Page 24 of A Dark Mafia Christmas

I check that her helmet is fastened securely, avoiding making eye contact, but feeling her green eyes on me the whole time. Then I check the saddle.

“No wonder you fell. You didn’t even fasten it here.” I show her the buckle that’s flapping about beneath the horse’s belly. “You had no control over her.”

“Control. Right.” She chews her bottom lip, and I wonder how it would feel to kiss those lips again. For real this time. Not because we’re keeping up appearances.

“Do you want me to show you?”

Man, those eyes… She gazes at me, wide-eyed like I just told her she won the lottery, and I wonder if she has any clue just how goddamned sexy she is when she looks at me that way.

“Would you do that?”

“Here.” I gesture for her to put one foot in the stirrup and hold her waist as she climbs up into the saddle, ignoring how good she feels in my hands. “Get comfortable. Make sure both feet are in the stirrups and hold the reins with both hands.”

“Do I talk to her?” It’s a genuine question, and I can’t help smiling.

“So long as you don’t expect her to answer you back.”

She giggles, and I realize that this is the first time she has laughed because of something I’ve said. I want to hear it again.

“Now what?”

I show her how to urge Misty into a gentle walk and then I mount Jupiter, falling into step alongside her. We walk in comfortable silence. Mary is concentrating on staying in the saddle, which gives me the opportunity to watch her unnoticed.

She’s graceful without even trying. There’s no fear behind her eyes, only awe and respect for the horse, and gratitude for the new experience she has been given. Finally, my eyes settle on her profile, the flushed cheeks, the curve of her lips, the strands of unruly hair sneaking out of the helmet. My blood starts pumping around my body. Or more specifically, it starts pumping directly into my pants.

We stop and dismount by the stream. The ground is too cold and damp to sit on, so we tie the horses to a grand old oak tree and throw pebbles into the water. Mary has never skimmed a stone across the water’s surface before and acts suitably surprised when I hit four hops.

“Chrysler isn’t my real name.” She tosses a stone sideways, mimicking my actions, and frowns when it produces a gentle plop. “I adopted it when I moved to New York.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Scanlan.”

She faces me, and it suddenly slots into place: the faint accent, the sense that she belongs here, my mom’s comment that Mary is a beautiful Irish name.

“I never felt as if I belonged here.” She faces the water, chewing on her lip again. “That’s an understatement. I didn’t belong here. I spent most of my childhood in the foster care system being moved from foster family to foster family, none of whom understood that the word ‘care’ was in the system for a reason.So…” She inhales deeply. “As soon as I was old enough to leave, I booked myself a ticket to New York with the money I stole from my foster father’s bank account.”

She isn’t looking for sympathy. She isn’t waving her hands in the air and saying, “Hey, look at me. As if I didn’t have enough shit in my life already, you had to come along and abduct me, asshole.” And I realize that I’ve never known anyone quite like Mary Chrysler before.

“Why New York?”

She turns to me and smiles. “It’s the city that doesn’t sleep. I thought I could lose myself in the big city. Blend in, you know. Become invisible.”

Most people move away, leave their past behind to find themselves, but Mary wanted the opposite. It occurs to me then what a shameful waste that would be.

“Did it work?”

“Ha! It did until two days ago.”

Cue one Emmett O’Hara and his game changing plan to kidnap her and save her life.

“Mary, I…”

What can I say? I’m sorry I dragged you all the way to Ireland and introduced you to a family that will never be yours. Because what kind of asshole would do that to someone who has never had a proper family to call her own?

But before I can say anything in my defense, a glint of silver in the water catches my eye. I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her around to face the stream. “Over there, Mary.” I lowermy head so that our cheeks are almost touching and point at the salmon that are swimming just beneath the water’s surface.

“What am I looking for?” I feel her whisper-breath on my face and force myself to concentrate.

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