Page 21 of Irish Reign

How the hell does Fairfax know what John Bell is planning? But I argue: “She reads every night before she goes to sleep.”

“Half of those are picture books. Grace Poole was her primary caretaker, and that woman was barely literate.”

“Grace Poole—” I start to defend myself.

“Plus,” Samantha rolls over my objection. “Grace spoke to her in Irish half the time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Irish.”

“Of course there isn’t. But you want Aiofe to succeed here. In the States.”

Samantha knows exactly where to find my soft bits. Of course I want Aiofe to succeed. I owe that much to her, after all that happened in Ireland.

But I protest, “You cannot drop that innocent child into a public school. You can’t tell her to sink or swim, and all her troubles be damned.”

Samantha looks wounded. “Of course not. But a parochial school would be perfect. I’ll talk to the priest at St. Columba’s. See what he recommends.”

“What’s next on your list?” I ask sourly.

“We need a house.”

I laugh. “We have a house.”

“How long before we can move back into Thornfield?” she asks. “If the fire department clears us tomorrow and you pour in every last resource from Kelly Construction?”

I answer grudgingly. “A year.”

“And you honestly intend for us to stay in this hotel for those twelve months?”

I look around. “There are worse kips in the world.”

Samantha has her facts drawn up like she’s arguing before the Supreme Court. “Aiofe’s a child. She needs a child’s bedroom. A playroom. A kitchen where she can learn to make cookies.”

“Fairfax can get her up to speed once we’re back in Thornfield,” I say dryly.

“How much longer do you think Fairfax will stick around? Ordering room service is a little below his pay grade, isn’t it?”

“Alec Fairfax is the most loyal man I know.”

She changes tack. “You and I need some privacy.”

“That wasn’t a problem Thursday night.”

She blushes, but she doesn’t give in. “That was a mistake.”

“You don’t believe that for a moment.”

“Okay. It wasn’t a mistake. But it won’t happen again. If there were pictures, even one… I’m about to face a hearing on whether I’m fit to practice law. All it takes is one board member to say what I let you do to me is perverted. Immoral. Sick.” Her chin starts to quiver, but she doesn’t stop. “Don’t do it, Braiden. Don’t make me choose between my career and you.”

The eejits who will hear her case have their own secrets. Everyone does. And I’m not opposed to manufacturing a little evidence, to planting it either, if that’s what it takes for Samantha to keep her license.

But that’s not what she wants to hear. Not today. So I sigh and say, “Tell Fairfax to look around for something on the open market.”

“Something to rent?”

I shake my head. “Not with the security we need.”

I see her start the calculations—closing costs, agents’ fees, insurance, and all the rest. And that’s not counting the fact that I was down a quarter of a billion dollars after Russo boosted my container full of cocaine. That my territory was cut at a summit in this very hotel. That I’m bleeding money to Warren K.Chesterton and I’ve paid every one of my loyal Fishtown Boys a bonus, even though my income’s in the jacks.

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