Page 13 of Illicit Temptation

She tilts her head, anger tightening her jaw. “I’ll figure something out.”

A lot has changed for me in three years. The spur-of-the-moment marriage was a reckless impulse. Any video evidence of us in the casino and that chapel would have proved my princess was drunk. If this all got out, that I married her and left her, even though I had little choice, the O’Rourkes would find me and...hurt me. Maybe even take out their anger on my cousins who work for them.

According to my cousins, Shea has nothing to do with her brothers as far as their business in Astoria. But she is very muchtheirs.

“We’ll figure it out together, princess,” I growl.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay,wife.”

She gasps. “Not that either. How about my name?”

“Mrs. Quinlan?” I tilt my phone screen to show Shea her contact name in my phone.

She leans in. “Oh no. You... You have to change that. If Balor hacks your phone...”

“You forget, Shane ismycousin. He’s just as sharp as Balor. My phones are protected. Even from your hacker brother, who I immensely respect and regard.”

She looks at me, thinks about that, and moves to the doorway. She’s struggling to decide which side of the loyalty she wants me on. O’Rourke or Quinlan.

Fuck, I don’t want to start a war.

“When... When are you going back to Dublin?” she asks, opening the door and letting guests stream in holding cocktails from the bar area.

I find a break in the crowd and pin her behind a fake tree. “I’m not going back to Dublin, princess. And I’mnotdone with you. But right now, I have a rude motherfucker to deal with who’s going to regret being born.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Trace

Iwatch Archer Crest strut down a narrow back-of-house corridor. Clearly not an exit for party guests at this fancy venue, but he thinks he’s fucking better than everyone and can go wherever the hell he wants. But it’s the perfect corridor for me to strike.

From inside my jacket, I slide out my expandable baton, and with a quick jerk of the wrist, I whack Archer on the back of the head. It’s not as effective as a baseball bat, but it gets his attention.

“What the fuck?” he bellows, spinning around, holding his head.

“Tell me, Crest, are you that daft that you don’t know raising your hand to an O’Rourke, especially the only sister, can get you killed?” I shake my head, tsk, tsking as I smack the baton against my palm. “Wanna raise that hand to me instead?”

He’s smart enough to know what’s coming. He tries to run, but I grab him and punch him in the nose so hard, he crashes to the floor.

I easily carry this lightweight. He may be fit and lean but weighs a feather from the lack of muscle mass. I put my shades on him and pulling aWeekend at Bernie’s, I tell anyone I pass, that the dude had too much to drink, and I’m helping to sober him up.

Workers at this catering hall are so wrapped up in getting food out, that no one questions me. Not that anyone would question me with my staggering six-five height, tattooed fingers, more crawling up my neck, and my signature scowl.

Across a walkway under a canopy of overgrown trees, I bring passed-out Archer to my car. It’s good that I keep rope, duct tape, drugged dart guns, and extra knives in my trunk. This is why I don’t drive one of those SUVs with exposed, easily accessible cargo areas.

My brand-new Mercedes S-Class beauty is also lined with disposable mats in the trunk I can toss if a spec of blood hits the surface.

I call Rhys and he makes it to East Hampton in a shocking forty minutes. He pulls up in a brand-new convertible Audi, wearing casual linen trousers, a blue blazer, and a white T-shirt underneath. It’s ninety degrees, and he’s driving around with the top down. Not a hair out of place either.

He also left the security firm in Dublin to work for the O’Rourkes. The Quinlans and the O’Rourkes share a tight history. Our top-of-the-range security experience put us as guards to the Astoria royal family. Instead of doing hits on the streets.

I don’t mind taking a life if needed. But I prefer a nice suit and expensive cologne to a leather jacket and blood under my fingernails. At the end of the day, I do what’s needed of me. And destroying Archer is needed.

“Who’s this?” Rhys asks me, looking down into my trunk.

Archer, who’s come around, struggles against the complicated set of knots holding him. Seeing me and Rhys, he attempts to scream, but he’s got duct tape across his mouth.

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