11. Orla
ORLA
I wake to sunlight pouring through unfamiliar curtains and a warm body pressed against mine. For a moment, everything feels warm, comfortable—that fuzzy glow after a late night.
Then reality crashes into me like tsunami on my island vacation.
I slept with Cillian Kavanagh. The heir to the empire that murdered my father. The fucking enemy.
I watch him sleep. His face lacks its usual coldness, a bruise darkens his jaw from last night's fight, and a cut marks his eyebrow.
What the fucking-fuck have I done?
I slip from the bed trying not to wake him. The hotel suite is massive. I gather my scattered clothes, and get dressed in privacy of the bathroom. Avoiding the mirror. I can't face myself right now, I feel like a traitor, like my father must be turning in his grave.
When I open the door, Cillian stays asleep. His phone buzzes from the nightstand. I pad over to the bed, I pause, but he doesn't move. The screen shows three missed calls from "E" – Eamon.
Next to the phone is his wallet, watch, and room key card. My eyes wander to his suitcase in the corner, only half-unpacked.
This is my chance.
I check that Cillian is still asleep, then go to his luggage. I search through clothes, check all the inner pockets, run my fingers along the lining.
Nothing.
His laptop bag is leaning against the desk, but I'd need a password or his fucking gorgeous face. The safe in the closet is locked.
I turn to his suit jacket draped over a chair. The pockets are empty except for a pen and business cards. I almost give up when my fingers run over thickness in the lining.
A hidden pocket.
I feel the nearly invisible zipper and open it. Hidden inside is a flash drive.
My pulse races. This could be the evidence I need. But how to access it?
His phone buzzes again. He stirs. Fuck!
I slip the drive into my bra and go stand at the window, pretending to admire Manhattan.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough.
I turn, forcing a smile. "Morning." I feel like the worst person on earth, I have betrayed my father and stolen from Kavanagh. What is wrong with me?
He sits up, sheet falling to his waist, showing the muscled torso that has scratch marks from my nails on it. A Celtic tattoo decorates his ribs, it was hidden in last night's darkness.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"Just past seven."
He checks his phone and frowns. "I need to call Eamon."
I nod. "I'll order us coffee."
He stands up naked, grabs pants from the floor. I can’t stop myself from looking at him, at his cock— and thinking about all the ways it felt so good inside me. "Order breakfast too. The meeting has been moved to eleven."
As he goes to the bathroom, phone in hand, I exhale when he shuts the door between us. The drive burns a hole in my bra.
I call room service, then perch on the bed. I need to copy the drive's contents, but Cillian won't leave me alone. My laptop is on the small coffee table, but I know he will ask what I am doing or worse see his drive and know.
Through the bathroom door, Cillian's voice carries—loud, harsh words about "shipment" and "interference" filter through, nothing specific.
I need a plan. I could say I want to shop before the meeting, but he might want to come with me. I need him to leave me here, but I have my doubts he will, not after last night.
The bathroom door flings open. Cillian walks out with a towel around his waist, water drops on his chest. He looks worried, and aggitated.
"Problem?" I ask.
"Change of plans. We are going back to Boston tonight."
"What happened?"
"Business." He watches my face. "Nothing for you to worry about."
I stand up. "After last night, Iyou don’t think I can handle business."
His mouth curves up. "You are a feisty, stubborn woman." He says. "Where did you learn that?"
The question hides deeper meaning. I stick to my story. "My father was stubborn, must be in my genes."
"It is annoying," he growls, tucking hair behind my ear. "But such a gid damned turn on, you make my cock hard with that sass."
My heart speeds up. Does he suspect? I lean into his touch as distraction, hoping he leaves my boobs, and bra out of this. "Not all woman will just roll over at your feet, you know."
His thumb traces my jaw. "You did, last night."
"I did not roll over." I say, remembering how he held me above him.
His phone rings. He answers with irritation. "I told you I'd call back." His face darkens as he listens. "When?"
I move away, straining to hear details. Whatever has us racing back to Boston might help me get a copy of this drive.
Cillian ends the call. "Our flight leaves at two. Meeting still happens, but shorter."
"I'll pack," I say.
He walks to me, cupping my face with surprising gentleness. "About what happened?—"
I wait.
"I don't mix business with pleasure," he says. "Last night was an exception."
"Adrenaline," I suggest.
"More than that." His eyes hold mine. "But it’s complicated."
A knock at the door saves me. Cillian goes to answer, and signs for breakfast.
While he tips the server, I touch my bra, feeling the drive. It might be the justice I have been looking or, the answers. Yet as Cillian turns, catching my eye with a look that heats my skin, I face an unwelcome truth.
I'm in bed with the enemy. And I want to do it again.