Page 159 of Rage

Did he have feelings? Of course. He just didn’t believe in showing them.

“Why are you fighting so hard for this?” I finally just asked, “You don’t like me that much. Our sex life is lackluster at best–”

“What? That’s not?—”

“That wasn’t up for debate.” I rejected his interruption. “And let’s face it. I was just biding my time until I’d need to dump you anyway.”

Being a Barkada had its drawbacks. Social climbers, and the un-monied types with wilting pedigrees loved to sniff at our heels. He’d been both. I’d fallen for his grift because he was handsome.

I just wanted to know what it was like to be with a very handsome man.

The verdict? It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Pretty people didn’t work very hard at being decent at anything: business, sex, courtship.

Then they’d do inane things like ruin a world-class meal to soothe their insignificant feelings.

Chapter Two

Kieran

I’m never one to judge people from across a room. I’m not the kind of person to be fascinated by the sight of a couple fighting. But this couple was in my eyeline, and I just couldn’t help but watch from my seat at the bar.

He wanted a reaction. She didn’t give it.

Her disinterest was something that just lit me up inside. Cold, indifferent. Distant.

I was a scoundrel. I loved a difficult woman.

She was more intent on her meal than on his agitated conversation. Perfection.

“Aidan!” I called to the barkeep. “Who is that?”

I nodded to the woman. Her almond shaped eyes tilted down at the corners, dark lashes matching equally dark hair. Her flat nose, smooth cheeks and golden tan were luminescent under the chandelier, giving the impression of an aureate heart.

“That’s Jasmine Barkada,” Aidan said quietly, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached his scarred palm to my glass and refilled it.

I stared at my own palm, looking at the horizontal scar that slashed across it - an oath of allegiance from the old days of the Irish Mob. Now we’d turned completely legitimate, our boss, Eoghan Green, had done away with the blood vows, and moved to written contracts with the Green Fields Enterprises letterhead. It was far more enforceable, but lacked a certain flare.

“Jasmine Barkada.” I spoke her name, tasting each of the syllables. “Your photos do not do you justice.”

Did I know the famous Barkadas? Of course. Who didn’t?

The youngest of the Barkada siblings was a Grammy winning pop star, whose name was synonymous with fame: Jestiny. One of the brothers was an MMA champion, and the other a classical composer. The one that had fascinated me the most was the eldest, Jareth, an Oxford-educated lawyer and businessman and head of the family. But Jasmine? She had been a complete mystery.

Jasmine was rather unimpressive beside her beautiful sister, and she was never photographed without her. Always stepping back, like she was there as support, not the main attraction. She played that archetype well, because I never suspected that she’d be such a femme fatale in the flesh.

“Does she come here often?” I asked Aidan.

“No,” Aidan said. “First time I’ve seen her. Did you hear the gossip?”

“Gossip?” I asked, lifting a brow.

“He cheated on her with the star of that new Hip-Hop musical about Marie Antoinette.”

My, my, the plot thickens.

Just the other day, I had gotten a proposal from Barkada Industries on some docks we wanted to off-load. We no longer dealt with illegal trades, that bit of property was just sittingvacant, swallowing money. Beneath its cement grounds were the skeletons of so many bodies, it was best we wiped our hands of it.

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