Page 5 of Irish Brute
Samantha’s standing straight by the time I turn around. I’m glad she’s found the strength, but I’m enough of a pig to miss the chance to wrap her hair around my fist again.
I try to atone by cracking the bottle and handing it over. Once I’m sure she won’t drop it, I reach for my handkerchief. I wait for her to rinse her mouth and spit into the snow, and then I hand her the square of fresh white linen.
“I didn’t think anyone carried those anymore,” she says, nodding toward the cloth.
Her voice is shaky. Hushed. Not at all the same woman who managed the meeting upstairs, just five minutes ago.
“They’re more useful than you’d think,” I say.For passing to acailínin obvious distress, I think but don’t say. Just like I don’t say they’re good for picking things up without leaving fingerprints. Instead, I ask, “How are you doing?”
She shakes her head. But she says, “I’m done puking.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Go where?” She glances at her low-slung Mercedes, which is doing a fine imitation of a snow-covered grave barrow.
“I’m taking you home,” I say.
“Not to Philadelphia.” The words rush out too fast. Her chin comes up, and her fist closes over her belly, but she was right the first time. She doesn’t puke again.
“Not my home,” I say. “Yours.”
“I’m perfectly capable?—”
It’s icy out here, and wet. In just the past two minutes, the wind has gusted higher, like someone’s cranking a house-size fan behind us. Neither of us wears a coat, and she’s got her feet crammed into four-inch stilettos that would make my cock take notice if it wasn’t afraid of freezing to my zipper.
“No one’s questioning your capability, counselor. But Trap Prince would have my arse if someone drove you off the road when you only came out in this to represent me.”
“Trap Prince is my boss, not my?—”
I cut off further argument by sweeping her—literally—off her feet. She’s easier to grab than I expect; she doesn’t have a lot of meat on her bones. I brace for her to elbow my ribs. Maybe she’ll scream so the kid inside can save her.
The fact that she doesn’t fight tells me I’m making the right move. Whatever she learned on that phone call, she’s still shattered. I deposit her in the Jeep and crank the heater beforeI take a swipe at clearing the windows. Once I’m back inside, the vehicle smells of wet wool.
She’s able to give me directions. And she passes over her keycard to get me into the garage. Her condo’s on the seventh floor, overlooking the Sherman University campus—lots of chrome and glass, hard lines finished in black and white. She crosses to the thermostat and bumps the heat up a notch or two.
“About what happened back there,” she says, turning toward me. Her face is flat. Carefully scraped of expression. Whatever she’s about to say, it’s a lie.
“Go change,” I say.
“I don’t?—”
“Now.” I don’t raise my voice.
Her eyebrows peak, and I watch her start to structure an argument. But despite my best efforts at shielding her outside the Tax Division, her fancy tailored suit looks like it’s been dunked in a swimming pool. Her hair is a mess too, and those shoes…
She’s only gone for a moment before she returns with a thick towel that she pushes into my hands. “For your hair,” she says.
I wait until she’s heading back toward what I assume is the bedroom before I peel off my jacket. I rub my hair until it’s standing on end. I toe off my shoes and leave them by the door.
And then I head into the kitchen to make us something to eat.
She’s short on fruit and veg—anything that’ll spoil. But there’s a carton of eggs and a brick of aged cheddar, a pack of fancy Italian salami in the meat drawer, and a loaf of bread in the freezer.
Omelets and toast all around then.
She takes a long time back there, longer than a woman needs to change out of wet clothes. I strain to hear if she’s calling someone, but I don’t actually press my ear against her door. I’m a nosy bastard, but I’ve got some pride.
When she finally comes out, she’s wearing sweats—simple black cotton. She’s traded her fuck-me shoes for gray fleece-lined socks. Her hair is twisted into a knot, pinned against the nape of her neck.
