Page 21 of Sins of the Father

"I want you," he growls against my skin, the words vibrating through me.

I grip his shoulders, nails digging into expensive fabric. "Cillian?—"

He pulls back enough to look at me, his eyes nearly black with desire. His thumb traces my swollen lips, still wet from his kiss.

"Come upstairs with me," I whisper, throwing caution to the wind.

For a moment, I think he'll accept. Then rational thought returns. He pulls back, though his hand lingers on my neck.

"No," he says, voice rough. "Not like this."

The rejection stings, but his eyes promise this isn't over—just delayed.

I reach for the door, my legs unsteady. He catches my wrist before I can exit.

"Orla." His voice stops me. "You kicked ass today."

His praise shouldn't matter. His family killed mine. Yet warmth flows through me, I fawn at his praise like a love starved puppy.

"Goodnight, Cillian."

I walk into my building on shaky legs, my body still throbbing from his touch. I can feel his eyes on me until I go inside. In the elevator, I rest against the wall, fingers touching my lips where I can still taste him.

The warehouse proved two truths. It might be harder to hide my ass-kicking skills than I thought, and my attraction to Cillian Kavanagh is getting dangerously close to clouding my judgment.

CHAPTER 10

CILLIAN

Ihave avoided being alone with my assistant since I kissed her in my car, and very nearly went up to her apartment to do far worse things to her. Orla has got under my skin, and I can’t trust myself not to blur the lines between pleasure and work. But this New York trip was unavoidable, now I am alone with her. In another city—and she is going to be everywhere.

I press the penthouse button and watch the elevator numbers climb. Orla stands an arm's length away, her reflection caught in the polished doors. The subtle scent of her perfume fills the small space, intoxicating me with filthy thoughts about what might be under her dress.

"We have two hours before the Matsui meeting," I say. "Did you get a chance to review those contracts?"

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Finished them on the plane. I've highlighted their weaknesses in the counteroffer."

The doors slide open to our suite. Manhattan spreads beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a concrete jungle bathed in afternoon light. Two bedroom doors flank a spacious common area that is decorated with leather furniture and modern art.

"The Hong Kong group arrives at four," I remind her, tossing my keycard on the glass desk. "They'll press on relentlessly about shipping access."

"I'll prepare for that." Orla heads toward her room, heels clicking against marble floors.

Once she disappears, I loosen my tie and pour two fingers of scotch. It was strangling me—or it was her that made it impossible to breathe all the way up here. I swirl the amber liquid, watching the ice melt. The Matsui meeting is just a cover—my real agenda is to get information about our West Coast competition. Another game in an endless chess match.

When Orla returns, I catch her looking around the suite. Not admiring the luxury or art, but noting exits, cameras. Her eyes sweep the room for ways out, or in. An interesting skill for an executive assistant.

The restaurant is buzzingwith energy and the guests ooze power and status. Banking executives cluster in hushed conversation near the bar. Tech billionaires hold court by the windows. Our table has clear views of both the entrance and kitchen doors—always have your eyes on the all exits.

"Matsui extends his apologies." Harrison Reed slides into the chair across from me. His tailored suit can't hide the fighter's build beneath. "I'll be handling the arrangements moving forward."

I recognize the play immediately. Reed Shipping controls territory we've been eyeing along the Pacific coast. They are not going to roll over and let me in. His presence here confirms my suspicions about this dinner.

"Unfortunate," I say, signaling the waiter for wine. "I prefer to discuss partnerships in person."

Orla is at my right hand, iPad ready. Her eyes flick between us, while she pretends to read the menu.

Throughout dinner, we trade barbs disguised as business talk. The dance of words conceals the true negotiation happening beneath the surface. I can’t exactly call him a greedy cunt to his face—not in public.

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