Page 1 of Bad at Heart

Chapter One

FIONA

The Irish Saint is officially on my shit list. I have absolutely no idea how one man can be so infuriatingly, all-consuminglyirritating, but somehow, Ronan Murphy manages it.

Ever since I accidentally got myself on his radar, he’s been out to save me, and holy shit. It’s like he has been placed on this planet solely to annoy the hell out of me.

It doesn’t help that he’s so sexy. Asshole. I gave inonce. I blame it on too much vodka at Lauren’s wedding, and I made out with the dickwad.

Huge mistake. Now the fucker is even more persistent. I’m not entirely sure what his end game is. I know he wants to fuck me, but then again, so do loads of guys. Not that I’m tooting my own horn or anything.

I’m a stripper. My livelihood kind of depends on my being able to make men want to fuck me. But I’ve gone out of my way to avoid appealing to Ronan. Too bad the asshole noticed me anyway.

Damn good deeds. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I’m marching along it to the beat of my own damn drum.

Well, I’m not presently marching. I’m crawling out a window just a shade smaller than my hips so I can shimmy down a fire escape and not have to face my annoyed landlord when he comes to demand I pay him the back rent I owe.

If I’m not careful, I will end up with an eviction notice stapled to my door. And if that happens, I will march down to Oracle and try to castrate Ronan fucking Murphy. Hell, I won’t need to worry about finding another place to live if I'm dead.

RONAN

Fiona shoots me a glare as she marches into the dressing room at Oracle, the Irish-run strip club in West Boston. As always, I’m immediately aware of her presence. Of her everything. Jesus fuck, the woman has consumed me every moment since I first noticed her.

I’m currently standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors mounted on the back wall, having a conversation with Carmen Pena about changing her set tonight. Carmen is one of the older strippers – in her late twenties – and has been here for almost seven years.

She is supposed to have two sets in the VIP bar, but her kid is sick, and she needs the night off.

“What about Fi?” she asks, gesturing wildly in Fiona’s direction. “She could easily do three sets.”

“Yeah, I’d be happy too!” Fiona beams at Carmen as I grit my teeth.

How the fuck am I supposed to get her to stop being a stripper if everyone is conspiring against me to get her more shifts?

“Thanks so much, Fi! You’re a damn lifesaver!” Carmen blows her kisses, slinging her purse over her shoulder and hurrying out of the room.

Fiona throws me a smug look as she drops into the chair at her dressing table, her angelic face lit up by the strips of lightbulbs around the mirror.

She opens her makeup bag with practiced indifference. I have no idea what it is about this little blonde stripper, but I can’t get her out of my head.

I know that she’s attracted to me too. A certain memorable half-hour at Paddy’s wedding comes to mind. When Fiona let her guard down enough to stop fighting the pull of attraction between us and let me taste that sweet mouth of hers. Jesus fuck, those plump pink lips haunt my dreams.

I shouldn’t have pushed my luck that night, but my dick got excited, and I was tugging up her dress. It brought Fiona to her senses, and the shutters came back down; all her emotions tucked behind those blue eyes.

Stupid fucking eejit that I am. If I’d kept my hands on Fiona’s back and neck, she would have let me keep kissing her; I’m sure of it. Since then, she’s been even more skittish around me.

Fiona’s eyes dart up to meet mine in the mirror as I stalk toward her. She’s got her shutters down now, her expression unreadable. I fucking hate that look. Sometimes, I catch glimpses of her emotions flashing through her eyes. When she’s drunk, I see more. That’s when I can see she’s fighting her attraction to me. I like looking at her face when she’s drunk.

Fiona swallows as I lean down, the slight movement in her throat catching my eye as my lips slide along the outer shell of her ear. Her delicious scent of roses and lemon tickles my nostrils.

“Three sets,” I murmur, our eyes locked in the mirror. “But the same rules still apply,leannán. No going topless, no lap dances.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

Her response comes automatically. However, where usually it’s snapped and harsh, right now, Fiona’s voice is breathy, and my dick leaps hopefully.

Keeping my lips against her ear, I slide my hands up her bare arms, the backs of my fingers brushing against the outside of her breasts through her T-shirt. Her breath hitches and my dick is definitely leaping.

“Ye are to me,leannán,” I breathe. For the merest moment, the shutters in her eyes disappear, and I can see the blazing heat in there.

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