Page 79 of Her Irish Savage

My deep sigh shifts my black silk corset, the one that’s embroidered with cream-colored roses. It’s strapless, with a sweetheart neckline. I loved the way Patrick’s eyes flared when he saw it this morning—or maybe he was reacting to my thigh-high black boots, the ones with stiletto heels. It might have been the flash of bare flesh between the top of the boots and the bottom of my tight leather skirt that got him going.

But sitting across from Alix, I feel less like a woman taking on the entire universe and more like a little girl playing dress-up. I wish I’d taken a cue from how Patrick dressed for this meeting. He’s in his black suit, wearing a blinding white shirt and his Fishtown tie.

Fuck.

Right now, his raised eyebrows are an invitation for me to ask more questions, but I’m not sure what else I need to know. I flick my hand, telling him to say whatever’s on his mind. He asks Alix, “Does it make sense to move the artwork here if we aren’t ready to sell it?”

She gives him a professional smile. “Of course, I have a vested interest in answering that question.” She immediately returns her attention to me. She recognizes that I’ll be her client, not the man sitting beside me. For that reason alone, I want to do business with her. “Our galleries are designed to withstand fire and flood,” she says. “The entire building is hurricane-proof, tornado-proof, and built to withstand a direct hit from a one-thousand-kilogram bunker-buster bomb.”

I haven’t seen the storage facility where my father put his stolen goods, but Da was famous for pinching every penny until it screamed. I’m fairly certain he’s kept the Picasso in a heat- and humidity-controlled environment. But the rest of it? I suspect he never considered bomb-proofing his collection.

Alix continues: “We shelter some of the world’s great art treasures here at the freeport. We’ve auctioned Monets, Van Goghs, and Matisses. One of our premier clients, Braiden Kelly, is selling an illuminated manuscript in two weeks. It’s a medieval Irish book that has never before been offered on the open market.”

I don’t know why Braiden’s name makes me uncomfortable. I have nothing to hide about the time I spent in his mansion. Nothing happened between us—no matter how many offers I put on the table.

But Patrick is the one who fills the awkward silence by tellingAlix, “Kelly and I are…business associates. He’s the one who gave us your contact information.”

Alix doesn’t blink, although she surely knows exactly whatbusinessPatrick and Braiden have in common. She says, “Of course. And I’ll be certain to thank Braiden for sending you our way.”

Wracking my brain for an appropriate question, I ask, “What sort of security measures do you have for individual galleries?”

Alix flicks her fingers over her laptop keyboard, sending an image to the screen at the front of the room. “As you can see, we have state-of-the-art biometric controls—both fingerprint and retina scans.” She brings up another picture, which looks like an office in any high-end building in the world. “Of course, you can furnish your gallery any way that works for you. Some of our clients maintain business offices down there, along with whatever storage they need.”

She goes on with various facts and figures, details about computer access, Internet connections, some sort of direct link to banking systems in the Caymans and in Switzerland…

Alix passes a thick binder across the table. “This document summarizes everything we’ve talked about so far. I’m sorry our General Counsel couldn’t be here today, but if you have any legal questions, Samantha will be happy to answer them.”

“Samantha?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know who she’s referring to.

“Samantha Mott. She’s served as our chief legal officer since the freeport opened. She?—”

“I know Samantha.”

I spent the better part of the last six months jockeying with Samantha for power in Braiden Kelly’s Philadelphia household. I did my best to make her think we were competing for Braiden’s attention.

I never had a fucking chance.

Now I stand, because I can’t think of anything else I couldpossibly need to know about Diamond Freeport. Alix shakes my hand first, before she turns to Patrick. Her fingers are cool on mine.

We exchange pleasantries, and I promise to keep in touch. Alix escorts us to the building lobby, where a limousine waits to take us back to the nearby private airfield and our chartered jet.

I chose not to use Da’s private plane this morning. I didn’t want any chance that Uncle Aran would find out where Patrick and I went. I don’t want to give my uncle any hint that I know about Da’s hidden property.

“That went well,Scáthach,” Patrick says once we’re aboard, sitting in massive leather chairs beside a polished teak table.

My frown at the Irish word is erased by the flight attendant coming in with a tray. She’s remembered that Patrick doesn’t take ice in his orange juice, and she found the perfect balance of sugar for my cup of coffee. She leaves us with a plate of fresh fruit, promising lunch once we’re in the air.

“We learned a lot,” I say. “Thank you for setting up the meeting.”

He brushes aside my thanks as the jet taxis down the runway. I stare out the window until the freeport fades to a tiny dot in the distance. When I look up, I’m surprised by the indulgent smile on his face. I say, “I can’t believe this is my life now.”

“Welcome to the big time, little girl.”

The endearment snags my breath. From Patrick’s wicked smile, I know that’s exactly the reaction he planned. But I shake my head and set my shoulders. I know he’ll disagree with what I’m about to say. “Even if I move everything to the freeport tomorrow, I still need to get the last million dollars from Rónnad.”

Predictably, his face darkens. “You can’t trust that?—”

“I have to. She’s kept her end of the bargain so far.”

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