Page 6 of Legacy Of Ashes
But Conall's eyes rake over me from head to toe—taking in my rumpled travel clothes, my wild hair, the way I'm breathing too fast. Something dark and possessive flickers across his features before he schools them blank.
"Stroke," Cillian says. "Major one. Right side paralysis, speech problems. He's alive but..."
"But not leading anything soon," I finish.
"The vultures are already circling," Eamon growls. "Moretti called twice. The Russians are asking questions."
I move toward the table, hyperaware of Conall's presence. He smells like expensive cologne and danger, and when I pass close enough to feel his body heat, my nipples tighten against my bra.
Inappropriate doesn't begin to cover it.
"What's our immediate exposure?" I ask, trying to focus on anything but the way his jaw clenches when I get near.
Conall spreads photos across the table. "Three rival families testing boundaries. Two union negotiations stalled. And the Donovan territory grab we've been planning—they know we're vulnerable."
His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher. When he points to locations on the map, I watch his hands and remember things I shouldn't. Like how those fingers felt in my hair during one stolen kiss when I was twenty-one and stupid.
"The Morettis will hit our southern operations first," I say, forcing my brain to function. "It's furthest from our stronghold, easiest to take without direct war."
Everyone stares. Mother raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"The shipping routes there generate thirty percent of our legitimate revenue," I continue, warming up despite their shock. "Losing them would force us to negotiate from weakness."
"How do you know our revenue breakdowns?" Cillian asks.
I shrug. "I have an economics PhD and seven years of curiosity. You think I never wondered how this family affords three houses and a yacht?"
Eamon laughs—sharp and surprised. "She's been studying us."
"Someone had to." I lean over the map, inadvertently brushing against Conall's arm. The contact sends electricity straight to my core. "The Russians won't wait long either. They've wanted access to our shipping for years."
Conall's hand stills on the table. "You're right. Forty-eight hours max before they make moves."
The approval in his voice does dangerous things to my stomach. I've spent years earning respect in academic circles, but one word from him matters more than tenure ever could.
"What about the university?" Mother asks. "Your research position?"
My carefully constructed life in England. Safe lectures and boring conferences and absolutely no one trying to kill me for my last name.
"I'm staying," I hear myself say.
"Saoirse—"
"No." I cut Cillian off. "I'm not running back to Oxford while our family burns. You need someone who understands both sides—the legitimate businesses and what funds them."
Conall's eyes meet mine across the table. The look that passes between us is pure heat—pride and desire and something darker that makes me want to arch my back like a cat in heat. He sees me. Not the protected daughter or the academic, but the woman who belongs in this room, who can handle this world.
Who wants him with a desperation that borders on insanity.
"The board meeting is tomorrow," Mother says. "Investors need reassurance."
"I'll handle it," Cillian decides.
"What about Uncle Patrick?" Eamon asks. "The Irish connections won't stay loyal without answers."
"I'll call him," Conall offers, and something in his tone makes my pulse spike. "Family business."
The way he says family—like I'm part of what he protects—sends heat flooding between my thighs.
