Page 2 of Mob Princess

I shake my head. “Security Studies.” It’s a graduate major at Georgetown. “You?”

“Same actually.”

“Do I strike you as a computer geek?” I grin. This time she doesn’t hide her assessing gaze.

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

And how! More so than she would ever guess. I could pass for a stockbroker or a fed when I’m at home. In the DC area and Baltimore, I can pass for a fed or a diplomat. I know because I’ve pretended to be all three.

She shifts her gaze to past my shoulder where I already know they’re shoveling dirt over our professor’s coffin. That same sadness flares. She’s young and gorgeous, so I could wonder if she’s mourning a former lover. But I’ve been to so many of these, I can decipher the different degrees of loss. He was a friend to her just like me.

“Are you headed to the reception? You’re going to be miserable and cold. Thank you again for shielding me.”

Always. “I am, but I’m traveling, so I have another suit I can change into.”

My thoughts are growing more and more disconcerting. She has an aura that’s drawing me in like the Sirens who nearly led Odysseus to his death. That got morbid fast. I don’t need to develop a crush on a woman I’m never going to see again.

Only two town cars remain in what was once a long line of black sedans. One is mine, so I suppose the other is hers. I didn’t think about how she would leave. I suppose I assumed a taxi or ride share service. But the driver is standing near the back door and watching her just like my driver is doing the same to me.

“Is that car waiting for you?”

She turns her head enough to see over her shoulder. “Yes.”

“I’ll walk you to it since mine is behind it.”

She’s in sensible shoes for walking across grass, but it’s slippery from last night’s rain. When her foot goes out from under her, I wrap my arm around her waist again, my free hand catching her forearm as she raises it to keep her balance. She doesn’t need to turn toward me, but she does. It presses her against my dry side. I don’t let go, and her right hand comes to rest on my chest. But her left hand is just above my waist and precariously close to the gun holstered at the small of my back. There’s no one close enough to see the outline that surely appears as she presses my suit coat against my back.

“You’re my knight in shining suit. Thank you.” She blushes. I’m not certain if she’s embarrassed that she nearly fell in front of me, or if it’s our nearness.

“I’m glad I’ve been here to help.” And to have the hottest woman I’ve ever met cling to me.

I can tell she’s as slim—thin—as I suspected. But I also feel the muscle beneath her clothes. This is simply her stature and not an issue of being malnourished. I’ve never had a type. I’ve fucked women of all different builds, and the few I’ve dated have been a variety. But Nicolina—I don’t want to let go. I want to strip her and devour her. I’ve never had this visceral a reaction, and there have been women I’ve desired to distraction.

We exchange a lingering look before I steer us toward her waiting car. Her chauffeur appears less than impressed with me. He’s definitely looking down his nose. Fuck you, buddy. I saw him step forward when she nearly slipped, but he stopped when I did nothing more than keep her upright. I step aside as she climbs in. She offers me a warm smile that is in stark contrast to the grief I noticed earlier.

“I’ll see you in a bit.” Her voice is soft as her driver closes the door and steps to block my view. Bodyguard? Definitely possible near DC.

I watch the car pull away before going to my own. My driver pops the trunk for me, and I unzip my garment bag. Perfectly dry-cleaned suits and perfectly starched shirts await me. Seems counterintuitive that I’ll be squirming around the backseat as I change. It’s hardly the first or last time I’ve changed in the back of a car.

I’m usually going from a suit to black cargo pants, black turtleneck, black boots, and black beanie. Even in summer I wear the infernal thing because my shock of red hair is far too recognizable. The bane of being an O’Rourke. We all share it. Three sisters with red hair married three brothers with red hair. The only dominant gene was the recessive one.

Since I’ve been wearing suits for nearly thirty years, I can tie a tie in my sleep. I can even do a bowtie without any thought. My filthy clothes are folded and will have to go in a plastic bag. They definitely aren’t going next to my fresh ones. I can already tell they stink.

My town car pulls up behind hers. I recognize the license plate, but she hasn’t gotten out. Her driver waits beside the door, his palm resting on the handle. As I walk past, I hear the light tap. That’s when he opens it. Ah. The same system we have. No one opens a back door until the passenger signals. We do it because we’re often on calls no one outside our family needs to hear. There are six cousins who run our syndicate.

My oldest brother, Finn, is second in command. Dillan, our boss, is only a few months older than him. My twin, Shane, and I are a couple years younger than them. We’re basically the same age as our mutual cousins Cormac and Seamus. They’re seven months apart because Seamus was a preemie. He’s a month older than Shane and me. My twin is three minutes older.

Fecker has always been the impatient one between the two of us. I enjoyed a room of my own after nine months of him hogging all the space. God bless our mother for giving birth to two monsters. She went all the way to her due date, and we were both exactly seven pounds, eight ounces. Ginormous apparently.

I hear the tap of Nicolina’s heels on the sidewalk behind me. Maybe I’ve let my mind wander to my family to justify not hurrying to the door. Maybe I need that justification because I want to let Nicolina catch up. I see her reflection in the hotel’s door. The family’s holding the gathering in a banquet room. Not because there are swarms of us. Dr. Carmody was a private person, so I know he would have loathed people pouring into his home.

I’m certain there are things in his home he’d rather no one outside his family sees. I think he pictured himself much like an uncle to me, and I definitely saw him as someone similar. I’ve been in his home a handful of times. That’s why I have no doubts he’d prefer other people not see the collections of foreign antiques; original Soviet era maps of the USSR, China, and Vietnam; and the U.S. satellite and weapons designs he acquired over four decades of working in national security.

“We meet again.” How cliché am I as I hold the door open for the blonde bombshell?

Her amber eyes bore into my emerald ones. “Once is an accident. Twice is on purpose.”

She steps past me, and I don’t know if she’s admitting she orchestrated it, or she’s accusing me of forcing her to see me. I can usually read people better than this. I could tell her emotions earlier.

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