Page 51 of Blood of the Loyal
"She does today." His thumb traces across my knuckles before he pulls away. "Today, you're mine. My specialist. My woman bringing expertise to expand our operation."
The possessiveness in his voice makes my stomach flutter. I know it's an act, part of our cover, but the way he says 'my woman' sends heat pooling low in my belly.
We pull up to the warehouse that serves as Moran headquarters. Men lounge near the entrance, guns hidden under jackets. This isn't federal surveillance or corporate espionage. This is walking into a viper's nest where one wrong word means a bullet to the head.
"Remember what I told you about respect," Eamon says, getting out to open my door. The gentlemanly gesture serves dual purposes—establishing the dynamic Moran expects while giving him an excuse to put his hand on my lower back.
His palm burns through the thin fabric as he guides me toward the entrance. I force myself not to lean into his touch, even as my body craves more contact.
"Kavanagh." Lorcan Moran emerges from the warehouse, his green eyes immediately fixing on me with predatory interest. Red hair, expensive suit, the kind of smile that makes women disappear. "And this must be the specialist."
"Sarah Mitchell." I extend my hand with confidence I don't feel. His handshake lingers, fingers stroking my palm in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Eamon's hand tightens on my back, a silent warning. Or maybe jealousy. I can't tell the difference anymore.
"Insurance fraud expert," Moran says, still holding my hand. "Eamon tells me you've been very... helpful to his family."
The innuendo is obvious. Heat floods my cheeks as I extract my hand. "I prefer to think of it as creative accounting."
"I bet you do." Moran's gaze travels down my body with obvious appreciation. "Shall we discuss your talents upstairs?"
The office overlooks the warehouse floor through one-way glass. Moran gestures to a leather chair positioned where he canwatch me while I sit. Everything about this setup screams power play.
"Drink?" He moves to an expensive bar, his movements predatory and controlled.
"Whiskey," I reply, crossing my legs and watching his eyes follow the motion. If he wants to play this game, I'll use his distraction to my advantage.
Eamon settles into a chair where he can see both Moran and me. His jaw is tight, hands clenched. The jealousy radiating from him is almost palpable.
"Sarah has tripled the Kavanagh's clean revenue," Eamon says, his voice carrying an edge. "Her methods are... innovative."
"I specialize in turning liabilities into assets." I accept the crystal tumbler, letting my fingers brush Moran's as he hands it to me. His pupils dilate. "A warehouse fire becomes capital improvement. A shipping delay becomes business interruption coverage. All perfectly legal."
"Clever." Moran sits across from me, leaning forward. "And your fee?"
"Fifteen percent, plus consulting." I lean back, letting the movement pull my dress higher on my thighs. Moran's eyes drop immediately. "I handle the paperwork. You handle the business."
While he's distracted, I slip the first recording device under the table's edge.
"The feds have been sniffing around our shipping," Moran says, dragging his attention back to my face. "Traditional methods become risky."
"Federal agencies don't talk to each other." I cross my legs the other direction, watching his gaze follow. "DEA investigates trafficking. Treasury handles financial crimes. Insurance fraud falls through the cracks."
I stand to admire a painting on the wall, placing the second device behind the frame while commenting on the artwork. Moran's eyes are glued to my ass as I stretch to reach the frame.
Behind me, I hear Eamon's sharp intake of breath. When I turn, his eyes are dark with something that has nothing to do with our mission.
"Beautiful piece," I comment, returning to my seat.
"I prefer live art," Moran says, his meaning clear.
Eamon's knuckles go white against his whiskey glass. The tension in the room ratchets higher.
"Tell me about your expansion plans," I say, redirecting the conversation while my pulse races from the dangerous undercurrents.
For the next hour, I outline money laundering schemes while Moran reveals operational details. His gaze never leaves my body, hands gesturing in ways that invade my personal space. Each time he leans closer, Eamon's breathing gets more controlled.
"The Donovans think they can muscle into our territory," Moran says, refilling my glass. His fingers linger on mine around the crystal. "Your methods could help us... discourage them."
