Page 114 of Her Irish Savage

Her mouth is hot under mine. Needy. I think about revising my plan, about throwing her on the bed, or maybe taking her into the shower. A couple of hours can’t make that much difference…

But no. Even one hour could mean the difference between freedom and the rest of our lives behind bars. The knife scar across my belly begins to itch. I feel like we’re already too late.

When I pull away, she groans, nearly undermining myresolve. I shake my head, though. “No games today,Scáthach. If Rivers does what we’re counting on him to do, you and I need air-tight alibis.”

“The entire Grand Irish Union is meeting in the Royal Suite. They’ll say whatever we need them to say.”

“Exactly,” I tell her. “Criminals like us don’t make reliable witnesses in court.”

Rivers is a Warlord, same as me. And if I had the assignment he has, I’d come to the Union meeting, just as he did. I’d watch my prey in public, let everyone see me, let everyone know I have an excellent reason to be in the vicinity. That’ll solve any problems that come up in the future, unexpected security cameras or hotel staff with shockingly good recall of guests.

And once my victim left the safety of the meeting, I’d trail him. I wouldn’t wait long to strike. Wouldn’t take a chance that he shared more secrets with the feds. That he somehow found out I was sent to take care of him.

So while Fiona ran the meeting, I made a few discreet queries on my phone. I have some weapons up my sleeve—which will have to remain a metaphor for the next twenty-four hours. We’ll be passing through metal detectors, where we’re going. My bare hands will be the only weapons at our disposal.

I hope I don’t need to kill.

Fiona’s still waiting for more of an explanation about why we can’t play. “In any case,” I say. “The captains would throw us out within the hour.” I glance down at her slim ankles. “How far can you walk in those shoes?”

She looks at me like I’ve asked a question in Swahili. “Several blocks? A mile? How far do you need?”

“That’ll do. Let’s go.”

I gesture for her to go in front of me on our way to the elevator. I take her hand as we cross the lobby, lacing her fingers between mine.

This is the first time I’ve touched her this way. The first time we’ve broadcast to the world that we’re a couple. I’m doing it forshow—I want every security camera in the lobby to catch us. But I have to admit, it’s a pleasure telling the world she belongs to me.

Outside, I call an Uber, because I want a record of our trip. It’s early, still, getting to Fenway. The gates won’t open until ninety minutes before today’s baseball game, but there are plenty of bars around the stadium. I tell our driver to let us out a couple of blocks from the actual ballpark. The nearest bar is conveniently next door to a bank. If the ATM cameras don’t pick us up, the security one over the door will do.

The crowd’s already lively by the time we shoulder our way up to the polished wood bar. I hoist Fiona onto the single stool that’s open in the middle of the row. Stepping close to steal a kiss, I capture our hands between us. My tongue brushes the line of her lips as I slip my fidget ring onto her finger. It’s too big, of course. But I fold her thumb over the metal band, showing her how to hold it in place.

She’s still looking down in surprise when I shout, “Barkeep!” I layer on my Irish brogue like icing on a cake. “My girl’s agreed to be my bride! Drinks for everyone are on me!”

A woman dressed head-to-toe in Red Sox gear squeals like a dog’s squeeze toy, grabbing at Fiona’s hand like there’s a prize for the first to congratulate her. Fiona’s quick. “It’s a family heirloom,” she says, about the titanium band. “It means so much more to me than a diamond ever could.”

The team behind the bar serves up glass after glass of pale American beer, along with some generous shots of rail drinks. For a thousand bucks or so, I’ve guaranteed no one in this place will forget us. We’re good for a couple of hours.

“We met in this very bar on Opening Day last year,” I tell the crowd. “I couldn’t propose anywhere else.” If anyone thinks we’re dressed oddly for a ball game—my black suit, Fiona’s killer leather outfit—they’re too happy for us lovebirds to say anything about it.

The place starts to empty out an hour before first pitch. Ihelp Fiona down from her bar-stool throne, and we both accept a final round of congratulations, substantially more drunken ones than before. As we join the line of fans waiting to get into the stadium, Fiona says, “Engaged, huh?”

“Sorry I didn’t have a diamond available.” I hold out my hand. “I’ll take it back now.”

She folds her fingers into a sweet little fist. “I don’t think so,” she says. “What if we run into any of our new best friends?”

She’s right, of course. It just makes sense for her to keep my ring. But I make her move it from her finger to her thumb, so it doesn’t go missing.

Holding her hand again, I do my best to protect her from the jostling crowd, but Fiona doesn’t seem the least bit concerned by rowdy baseball fans. She’s in her element here. In her city. In her home.

Our tickets are on my phone, which is scanned at the gate. “When did you get those?” Fiona asks after we’ve passed through the turnstile.

“While Reardon was presenting his feckin’ resumé. I had plenty of time to plan this entire evening.”

She laughs. We follow the signs to our seats, moving deeper and deeper into the stadium until Fiona finally asks, “Where, exactly, are we going?”

At just that moment, we emerge from a darkened hallway into a stunning summer evening. The grass shines like a field of emeralds around the bases. The famous Green Monster forms the left-field wall.

Our seats are three rows up, directly behind home plate.

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