters now, only I’m not an angler fish.
“D. That’s the one. Can you make it to their establishment in one hour?”
Again with the frisson of excitement running through me. I check the time and gauge the traffic before saying, “Yes.”
I have a new driver, strictly for work hours. He’s freelance and works in security. And more importantly, I hired him myself.
Feargal’s no longer available. He spends all his time on Fourth Avenue.
And the less I see of Rian, the better.
We use the fire escape to avoid being seen by the half a dozen realtors and receptionists who work outside my private office.
“Damien’s bakery?” He wants to know my destination.
“I need you to find a position out of eyesight.” Because I don’t think it’ll be just Damien waiting there for me.
Nor will it be one of Finn’s lieutenants or captains, or any of his associates. He doesn’t want me to know their faces.
And he definitely won’t pass up this chance to have a heart to heart with me.
Wait. Finn has no heart.
We’re going to have a head to head then.
All I have to do is make sure it doesn’t become a hands on experience. In public, lots of civilians, and strictly no hanky-panky.
Not because I can’t trust Finn. But because I can’t trust myself.
We use the new driver’s hired vehicle. I sit at the back and lie down so no one can see me.
There’s a knot of adrenaline balled in my guts. I practice my breathing to center myself.
There’s plenty of time for me to check my face in my compact mirror. My reflection is snatched, rose blush on my cheeks and lips, the faint trace of pink on my eyelids and the end of my nose too.
I can’t wear heavy makeup, not with such a pallid skin tone. My perfume is one of those heavy Oriental Vanilla scents—Bitter Peach by Tom Ford—so I know I smell tasty.
As for my outfit, it’s killer. Not a stitch of Lycra or platform sneakers anywhere in sight.
A clinging vintage Anna Sui knit dress hugs my body. Five-inch platform clogs are strapped to my feet. Morag painted my nails dusky rose and gave my hair a blowout.
I’ll need to unbuckle the straps before making a run for it, but hopefully my bodyguard hiding outside will take care of any actual threat if it arises.
It shouldn’t arise. All I want to do is talk.
I’m pleased to be the first to arrive. The bodyguard drops me off and I watch him pull away from the curb. He’s going to find somewhere elevated so he can see what’s happening through the large glass display windows.
The bakery has two tables under the awning on the sidewalk and four tables inside. I guess Finn’s left it up to me to choose where to sit.
I choose the table at the back of the shop with my back against the wall so I can face danger. I know I’m meant to order my tea and cake selection at the counter, but I’m not here to eat.
It’s depressing to see Damien manning the ovens alone back there.
It crosses my mind that I should put my differences with Finn aside so we can face down our mutual enemies together…
No. I’m Patrick Byrne’s daughter. I don’t need Finn’s help.
Speaking of the devil.
He comes in. The grin, the body, the dark gray eyes; all present and correct. He’s looking scrumptious in his jeans, boots, and long-sleeved tee-shirt.
One lock of dark hair falls over his brow. He doesn’t flick it back but rakes it away with his fingers.
Bulges in all the right places. Toned, fit. Like a man who couldn’t give two flying fucks what a vintage Anna Sui dress looks like.
Finn gives me the nod and then goes to lean on the counter. “What’s the story, Damien, lad?”
Damien breaks off what he’s doing in the kitchen to come and bid Finn a cheery good morning. It puts me in my place better than a smack on the head. I walked right past the man who used to bake my bread when I was a child.
Didn’t even give him a nod.
That makes me a stuck-up bitch. And it makes Finn some kind of working class hero.
Turns out I didn’t need that blusher after all. I’m red all on my own.
“We’ll have two Barry’s and a selection of your finest cakes, why not?” Finn turns to give me a wink. “And make sure it’s a fresh box of Barry’s, Damien, not that old box from the apartment upstairs. It’s seen too many long years crawl by that tea upstairs.”
A pretty young woman trots to the counter and shoos Damien out of the way. “I’ll take this order, Da.” She beams at Finn. “When are you going to invite us girls to watch you fight, Finn?”
She leans closer until her large breasts push against the glass-topped counter. “I’d bet all my money on you.”
Finn doesn’t stop grinning. “Ah, Gayle, you make sure to keep your money in your pocket. You never know when I might lose.”
If he plans on standing there flirting all day, then I’m leaving. My chair scrapes the floor as I stand up.
He glances over at me. “Sit. Gayle will bring the tea and cakes over to us. Right, girl?”
Gayle simpers. “Right, Finn.”
He saunters over to my table. I haven’t sat down yet. He takes my hand and leads me to sit in the opposite chair which he pulls out for me like an absolute gentleman.
“You can drop the act, Finn. I know you don’t want to sit with your back to the door.”
He pushes my chair closer to the table.
“Ah, you’re wrong there, Saoirse. It’s my cheek I’m more worried about, not my back.” He leans closer and gives one of those stage whispers. “I’ve got some sound soldiers watching my back for me.”
He shifts in his seat as if he’s making himself comfortable. “It’s grand you’re looking, darlin’.”
I don’t need to see the rock hard bulge in the front of his pants to tell me that I look gorgeous. And he makes no effort to hide it other than adjusting it manually so it doesn’t rise above his belt.
I would be a fool not to savor this moment. He reacts to me—can’t help himself.
Which makes it impossible for me not to react to his desire. The sudden engorgement under my demure satin panties is almost painful, definitely thrilling.
I can hear his voice in my brain. If you want it, all you have to do is ask… on your knees and beg for it.
I bite down on my inner cheeks—hard.
“I want to know why you haven’t made it more widely known what happened at the chapel?”
I wasn’t planning on leading with this question, but it came out all the same. I mean, doesn’t he consider it a major win?
Finn cocks his head, shrugs, stares out the window at the passing foot traffic. “I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of Declan Maguire.”
He doesn’t see what happened as my transgression. He sees us as information he’s not ready to share yet.
His grin is back. “And I’m asking why you didn’t tell the dear man about it yourself?”
I can be honest. “I’ve no need to upset the apple cart. It’s not like he could do anything about it. We’re married. We’re Catholic. You do the math.”
If I was hoping to twist the knife with that comment, it doesn’t affect him at all.
“A ring doesn’t close a hole.” Finn has no filter.
“Jesus, Finn. It’s scarlet for you I am. You can be so rude.”
Another shrug. “I was raised by wolves, sweetheart.”
I can relax a bit. This reminds me of how we used to be. A boy and girl chatting about the world and how we saw it.
I open my mouth to reply, but Gayle comes over with the tea and a plate of small cakes, so I close it again.
“Here’s your tea, Finn.” She’s all smiles for him.
He ignores her. Doesn’t even blink as his eyes drill holes into me. He’s waiting for me to stand up for myself.
“Finn ordered the tea for me, Gayle. So, thanks. Run along now.”
Gayle nods. “Yes, Mrs—”
Finn butts in. “Saoirse. Just Saoirse.”
Gayle goes back to the bakery kitchen behind the counter and stays there.
For some wild reason I want to throw myself into his arms and hug him. There must be some kind of mantra I can chant to stop me from feeling one way when I know I should be feeling the other.
Clearing my throat, I pour us each a cup of Barry’s. I know how he likes it. Or at least, I thought I knew.
He covers the rim of his cup with one large calloused hand. “No sugar. I’m in training.”
I guess no one gets to look like a perfectly sculpted marble statue without sacrificing a few treats.
“It’s in your own cup where you should be putting that sugar, Saoirse.”
“To sweeten me up?” The roses bloom in my cheeks.
“To give you energy. You should be eating more than salads.” He pushes the plate of cakes toward me.
I shake my head.
He sits back, folds his arms, gazes up and down my body. “You’re too pale. And I can nearly fit my hands around your waist.”
Present tense. He knows this is something he can do from our impromptu copulation at chapel.
The blush starts in my cheeks and spreads like a wildfire over my body. “Shut up.”
So far, Finn doesn’t seem to care about who overhears us. But when he leans in and lowers his voice, I make sure to listen.
“It’s time you learn, Saoirse Byrne. There’s nothing you can do or say—or eat—that won’t get back to me.”
I’ve changed my mind. I regret nothing. “You can track me all you like. Nothing will ever stop me from hating you.”
This time, it’s me who leans forward. “I preferred it when I thought you were dead, Finn, because at least that would give you a good excuse for betraying me at the docks.”
He comes forward so quickly that I react by instinct and pull back.
His grin is fierce, almost a grimace. “‘Tis too late for accusations, wouldn’t you know? Sell me the land you bought at the docklands.”
My head spins, he changed the subject so fast. “What?”
He leans back and laces his hands behind his head to rest on. “You heard me.”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t hear me? Or no, you won’t sell me the docklands property?”
I drain my cup and stand up. “No, I won’t sell you that land. You’re not the boss of me, Finn O’Shea. What’s it going to take for you to remember that?”
“I was wondering when your fighting spirit would show up.” He stands up as well.
The mental struggle for me not to look down at his crotch is monumental. What am I like? I hate him, remember?
It’s quite difficult for me to pivot and walk away. I did myself no favors by wearing these clunky platforms.
Fashion? Yes. Practical? Hell, no.
Reaching out my hand to pull the door, I get a jump-scare when Finn slams his hand to stop it opening. His stealth mode is impressive for a man of his size.
“I don’t think I can let you leave, darlin’.”
I knew it! I knew this was a trap.
“Fuck—”
That’s as far as I get. He grabs my upper arms and pins me against the wall.
I’m getting major flashbacks again. This is how he used to corral me six years ago. My tight Anna Sui dress won’t let me knee him in the groin, not that I have a hope of getting that right.
I came prepared. “Seriously? You think I wouldn’t hire a professional security guard to shoot you in the head if you tried something like this?”
He doesn’t let me go. His grin just gets wider.
“Is dying in your arms where you want me?” His mouth presses against my cheek, so I can feel the word. “Storí.”
I’m distracted, panting, my heart torn with regret. No one has ever made me feel such passion. Such savage romance.
His mouth moves to my lips and lingers there for a fraction.
Then Finn laughs and pushes me away.
I close my eyes, because it’s the only way I can contain my anguish.
When I open them again, he’s gone.
I grab the burner phone at the bottom of my purse.
“Ernie. Hey, it’s me, Mrs. Maguire. You know that abandoned house on Narrow Ave? Yes, the old O’Shea place. The zoning just came through for it. I’ll be there in about an hour, and by then I want it to be bulldozed to the ground.”
Fuck romance and passion. Revenge tastes just as sweet.