Page 143 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

“He does.” I laugh.

“Maybe you need to have a private word with the DA over our way to see if he’d be interested in the same deal.”

It had already crossed my mind. I nod. “I may just do that.”

It’s not like Eoin will stop me from heading to the opposite coast. I’m still chauffeured everywhere, but would he kick up a protective stink since he seems to have lost all interest?

I’m not so sure that he would these days.

The Hudson Dusters’ HQ, Manhattan, New York

My stiletto heels click on the marble flooring as I pass the reception quartet. The color of the day?

Burgundy.

I find it quite a morbid color. It’s sort of black with a hint of red, like death infused with blood.

Will they or won’t they let their mobster boss know that his ex-wife, day-by-day girlfriend is on her way up? I don’t stop to find out.

I press the call button for the elevator. Once inside, I take in the appearance of the professionally dressed girl who’s living on borrowed time in the all-mirrored surface. I have an almost defeated look these days.

When I reach Eoin’s office, I’m surprised to find that Candice isn’t sitting outside.

It’s then I feel it—the hammering of the final nail. I don’t hesitate to open his office door.

I know exactly what I’ll find.

Their mouths are an inch apart, no doubt only parting to take in the intruder who has the audacity to interrupt their make-out session. I don’t doubt their kissing will quickly escalate into full-blown desk sex the moment I’m gone.

Eoin has discarded both his jacket and tie and his shirt sleeves are rolled up.

I guess he means business.

My traitorous eyes can’t help but feast on his powerful, veiny arms, their dark ink artwork contrasting magnificently against the brilliant whiteness of his crisp shirt. Arms that are currently snaked around the slim waist of Candice as she stands with her groin pressed firmly against his, her fingers remaining tangled in his black hair. Hair I’ve fisted so many times I’ve lost fucking count.

Jealousy bowls through me, so powerful it almost knocks me off my feet, but I remain impassive. In the time I’ve taken the order from Rod out of my briefcase and thrown it on the top of his desk, my jealousy has turned into rage.

Burgundy rage.

A rage that I embrace. A rage that’s been missing for months.

I ignore her. She’s not worthy of my time. Instead, I make eye contact with him. Aquamarine. Why not green?

I walk over to them and wait while he releases his grip on his PA before turning to face me. He gives nothing away. There’s not a shred of guilt, and there’s no apology.

Asshole.

I press my hand over his heart, feeling the familiar strong, steady thrum beneath my fingertips. Even now, my body wants his. Well, fuck my body and fuck him.

As long as it beats, it’s yours.

I stare at him, ignoring the mixed bag of emotions that are screaming to surface. “You’re a goddamn liar.”

Removing my hand, I walk toward the door. Just before I close it, I glance over my shoulder, my eyes dropping to the leather-topped surface of the desk. My desk.

“Don’t forget to wipe.”

The final click of the door signifies the end of a relationship that was doomed from the start.

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