Page 9 of Carnal Urges
His cold blue gaze on me is steady. “There’s been a change of plans.”
My mouth is dry again, despite the water I drank. “So I’m not going to meet the head of your family?”
Something about the question amuses him, but in a dark way. His chuckle is totally devoid of humor. “You’re meeting with him right now.”
It takes a moment for it to dawn on me. Declan is the new boss of the Irish mafia.
Whoever the old boss was, he’s dead.
And somehow, I’m the cause of it.
FOUR
SLOANE
It’s raining in Boston when the plane touches down. I don’t know what time it is, but I’m exhausted. Everything aches, including the soles of my feet, which are covered in tiny cuts and bruises.
Wherever I ran in my escape attempt before they finally got me onto the plane, it must’ve been far.
I wish I could recall, but there’s a black hole in my memory. It matches the black holes of Declan’s eyes every time they swing in my direction.
“Let’s go,” he says in a muted tone, reaching down to grasp my arm.
He pulls me to my feet, handling me more gently than before. The gentleness is confusing, considering he has even more reason to hate me now than he did earlier.
Not that he’s confirmed anything, but I’m reading between the lines.
Unlike the gag, my handcuffs remain in place. Declan guidesme down the metal airstairs leading to the rain-swept tarmac, his hand wrapped firmly around my biceps. Both of us are getting wet in the cold, steady drizzle. My teeth start to chatter halfway down.
When we reach the bottom, I slip on the last step.
Before I do a face-plant onto the wet asphalt, he catches me and swings me up into his arms, as easily as if I weighed no more than a feather.
Startled, I inhale sharply. I look at him, handsome in profile and very grim, and start to open my mouth.
“Not a word,” he warns, carrying me toward the waiting limo.
He’s furious, of that I’m certain. I’m less certain now, however, that his anger is directed at me. His arms feel less like a cage and more like a kind of protection.
The way his gaze sweeps the area feels protective, too, as if he’s expecting an armed gang to pounce from the shadows. If they are, he seems fully prepared to take them on.
Stavros and I were once caught in a gunfight. Well, technically, Stavros and his minionsstarteda gunfight, and I was caught in it, but I digress. I remember very clearly how panicked he was, how even though he had a weapon and was doing his best to protect me, his hands shook and his voice came out high and he hyperventilated so badly, he almost passed out.
I can’t picture Declan hyperventilating.
I can’t picture him panicking.
Icanpicture irritating him to death, but that’s a different story.
A uniformed driver opens the back door of the limo as we approach. Two other vehicles wait behind the limo, SUVs that I assume are for the rest of the crew.
Declan sets me on my feet and helps me into the car, sliding across the leather bench seat to sit beside me. The driver slams shut the door and jumps into the front, gunning the engine before peeling out so fast, I gasp.
“Here.”
Declan holds out a hand towel he removed from a compartment near the door. When I take it from him, he says, “Wait.”
He removes a small key from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and uncuffs me. He looks at the glinting circles of metal in his hands, then abruptly throws them against the smoked-glass partition that divides the back of the limo from the driver’s seat. They bounce off and clatter to the floor. His suit jacket follows the cuffs, then he drops his head against the headrest and closes his eyes, muttering in Gaelic.
