Page 184 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 2

“You’re sure?”

I force a smile to combat her anxiety and nod until I feel like my head’s going to fall off. Grabbing my purse from the seat where I left it, I head for the ladies’ room. As I skirt around the edges of the dance floor, I stumble, my legs strangely heavy beneath me. It takes effort to move my feet.

By the time I reach the restroom, my heart is pounding. Sweat drops from my brow and I barely make it to the sink before I throw up. As I grip the sides of the porcelain bowl, I shake violently. My thoughts are jumbled, but I retain enough sense to know something is terribly wrong here. Panic grabs hold of me as my pulse races. I think I’m going to die.

Chapter Two

Jacob

Just what the hell is she thinking? I sit forward in my seat in what’s supposed to pass for a VIP area in this shithole and watch as the pretty blonde I’ve entered enemy territory to observe walks away, leaving her drink unattended, yet again. For more than an hour, I’ve watched her knocking back drinks and intermittently flirting with different men, including the guy who’s obviously dating her friend.

Her behavior all night has been reckless, like she doesn’t give a shit about herself or anyone else. Now, here she is, leaving herself open to the danger of having her drink spiked.

Sitting here in Pyotr Sidarov’s cesspit club, watching one of the wealthiest women in the country flitting about with such a lack of awareness, is making my head hurt. No, scratch that. It’s not my head that’s suffering. After watching her provocative display out there on the dance floor, it’s a different, uniquely masculine discomfort I feel. As she wiggled her delectable butt in that body-skimming crimson dress, my cock sat up and took notice. When she swiveled those luscious hips in time with the sultry intro to that last song, I experienced a violent jolt of lust. I knew then I have to have her.

As she stumbles toward the ladies’ room, I bite back a curse. She’s clearly three sheets to the wind. In that drunken state, she’s leaving herself vulnerable to any unscrupulous asshole who wants to take advantage. There’s no shortage of them in this dump.

I’m going to have to move things along a little faster than I planned. It was my intention to get the measure of her tonight and then pay her a visit tomorrow, to let her know I’ll be taking her under my wing. Helena Carmichael is my brother’s ward. Aidan’s worried about her, but he’s too wrapped up in his own problems to come here himself. His wife, Madeline, is giving him a serious headache, threatening to divorce him. That’s something that cannot happen, not in our family. Dealing with her is taking up all of his time so, here I am instead, ready to teach Helena all she needs to know about business, so she can take her rightful place at the head of her deceased parents’ empire. Not that I know a fucking thing about cosmetics.

Helena stands to inherit everything on her fast-approaching twenty-fifth birthday but, so far, she hasn’t involved herself in the day to day running of the company. I know Aidan’s concerned about the people she’s been associating with, but he failed to mention the young heiress herself might be a bit of a handful. From what I’ve seen so far, I’m going to have to set strict boundaries for her.

As a couple of giggling redheads look in my direction and wave, I’ve had enough. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. Although I stay in the background of my family business, there’s a risk of someone recognizing me and we’ve got serious beef with the Russians right now. I want to get both Helena and myself out of here in one piece. Taking the cellphone from my jacket pocket, I dial my driver’s number. As usual, he answers within two rings. I swear the man just stares at his phone, waiting for my call.

“Manus, bring the car around back, will you? I’ll be out in five minutes, and I won’t be alone.”

Putting the phone away, I head downstairs and push through the heaving crowds to reach the restrooms. I’m tempted to call the police and report the club for exceeding capacity, but that’s not how we do things in our family. When we want to strike at the Bratva, we do it head on.

I ignore the indignant protests of women waiting to get into the ladies’ room and step inside. I see Helena straight away. Hunched over a sink, she looks wretched. Her beautiful blonde hair is plastered to the side of her face as sweat pours off her. She’s pale, unnaturally so. She can barely hold herself up. Just how much alcohol did she consume?

“Everyone out!” I command.

Predictably, the few women who’re in here scramble to obey my instruction. Although I’m the least intimidating of the Donovan brothers, people still jump when I tell them to. As Helena looks up to see what’s happening, there’s such abject misery on her face, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She’s a real mess. Sure, it’s of her own making, but she’s clearly been adrift for too long and without a firm hand to guide her, she’s run wild. I won’t allow that to continue.

“Aidan?” Helena queries. She seems confused. “Aidan Donovan?”

Someone who knows me better would recognize the tick in my jaw as a sign of irritation. I hate being mistaken for one of my brothers. Sure, we look broadly similar. We’re all tall and wide in the shoulders, with light brown hair and blue eyes, but my brother has an extra twenty pounds on him, mainly muscle, I hate to admit. He also has a nasty scar on his face, the result of a run-in with a knife-wielding gangster wannabe. Then, of course, there are the flecks of gray in Aidan’s hair and the worry lines he sports, courtesy of his troublesome wife, Madeline, to set us apart. I haven’t kept a woman around long enough for her to age me prematurely — yet.

“Aidan?” Helena repeats, and I realize my mind has drifted.

“No, sweetheart, I’m Jacob Donovan.”

“You speak funny,” she says, clearly referring to the hint of an accent that betrays my Irish heritage.

Our family moved to London when my brothers and I were kids, but we’ve kept our Waterford brogue. Our ma saw to it, bashing us with a wooden spoon every time a trace of Kensington slipped into our voices.

“But you’re gorgeous.”

“Nice of you to say so, sweetheart, but I believe you’re wasted.”

“I am not.” Her tone is so indignant, I’d have thought she was telling the truth if not for the fact she can’t stand up straight. “I don’t drink.”

“Yeah?” I can’t help but scoff at that. “Tell it to the judge.”

A puzzled frown forms on her face, drawing her delicate eyebrows down into a cute V-shape.

“What judge?”

“That would be me, sweetheart.”

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