Page 44 of Her Irish Savage

But I also say I need a little more time to investigate. A little more time to be sure.

I don’t mention Fiona.

I knock on the apartment door when I get up to the fourth floor. Somehow, I forgot to get a replacement key made yesterday. I meant to do it; the plan just slipped my mind with everything else going on.

Fiona’s changed out of her demure outfit. She’s wearing yoga pants now, ones that sit low on her hips so I get a clear view of her skinny crimson thong. She’s pulled on a top that’s more lace than cloth.

She plants one hand on her hip. “So you’re staying?”

“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m half-convinced it’s a mistake. “For now.”

“Thank you,” she says. “For now.”

She doesn’t have to tilt her head to that angle. She has no cause to lick her lips. There isn’t a reason on earth she needs to pause with her tongue just barely visible in the soft, dark cave of her mouth.

My hands need something to do, so I strip off my tie. I’m still thinking about what I could manage with that knot-marked silk when I turn to the note she’s left on the counter—a 617 phone number.

“Are you going to call?” I ask. My question’s a test. I want to know how she thinks.

“Q was right,” she says. “I need to act fast. The Gala’s at the end of next month.”

“But why reach out to a stranger? If O’Roark really wants to help, why not just hand over your father’s accounts?”

“If Da made a will, I haven’t heard about it. It’ll take days to pull together his records. More days—maybe even weeks—to jump through hoops with bankers, investment guys. I don’t have that time, especially with Uncle Aran fighting me every step of the way.”

“But you trust O’Roark with this?” I jut my chin toward the number.

“He’s old-school, belts-and-suspenders. It was dangerous, what he did today. He wouldn’t take that risk if it wasn’t safe for me to follow up.”

“What if Dowd put him up to it? Or Rivers?”

She shakes her head. “Q was terrified they’d see him talking to me. His hands were so sweaty… That stammer… I know a thing or two about nervous men.”

Her words are matter-of-fact, but her tone tightens the crotch of my trousers.

“Trust me,” she goes on. “Quentin O’Roark doesn’t have the balls to play both ends against the middle.”

“So you trust whatever random woman he tells you to call?” I eye the slip of paper.

“Of course not.” She sounds indignant. “I know nothing about her.”

“Good girl.”

She smiles as her cheeks turn pink, and it’s like someone turned on an entire bank of stadium lights to flood a football pitch. “But I will call her.” She sounds a little breathless, like she’s just run up all four flights of stairs to this apartment. “I’ll meet with her. I’ll see what she has to say. And if it makes sense, if her terms are good, I’ll get the money I need.”

That’s a good answer, so I pull a clean burner from my pocket. I always keep one on hand. “Go on, then.”

Fiona swallows as she takes the phone. She smooths the piece of paper on the countertop. She glances out the window at the brownstone across the street, at the sky, at the Land Rover parked in front of the fire hydrant.

But her hand is steady when she finally puts the phone on speaker and punches in the number.

It rings three times before someone answers: “Speak.”

The voice is female.

Fiona looks at me as she responds. “I was told you can help me. I need to raise some funds.”

“Who gave you this number?” The accent is Boston, born and bred, and the woman is old.

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