Page 7 of The Irish Arrangement

“No.” I sat up, smoothing down my jacket. “He didn’t actually tell me yes yet.” Nor did he say no, which I would cling to. “I think my call came as a surprise, and in the shock of the moment, he didn’t know what to say.”

Ian grunted a single laugh. “But he’s dealt with Dad before.”

“Twenty years ago.”

“Regardless, he should know that nobody tells a Sullivan no.”

“Agreed.” Which was why I planned to reiterate that in person now. Shane Murray was a small-time imbecile with so much arrogance, he stuffed his ego to the brim. He wouldn’t feel important or be cocky when we spoke in person. Even if I surprised him by just showing up here now, he’d understand that he had no grounds to turn my offer down.

I’d looked back in the records. Shane owed a shit-ton of money to us, and he hadn’t paid up a single penny.

“Ready?” Ian asked when we arrived several minutes later.

I shot him a side-eyed look of annoyance. “You mean is he ready?” I wasn’t worried. I had no reason to be anxious about making my demands realized more clearly in person.

Ian smiled. “We know he won’t be ready,” he said as we walked up to the door.

I hadn’t announced my visit, but since I’d called him, he had to be sweating and nervous. Especially when he'd had the gall to cease communications.

Ian lifted his finger toward the bell, but I beat him to it, pounding my fist on the front door. He smirked at me dully, and I shrugged. “This isn’t a fucking polite afternoon tea, Brother.”

“No, it won’t be.”

A portly butler opened the door, trying and failing to look regal. The flash of alarm in his eyes was the first clue that he knew who I was.

“Where’s Murray?” I said, plowing past him.

“Oh—I—Sir—Wait—” He stumbled over his exclamations, jogging after me. Ian chuckled, keeping up the rear, and I hoped at least he was having fun.

“Murray?” I hollered.

“What on earth is all this—” The woman speaking stopped short as she entered the front foyer. Her heels clicked one last time on the polished marble floor. Dressed in a beige pantsuit, formal and too stiff on her unshapely frame, she gawked at me. “Who…” She clamped her lips shut as her eyes opened wider.

The shock in her eyes felt like a reward. The fear that quickly replaced it boosted my spirits. “Where’s Murray?” I demanded.

“You can’t… You are not permitted to simply enter my home and make demands like this.”

I stalked over to her until her pungent perfume irritated my nose. Towering over her, I bothered with another once-over. Plastic, taut, and tense. Snappy, but not so confident to stand up tall when I glowered down my nose at her.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Dec.” Ian sighed. “Perhaps it might go over better if you introduce yourself to your bride’s mother before you terrify her.”

Her lips pressed tighter together. Ire and determination burned in her gaze. “You will never marry my daughter.”

I turned, scoffing at Ian. “Huh. Looks like they do want to try to tell me no, after all.”

“No, no. That’s not… No. Keira, please, let me handle this,” Shane Murray said as he rushed down the stairs. Glancing at me facing off with his wife, he tried to smile. The expression didn’t last. As he stepped down to the floor, he looked like he was about to piss himself. “Dec. My man.”

“Don’t fucking cozy up to me. It’s Mr. Sullivan.”

“Right. Right. Uh, Mr. Sullivan.” He hustled closer, gripping Keira’s arm to pull her back.

She wrenched free, glaring at her husband. “He is not?—”

“Shh! Shh.” He forced a chuckle, waving at her to quiet. “We’ll discuss this matter like men. If you’d please, Mr. Sullivan. I’ve been looking forward to your visit.” Smiling quickly but weakly, he gestured for me to enter the parlor with him.

“Like hell you’ve been looking forward to this meeting.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “You were hoping to never hear from me again.”

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