Page 5 of Legacy Of Ashes
"Yes, sir."
"Good. She's... home now."
The way he says it suggests this isn't temporary. Saoirse's back to stay, which means my carefully controlled world just exploded.
I head for my office, but pass her bedroom. The door stands open, and she's bent over a suitcase, coat gone, wearing silk that clings to every curve.
When she straightens, our eyes lock through the doorway.
Heat flares between us, raw and hungry. Twenty years of suppressed desire condensed into one electric moment. Shecould have any man she wants. Probably has. But right now, she's looking at me like I'm the only person in the world.
She walks to the door, opens it wider. The movement makes her blouse pull tight across her breasts.
"Conall."
"Yes."
"That talk we need to have?" Her voice drops to whiskey-rough. "It's not about security."
My hands clench at my sides. "Saoirse?—"
"My room. Midnight." She steps closer, close enough that I smell her skin. "Don't make me wait."
She closes the door, leaving me in the hallway with a hard-on that could cut glass.
Twenty years of keeping Saoirse Kavanagh safe.
Tonight, I find out who's going to keep me safe from her.
CHAPTER
THREE
I slammy phone down so hard the hotel nightstand shakes. Three missed calls from Mother, two from Cillian, and one text that makes my blood run cold:Come home. Now. Dad's in hospital.
The flight from London to Boston passes in a blur of panic and whiskey. By the time I reach the family estate, my hands shake and my designer dress clings to skin damp with fear-sweat.
"Miss Saoirse." Connor opens the front door before I can knock. His face tells me everything—this is bad. Very bad.
"Where is everyone?"
"Conference room. They're waiting."
I walk through halls lined with family portraits, each Kavanagh patriarch staring down with judgment. Seven years I've been free of this house, this life. Seven years building something clean and academic and mine.
Now I'm back.
The conference room door stands open. Inside, my family sits around the mahogany table that's witnessed decades of decisions both legal and decidedly not. Mother occupies her usual chair, spine rigid, hands folded. Cillian hunches overdocuments, shoulders carrying weight he never wanted. Eamon paces like a caged wolf.
And Conall?—
Christ. Conall Devlin stands at the head of the table like he owns it, shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms flexed as he leans over security maps. The sight of him hits me like a physical blow. Broader than I remember. Harder. Those gray eyes that used to watch me with careful distance now hold authority that makes my knees weak.
I haven't seen him in two years. Haven't thought about him in... who am I kidding? I think about him every night.
"How bad?" I ask, voice steadier than my pulse.
Everyone turns. Cillian's face shows relief. Eamon stops prowling. Mother's expression reveals nothing.
