Page 4 of Guardian's Touch

“I’ll deal with that.” He’s too busy with her dad, as usual. Doing whatever big, important business they deal with while he makes plans to brush me aside and pretend I never existed.

That’s just fine. He wants me to have my own life away from him?

I’ll start tonight.

2

DANE

Frank leans back in his chair, rolling his head from side to side like he needs to loosen up his neck. I understand the feeling. My entire body is coiled, like a spring ready to pop. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.

“Bottom line, we get the girls out of town.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, wincing. “Right now, there's no other way.”

I hate to agree with him, but we've been through every aspect of this latest challenge with a fine-tooth comb, and there doesn’t seem to be a way out of it that doesn’t involve going to war. The biggest challenge I've dealt with ever since taking my place at the head of the Chicago mob.

The Irish were never happy about it, but until now, they were a lurking threat. A volcano occasionally releasing steam, reminding everyone down at the base of the potential danger once they blew.

They're not steaming anymore. The lava has begun to flow, and innocent civilians have already gotten caught up in it.

“We've got four men dead, and about a dozen civilians caught in the crossfire,” I mutter, shaking my head at the aftermath I witnessed firsthand when I was out of town to clean up the damage. Widowed wives, children who won't grow up to know their fathers. All because Jack O’Grady didn't appreciate not being consulted over my ascension. One of those old-school bosses who thinks he's still living in the old days. He’s pissed off because I didn't kiss the ring and pretend his opinion mattered.

And here we are, stepping up our protection, putting out the call to our associates that the Irish are looking to go to war.

“We've got to get them out of town.”

I meet Frank's weary gaze and would swear there's an animal inside me trying to claw its way out. The very thought of sending Camilla away makes me seethe, no matter the act I put on for her benefit. “What do you think I've been trying to do? Why do you think I paid a mint to get her into Yale?”

“I mean now, immediately. School doesn't start for another few weeks. You think O’Grady will hold off till then? Maybe we can call a time-out.”

I don't need his sarcasm, but I see his point. With his daughter also mixed up in this, he has just as much hanging in the balance as I have. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“We could send the girls on a trip, one last fling before college?”

“We’d have to arrange it under the strictest anonymity, and they'd still need guards with them at all times.” As always, the idea of letting Camilla out of my sight sends red flags waving like mad, but it's the only way. I need to convince myself it’s the only way.

“You think Camilla would go for it?”

He doesn't shrink under my penetrating stare. There's too much history between us for him to react the way most men would and have when they catch me looking at them like I want to tear their heart out for questioning me. “What makes you think she wouldn't?”

“I saw her run out of here in tears because she has to go to school. She's already taking it the wrong way.”

The memory leaves me unsettled, but not for the reasons he imagines. I clench my fists under the desk and have to fight like hell against the erection beginning to stir. She’s never as tempting as when she’s furious—baby blues blazing, fair skin flushed, chest heaving.

I’m nothing but a slobbering pervert for thinking of her that way, even if she is an adult. I’ve known her since she was a child. I remember the day she was born and how proud her father was.

Now here I am, recalling how close I came to throwing her on the desk and fucking her mercilessly for her defiance.

“She’ll get over it,” I choke out. “She won’t have a choice.”

I hate the way he chuckles. “Spoken like a man who's been a guardian for a couple of years. Try putting in a full nineteen years with a daughter, and let me know if you're still so confident.”

I get his point but resent the implication that I'm unaware of the way Camilla thinks. If there's one thing I'm an expert at, it's the workings of her mind. I've committed her to memory—every reaction, every wrinkle of her nose or furrowing of her brow.

Admitting that would mean admitting to a great many things he can't know.

Instead of confessing to my disgusting obsession, I check the time. “I'll talk to her about it. It's not too late, so she's probably still up. I'll suggest the trip as a peace offering.” And no, she won't go along with it willingly, but I will wear her down.

And if I don't? If she's dead set on being an obstinate little brat? Then I'll send her away by force. I'll have my guys take her out of here bound and gagged if need be. She’ll hate me for it, and I will most likely hate myself, but it’s for the best.

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