Page 13 of Fearless

“Mediocre pickup line,” I say. “But I’ll give you a three for effort.”

He grabs my waist in his massive hands and turns me on the spot so I’m facing him.

Good thing I’m not scared of heights, because the glass standing between me and certain death seems flimsy at best. Especially when he steps closer and forces me flush against it.

“Aye, but you’re forgetting one key detail. I’ve already picked you up.”

Cillian ducks his head to kiss me and in sheer panic, I turn away.

His laugh sends a puff of warm air against my cheek. “Why don’t we cut the blushing bride, nervous virgin act, hmm? I already told you what I was going to do to you.”

He did. He literally did.

But I still came up here.

Because that’s how desperate I am to forget.

I’ve been holed up in Mom’s house since I got off the plane. She doesn’t let me go anywhere—not even to the shops. If I want something, I buy it online or send one of her assistants to find it. She claims to be protecting me from the ever-present threat of the Paparazzi’s camera flashes. What she doesn’t realize is that the threat of giving me too much time to think is far worse. All I do is mope around, and miss my old life. And everything else I was forced to give up.

But I can’t think about that anymore.

I shove away the voice. Listening to it is one of the reasons I’ve been withering away in Mom’s house this whole time. I can’t keep living in the past. I need to do what I came here to do. Tonight was supposed to be the first step in that plan.

How will I ever escape my cage if I can’t even work up enough courage to go out clubbing?

I mean, look where one night of bravado got me? I’m in this amazing—if ridiculous—penthouse suite with a stranger who’s tall, dark, and handsome. And, apparently, a deviant between the sheets. I hit the fucking jackpot.

But can I really give him what he wants? I’ve had my fair share of kissing boys in bars, but my only ever one-night stand didn’t end well.

Didn’t end well? Jesus, understatement of the fucking century, Meisie.

I glance past Cillian toward the suavely furnished studio. Even from here, the bed is visible. This is a place to fuck and sleep. A place he brings girls like me. Even though he claimed not to do stuff like that...I mean,lookat this place. It’s obvious he’s lying.

I’m just another notch in his ten-thousand-dollar belt.

Shit. I can’t go through with this. I look up into his dark-green eyes, intent on telling him I’ve changed my mind, when my cell phone rings inside my purse.

I’m not psychic, but I immediately know who’s calling.

I don’t answer it, of course. What’s the point? Mother will pretend to care only long enough to find out where I am and then send her minions to sort out whatever fucking PR disaster she thinks I’m about to bring down on her head.

“Need to get that?” Cillian asks.

God, there’s something about the way he speaks that whips my nether regions into a fucking frenzy. It could be the alcohol too. The apartment. The gorgeous view.

But I know it’s him. It’s his fucking pheromones or something. I still can’t believe I let him talk me into getting into his car with him.

Honestly, though, no serial killer could ever be this hot and get away with it. I mean, Ted Bundy was a good looking guy, but Cillian…?

“No,” I say. I hesitate, and then I toss my purse over his shoulder. Thankfully it flies through the gap in the glass sliding doors and not through the actual glass.

Imagine putting in that insurance claim.

He glances behind him and then turns back to me, a faint smile teasing his mouth. “Aye. Let it go to voicemail.” His eyes slide to the tumbler in my hand. “Now why don’t you finish your drink so we can take this inside?”

I toy with the glass as I duck my head.

Shit, I should probably have taken that call. What if she gets her panties in a bunch and sends the whole of ‘Police-Scotland’ out to look for me?

---