Page 7 of Retribution

“I’ll be at the bar.”

Carys and I move in opposite directions as she heads off to make or solidify her contacts. I sidle up to the bar and place my empty glass to the side. This end of the bar is for standing, but farther down, there are a number of stools with people perched on them, chatting away to each other. The ballroom is vast and airy, though the perfume and cologne circulating are enough to cause an asthma attack. Above the bar, pendulum lights are set low to match the rest of the mood lighting. Most of the charitable events I’ve attended with Carys have been dimly lit. It must seem too intrusive to ask for money with the brightness turned to full.

I’m waiting for the bartender, wondering how I can slip myself into conversation with Lorcan when a shoulder brushes mine.

“Be a shame for someone as talented as you to be unhappy with your employer,” a deep voice says in my ear. His lilting accent is a sound I could get used to. It calls me back to the hours my father spent devouring anything Irish.

He’s so close, Lorcan’s hazel eyes are piercing in their intensity. The musky scent of his cologne floods my senses, and I’m glad for my training. Cool. Unaffected. “How do you know I’m talented?”

“Carys isn’t one for bigging people up who don’t deserve it.” He turns away to signal the bartender with a finger. “Two whiskeys.”

In this business, men are everywhere. But there’s something in the curve of his shoulders, the slant of his jaw under the goatee, which makes him familiar. Part of his appeal has nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with the way he carries himself. Confidence seeps out of him, oozing over everything he touches.

The bartender passes the two glasses to us, and I pick mine up with my fingertips, swishing it around, letting the ice clink against the sides.

His back is against the bar railing, and his elbows are on the wood, so he can stare out across the wide expanse of the room. When he shifts toward me, his gaze connects with mine over the rim of his glass. “When are you heading home?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Carys offered to show me some sites around Boston.”

One side of his mouth twitches as though he’s holding in his amusement. “Sounds grand.”

“Does it?” I avoid looking at him directly, keeping my back to the room.

“Not quite as grand as coming round to mine for a meeting.”

“What would we be meeting about?” I peer into my glass, hope rising in me.

“See if one of us can make the other an offer they can’t refuse.”

“I get offers all the time. I refuse them all.” Our little game of cat and mouse amuses me, but I keep my features smooth.

“You never had one from me.”

Somehow, I’ve managed to finish another drink. “I guess we’ll see what you’ve got then. I’m a tough nut to crack.”

He places his finished drink onto the bar. “I’m counting on it. Tell Carys to call me.”

When I turn around, he and his men are gone.

Chapter Four

The next day when we arrive at the gates of the Donaghey family complex, there’s a chill in the air. Snow covers sections of the ground, but there are patches of grass. Before we get in the door, we’re frisked within an inch of our lives. The first time it happened years ago, it was invasive, dirty. Not anymore.

They find every single one of my hidden weapons. I’ll have to be more creative with the places I put them.

Their mansion is a sprawling bungalow masterpiece out in the suburbs. It’s going to take me days to search the whole complex for evidence. The file I read gave me some details, but being here is cementing a new reality. At one time, the estate was isolated. The city has grown up around it. There’s still a massive stretch of land in the backyard that looks like an empty farmer’s field except for a shed in the far corner.

When the front door swings back, Lorcan isn’t there. Instead, it’s a man who is a little shorter than Lorcan but broad, muscular. His hair is so blond the strands are almost white, and his eyes, when they connect with mine, are a piercing blue, so pale they make me think of ice chips.Finn.

“Carys.” His tone is dry. “We have an arms dealer. Shame you came all this way.”

“Lorcan didn’t tell you we were coming?” She feigns surprise, but she avoids making eye contact.

He shifts his focus, flicking his gaze up and down my body. “Who’s this?”

Unlike his brother, he has no accent, not Irish, not Bostonian. He could have been raised in Pittsburgh given the inflection in his voice.

“Kim.” She turns to me. “This is Finn.”

---