Page 120 of Carnal Urges
“What about the other guys? I’ll put a pot on, how about that? Whoever wants one can just tap on the door.”
I don’t give him time to answer, I simply smile and slide shut the door, then go into the kitchen and rummage around in the huge pantry for a coffeemaker. I can’t find one, until I discover it’s built right into the wall in a little niche next to the fridge.
It takes me another ten minutes to figure out how to load the beans I found in the pantry into the damn thing and get it working. By the time I go back to the slider with a cup of hot coffee forSpider, three more hulking men in black carrying rifles are milling around just outside the pool of light on the patio.
“Hi, guys! I’ll just go back and get the pot. Hold on a sec.”
I give Spider his mug, then return to the kitchen and get a few more mugs and the pot of brewed coffee. Then it’s back to the breakfast room, where I distribute the other mugs and fill them, feeling a little like Florence Nightingale without all the gore.
Deciding the guys need a little sustenance, I find tea biscuits and chocolate-chip cookies in the pantry and arrange them on a plate that I bring out. Soon there are a dozen men on the patio, and my mood has improved.
There’s nothing like having a bunch of hunky men around to lift your spirits.
“Does anybody feel like playing cards?”
When that bright suggestion is met with blank looks and total silence, I say somberly, “Oh, that’s right. I heard Irishmen are theworstat cards. Now, who told me that? I can’t remember. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it! Have a great night, guys. And thank you for doing such a good job protecting the place. I really appreciate it.”
I turn back to the door. A gruff voice says, “Whoever said Irishmen can’t play cards was a bloody eejit.”
Grumbles of agreement greet me as I turn around again, smiling. “I thought so, too. Maybe somebody could teach me how to play poker? I’ve always wanted to learn.”
An hour later, I’ve got two dozen men crowded around the kitchen table, and I’m three hundred dollars richer.
Wide-eyed, I stare at the pile of money in front of me. “Wow, beginner’s luck is a real thing!”
“So is sandbagging. And disobeying orders.”
At the sound of Declan’s voice, every man in the room freezes.
I look up to find him staring at me from behind the circle of men with his arms crossed over his chest. The men part silently,moving aside so there’s a clear path between me and Declan. Someone audibly gulps.
My ass stinging, I put my feet up on the table, smile at Declan, and say calmly, “Honey. You’re home.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. He looks at each man in the room, one by one, his expression stony. Everyone shrinks.
“It’s not their fault. I invited them in.”
Ignoring me, he says something to the men in Gaelic, his voice steady and low.
Several of the men swallow. One or two fidget nervously. A few go white.
I stand and fold my arms to mimic Declan’s posture. “I said, it’s not their fault.”
“I heard what you said. Spider, you go first.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Spider steps up to the table. He removes a huge knife from a sheath he’s wearing under his coat. He leans over the table, flattens his left hand on the surface, and presses the knife to his pinkie.
I jump up, screaming. “No! Stop! Spider,stop!”
By the time I crash into him, blood is already welling from his skin.
I knock him off balance just enough to get his grip on the knife to slip. It clatters to the floor. On my hands and knees, I scramble for it. When I get it, I jump up and whirl around, livid.
At the top of my lungs, I shout at Declan,“What the actual fuck, gangster?”
He remains as calm and cold as an iceberg. “Give him back the knife.”
“The hell I will.”
