Page 5 of Destroy Me
He reached for his desk drawer to retrieve his keys. “Where?”
Tucker hummed over the line. “Someplace called North Quigley Village. Hey, that’s Ireland, looks like.”
“Where?” No. No no no no. Fionn forced himself to be thinking, to breathe, to not open his mouth and let the man on the other end of the line know exactly how panicked he suddenly felt.
“Is that anywhere near your former neck of the woods, Irish?” Tucker asked. “It’s not a big country, is it?”
No, not really. But it was big enough that Sheppard had hundreds of places she could be without picking the one town no one connected with him should be knowing about.
“No, not my neck of the woods.” He had to be heading out of here. “Listen, e-mail me the intel, all right? All of it. I’ve got to head.”
“Sure, but—”
Fionn hung up before Tucker finished his response; it was either that or drop the receiver, the way his hands were shaking. Sheppard was in North Quigley Village. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
It wasn’t. He knew it, deep down in his gut. Lyse Sheppard was hiding in the one place he’d vowed to never go, near the most important person in his life. The person he’d promised to protect no matter the cost, nearly two decades ago. Could he honor that vow and still bring in the woman who’d betrayed them all? Betrayedhim?
He clenched the keys in his fist till they threatened to break through his skin.Think, Fionn. Think!
But there was nothing to be thinking about. If Sheppard was in the same town as his mam, it was for a reason. Just one more strike against her.
He’d tear her apart before he’d let her harm his family.
He was rushing down the hall with his next breath. He had a plane to catch—and then he’d catch a traitor.
Chapter Three
A gentle breeze blew across Lyse’s cheeks, and she closed her eyes, resting her head back against the brick wall. The chatter around her, the evening gathering at the local pub, The Hairy Lemon, fell away as she focused on the touch caressing her hot face. There was something different about the air in Ireland, something soft, clean. If green had a feeling, this was it—there was no other way to describe how it touched her skin, filled her lungs. Good. Pure.
Would this be the last time she felt a breeze like this? Would this be the last evening she spent on the Lemon’s patio, drinking with her friends?
“What’s the story, Lyse?” Sean settled in the chair next to her and passed over the Orchard Thieves she’d requested from the bar. Usually she’d go with him, if only for the pleasure of hearing him pronounce the wordteeves. If the air in Ireland was soft, the language often matched, but thethsound in words was often pronounced with a hardt. Deciphering speech was one of many things she’d had to learn when she came. Like names. She glanced up as Sean’s boyfriend, Cathal, sat next to him.
“Hey, Cathal.”
Irish for Charlie, Cathal’s name was pronouncedKay-hul. That one had taken a while to get used to. Sometimes she’d felt like she needed to write people’s names down and practice so she didn’t stumble over them all the time.
“Sean’s right; you’re lookin’ knackered.”
She shook her head, took a sip of the cool hard cider before setting it on the wrought-iron table. “Rough night.”
Sean frowned. “You were saying that yesterday. Coming down with something?”
No, but something will be coming down on me soon.“Maybe.”
Anytime now, she figured. Fionn had gotten on a plane late last night Ireland time, midafternoon in the States. He was here, on his home soil; she didn’t need computer records to tell her that. She could feel it. She should walk home, pack—not that he’d let her take anything with her when she left. Even revealing the threat to his mother would earn her nothing more than a short reprieve, if she was lucky.
She usually wasn’t. There was always the chance that he’d simply snap her neck and be done with it. In the glimpse she’d caught of him at the airport before he’d boarded, he certainly looked grim enough.
She’d stopped watching after that. Hell was coming for her, and everything inside her shouted to run, get away, save herself. There was no saving herself; she’d known that when she tipped him off. The only weapon she possessed was her brain, and that wouldn’t help her against a man as angry as Fionn.
She shivered in her chair.
“Now I’m getting bothered,” Sean said, leaning toward her. His cool hand landed on her forehead. “You’re no’ feeling warm. Maybe I’m needing to feed ya—chicken noodle soup, yeah? That’s what strengthens you up in America.”
Leave it to the chef to feed her. “I’m fine, Sean, really.”
He slid his hand down, the backs of his fingers resting against her cheek as he frowned. “You’re not all right, Lyse.”
