Page 53 of Irish Reign

“Louder,” I demand, picking up speed, because I might be a grown man, but she strips away every last shred of my restraint.

“I’m your wife,” she says again.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I’m your wife,” she repeats, but she’s not any louder because her voice is shaking too much. She’s as close to breaking as I am.

I reach around and catch the hot button of her clit between my forefinger and my thumb. I squeeze, hard enough to make her cry out, and then without my ordering her again she chantsas she shatters: “I’m your wife I’m your wife I’m your wife I’m your wife I’m your wife.”

I crash into her one last time, before I start to spasm in time to her promise, her prayer. I clutch her hips until I’m empty, and then I collapse on top of her, wanting to pin her, to splay her, to melt into her forever.

“I’m your wife,” she whispers one more time.

I kiss her neck, softly now, gentle where Russo left his marks. I smooth her hair to one side. I help her up, and then I guide us both behind her desk, to her mesh-and-metal executive chair. I pull her onto my lap, folding my arms around her and holding her close enough to feel her heartbeat.

I whisper that I need her. I whisper that I love her. I whisper that she’s mine. And I close my eyes to offer up a prayer that we both stay safe from the predator we’ve unleashed inside the freeport.

22

SAMANTHA

Two weeks after the freeport conference room was used to welcome Antonio Russo, the space has been converted into an auction house. The Book of Skreen, Braiden’s Irish treasure, is displayed at the front of the room inside a custom-made bulletproof case. Velvet wedges support the ancient wooden boards that cover the hand-lettered pages. One example of the book’s ornate Celtic knotwork is projected on a huge screen. The gold-lined image is twelve hundred years old, but it looks like it could have been painted yesterday.

A buzz of excitement builds as Alix Key enters the room. She’s been conducting auctions at the freeport for a couple of years now, bringing in stunning results for our clients.

I smile as she comes to stand beside me, next to the display case. My role today is primarily moral support. I’ve already drafted the contract and the lengthy disclosure statements that will make the sale official. “Ready for showtime?” I ask her.

She glances at the clock on the wall. “We’ll keep them waiting an extra ten minutes. Build that last-minute excitement.”

“Just in case the Morgan Library changes its mind?”

She offers a rueful grin. “Not likely.”

In a perfect world, the Book of Skreen would cause a bidding frenzy between the world’s most prestigious collectors of illuminated manuscripts. New York’s Morgan Library is famous for a collection build in the nineteenth century. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Getty Center… Museums have built entire rooms around treasures like the Skreen.

But every one of Alix’s advances to public institutions was politely declined. Aside from the shockingly short timetable, museums and libraries are frightened off by the book’s sketchy background. Braiden can’t prove his property wasn’t removed legally from Ireland. There are no prior sales documents to show it wasn’t stolen.

But the room of speculators around us proves private collectors aren’t as concerned by legal uncertainty. Plenty of millionaires—and billionaires too—are willing to take a risk, just so they can claim ownership of one of the most beautiful books in the world.

Alix says, “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck,” I tell her. “You’re the best in the business.”

As she takes her place at the lectern, I head to the back of the room. Braiden sits in the last row, a look of impatience marring the effect of his perfectly tailored suit. “Ready?” I whisper, as I slide into the empty seat beside him.

“I just wish…” He trails off, making a fist of his right hand.

He just wishes he could bid on the book. Or that I could. Or Trap, or Alix, anyone he knows and trusts. But he’s known the rules all along. Once he consigned the Skreen for auction, he gave up all control.

And Braiden Kelly hates to lose control.

The crowd is getting anxious. I glance around the room, trying to figure out how many of them will actually bid.

Cole Wolf sits near us in the back. He collects Impressionist art; he bought the Monet that was on the block at Alix’s first auction. He won’t bid today; he’s not interested in manuscripts. Instead, he’s here for the pure sport of today’s contest.

Same with Connor Boyle. I’ve never seen him at a freeport auction. But maybe he came to Dover on other business, and the book is Irish, and the caterers are waiting with vintage champagne, so why not waste an hour or so watching other people spend their money?

Braiden shifts his weight, broadcasting frustration like a radio signal. I close my fingers over his fist and squeeze gently. We both sit a little straighter as Alix greets the crowd. She opens the bidding at an easy ten million dollars.

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