Page 62 of Player
“The weather’s grand for fishing, eh?”
She laughs, and a twang of guilt washes over me. TherealFinn is who she’ll get today—nothing I can do about the lies I’ve told.
I leave it at that and enjoy a comfortable quiet while we settle into a perfect fishing spot where the water runs the deepest. We bait our hooks, Clarissa spearing a worm without so much as a flinch. She casts her reel like a seasoned fisherman. Impressive. Far from the afraid-to-chip-a-nail gal Antonio sent running for the hills.
Clarissa’s a woman worth keeping if I ever met one.
“What’s that grin about?”
I simply nod at her pole.
“Maine is the land of lakes.” She pauses to cock her head at me, and I see trouble. “A hundred euros if I catch the first fish.”
“I’m in. But another hundred if mine is bigger.”
Slowly, ever so feckin’ slowly, her eyes drop. “Size isn’t an issue. Technique is.”
“That so?” Jaysus, this woman was made for me. Our eyes connect, and I offer her a lazy grin, then cast my line slightly farther than hers. “One man’s truth is another man’s lie. In a wee bit, you’ll learn that lesson.”
“We’ll see,” she replies.
“You will.”
Her cheeks flush prettily then she falls silent.
I like her. Respect her. But I’ve a long list of why-I-shouldn’ts, number one being my disappearing from her life once this job is over. Hard to remember the last time I spent time with a woman that didn’t involve a good snog followed by a goodbye. I was sixteen when I had my last girlfriend. Maureen, a dark-haired beauty with a sweet disposition. Need I say, it didn’t last long?
And now?
Clarissa thinks I work on the sunny side of the law. The CIA. Not like I can share my life choices with her, especially not with her being the fine reporter she is. Especially not with Hayden being the deadly bastard he is.
Besides, she’d be out of her bleedin’ mind to date a hitman.
Madelyn is doing it. Dating that icy cutthroat, Declan.
Aubrey has her hands full with that loverboy, Diego.
Why not Finn-boyo?
Guilt, that’s what this is. I’ve no business considering a relationship.
“Are you good at what you do?” she asks out of nowhere, as if reading my mind.
“Not much to fishing.” Fishing. Hunting. Killing.
“Not fishing.” She sighs, exasperated. “Your job. Or can’t you talk about it?”
She’s sitting pretty on a boulder next to me. Looking for a heart-to-heart and far too perceptive for her own good. But, today, I want to give her a taste of the real Finn, which requires a certain amount of honesty.
“I was a laborer up north, working odd jobs, a wee bit of this, a wee bit of that, and a whole lotta fighting in between. At night, the lads and I’d take the piss at the underground. Come to find out, my hands were good for more than laying cement blocks.”
“Ever knock a man out with a single punch?”
“A time or two.”
She snorts. “Right.”
“I learned from the best. The man that recruited me.” Shite. Loose lips sink ships, Finn-boyo.
