Chapter 9
DOMINIC
Iglance at the chunky timepiece on my wrist as I breeze back down the stairs and into my office.
I have a shipment coming into the docks at six thirty.
I should be there myself; it’s a big one, but I don’t want to leave Aoife here alone.
Not just because I’m frightened she’ll make a run for it either.
She’s had one hell of a fucking day, and I’m determined to make her transition here as easy as possible.
I need her to go through with our wedding.
I need to enrage Rory Kavanagh.
I need him to take this so personally that he comes for me with both barrels.
And for that, I need her—and the biggest ‘fuck you’ of a wedding we can come up with.
Which is why I just phoned The Shelbourne and provisionally booked the 25th July.
Nine weeks should be enough time to plan a party—and to convince my family Aoife and I are madly in love.
I pull my phone from my pocket and ping Ciaran a text.
Can you go to the docks?
Three dots appear instantly.
Busy. Getting to know your new bride?
I fucking wish. An image of her full breasts spilling over her dress bursts into the forefront of my mind.
Nope. Don’t go their Dom. Do not go there.
This is an arrangement. Nothing more. She’s too young.
Too damn good. The way she was even considering sacrificing herself to that monster for her father proves that.
If it were up to me, I’d string him up by the bollocks, but sadly, that’s not what she wants.
And as the saying goes, happy wife, happy life, right?
I fire off a quick reply.
None of your fucking business.
Please tell me your wife has some hot friends. You know it’s my duty to bang a bridesmaid.
Do you ever think with anything other than your dick?
Not if I can help it. What you gonna tell Frankie?
Nothing yet. As the saying goes, it’s easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission, right?
As the oldest Kincaid, and the one not currently rotting in prison, like my father, Frankie considers himself the head of this family, even though he emigrated to the States forty years ago.
He operates a large scale business operation in San Francisco, similar to what I run with my brothers here.
Frankie helped us orchestrate the entire takeover from the previous Syndicate when we came of age.
While I’m grateful, I’d prefer if he stayed the fuck away from Dublin.
Because Frankie drilled his single, unbreakable rule into us long before we were old enough to understand why it mattered.
If you put a woman in your name, you do it because you chose her—and she chose you.
Anything else, in Frankie’s book, makes you no better than the men we burned out of this city.
And while I’m ridiculously attracted to the woman who ran into my bar today, the main reason for our union certainly isn’t love.
It’s to kill Rory Kavanagh.
Marrying her is a power move. A statement. But now we’re going to be living together for the foreseeable future, I have to form some sort of bond with her—because both of our survival depends on it.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in my office making calls.
Cathal and Owen located Tommy O’Shea and took him to the safe house.
My men have been to Aoife’s house to locate passports, hers and her father’s.
Turns out it’s on Greenhills estate. What a shithole.
It’s worse than the one we were raised on—and that’s saying something.
Tommy O’Shea has been briefed—and by briefed, I mean advised of his options—which, considering how he treated his own daughter, are exceptionally limited.
All in all it’s been a productive day.
I’m grinning to myself like a fucking madman as I set the table in the dining room overlooking the twenty foot glittering pool positioned at the back of the house.
My eyes linger on the expensive scented candles Sheila insists on dotting around the place.
For some reason it seems fitting to light them.
Perhaps my brothers are right. Perhaps I am a romantic fucking psycho.
I smirk as I head back to the kitchen to dice some salad to go with the steaks sizzling in the pan.
According to my men, Kavanagh is charging round the entire city like a fucking bull, ripping the place apart.
And the fact that I have exactly what he’s looking for in my house makes me laugh out loud.
Though knowing she’s upstairs naked in my bath is both a blessing and a curse.
Of all the women, why do I have to want her?
Utterly fucking inappropriate.
Because sex changes things.
Especially the way I like to fuck.
That’s why I only let loose in the privacy of Sean Beckett’s sex club, Reveal. The women who attend know what they’re signing up for. There are rules, safe words, non-disclosure agreements, and no expectations.
My new arrangement with Aoife is too valuable to risk by fucking her.
I watched her eyes drift over my body, drinking me in, wondering what it would be like to fuck a big bad man, but that doesn’t mean she’d let me.
It’s ironic really. Usually, women beg me to touch them. Delayed gratification, teasing, spanking and fucking is my forte. I wasn’t joking with Aoife this afternoon. I’m a dom, in both name—and in nature.
What would my bride think if she had any idea what she’s marrying?
She’d probably take her chances in the Wicklow Mountains.
The sound of footsteps approach. I spin to face my new fiancée.
She looked stunning today in that cheap, tattered pathetic excuse for a wedding dress, but tonight, she looks utterly exquisite.
Her hair is freshly washed, and it still curls around her face like she’s had a blowout.
The curls must be natural. Her huge blue eyes are wide and naturally wary.
The dress she’s wearing hugs her figure and clings to her curves without revealing anything. It’s classy. And it suits her down to the ground. She steps closer cautiously until she’s beside me. I inhale the perfume I asked Sheila to pick up for her. She smells like sweet jasmine and sin.
‘You look… nice.’ It’s a pathetic compliment, but I’m not accustomed to flattering women. I’ve never had to.
She glances down at her outfit. ‘It’s too much.
The shoes. The dresses.’ I note she doesn’t mention the lingerie.
It wasn’t hard to work out her bra size when I could barely tear my eyes from her tits earlier.
‘There was no need, ’ she continues. ‘I can’t repay you.
’ Her top teeth dig into her bottom lip.
‘I’m not Rory Kavanagh. There’s no debt owed.’ I shrug. ‘Besides, when we get married, it won’t matter. What’s mine will be yours.’
Shock flashes over her delicate features. ‘We’re not doing a prenup?’
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘Why not? He insisted on one, and I’m pretty sure he’d have killed me before signing divorce papers.’
Tension creeps into my neck at the mere idea of what he would have done to her.
Of how close to ruin she really was. ‘Do we need one?’ I hope to hell she says no because if I have to go to The Syndicate’s solicitor and ask him to draw something up, he’ll be on the phone to Frankie before I’ve left the building. Nothing screams doubt like a prenup.
She places the heel of her hand to her chest and rubs. ‘I would never…’ She trails off. ‘I mean you’re already hiding me. Clothing me. Giving me a place to stay.’
‘It’s not entirely for your benefit.’ I remind her.
‘But still.’ She stares at me for a long beat. ‘Thank you.’ She looks practically pained as she chokes the words out.
I turn my attention to the food again. ‘Cathal and Owen found your father.’
‘Is he okay?’ After what he tried to do to her, her concern for him is yet another testament to her character.
‘Yes. He’s in a safe house on the outskirts of the city.’ I turn to face her again. ‘I have a job lined up for him in one of my betting shops.’
Worry lines crease her forehead. ‘Won’t Rory come for him there?’
‘The shop is in Spain. I promised you I’ll take care of him, and I will. But I don’t like him, Aoife. I don’t like that he was one of Rory’s men. And I don’t like what he was prepared to do to you.’
Her eyes flare.
‘And I damn well don’t trust him. If he’s smart, he’ll take the fresh start. If not…’ I trail off.
Silence spans between us as she processes. Finally, her focus falls to the steaks sizzling in the pan. ‘You can cook.’ Surprise laces her tone.
‘Yes. Miranda, my chef, doesn’t work weekends.
I’m not usually here. Sheila left half an hour ago.
Thank fuck. The last thing we need is her hovering around, watching us like a hawk.
Though I’d bet my life, she’ll be back first thing.
Her hours aren’t set like the rest of the staff.
I had to lie to her. Tell her we’ve been seeing each other secretly for a couple of months.
I don’t like lying, but Sheila’s version of events will support ours.
Having a housekeeper with a huge mouth has its advantages as well as disadvantages. ’
Aoife arches her eyebrows, but she doesn’t speak.
I reach for a utensil to flip the meat with.
She takes a tentative step closer. ‘I can help.’
‘You can carry that through to the dining room, if you like.’ I motion to the bowl of salad. ‘I’ll be through in a couple of minutes. There’s wine on the table. It’s from the Beckett family vineyards. Help yourself.’
When I carry the steaks through to the dining room, Aoife is fiddling with the hem of her dress, staring out the double doors overlooking the pool. Both wine glasses are filled to the brim. Good. It might loosen her up.
I place a plate down, and her eyes linger on mine for a beat before she drags them to her steak and keeps them there.
I slip into the seat directly opposite her and sweep a hand towards the pool. ‘This place isn’t what you expected, huh?’
‘Definitely not.’
I shrug. ‘You were probably expecting some sort of dark, murky villain’s lair.’
She snorts, and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.
‘No bad deeds occur within these four walls.’ It’s the truth. ‘In fact, nothing really occurs within these four walls.’
‘So I heard.’ She arches a single eyebrow.
‘Fucking Sheila,’ I wince. ‘What did she say? If she weren’t Mama K’s best friend I’d have fired her years ago.’
Aoife reaches for her wine, eyeing me cautiously over the rim of the glass. ‘Am I really the first woman you brought home?’
I inhale deeply. ‘Yes.’
‘But why?’ She takes a sip, staring at me curiously over the rim like she’s trying to work me out. Good luck with that.
I pick up my cutlery. ‘I never met anyone I wanted to bring home before.’
She arches her eyebrows but says nothing. I reach for the salad bowl at the same second she does. Our fingers brush and hot flames lick over my knuckles, soar up my arms and straight over my spine. She startles. Oh, she definitely feels the same sharp, shocking electricity that bolted through me.
‘You go on,’ we both say at the same time.
I gesture for her to help herself.
‘Thank you.’ She fills her plate and then passes me the bowl, but this time she’s careful to ensure we don’t touch. ‘The steak is amazing.’
‘I’m not just a pretty face,’ I joke. No one has ever called me pretty before. Brutal, yes, psychotic, absolutely, Sir—hell yes—but never pretty.
She huffs out a little laugh and something squeezes in my chest. Something that I haven’t felt for a very long time.