Page 11 of Fifth Avenue Fling

I press connect on the unknown number.

“Clodagh?” a deep American voice drawls down the line. “It’s Marcus.”

My heart goes from resting to racing. “Yes?”

“Good news,” he booms. “You’re good to go. You start Monday.”

Abruptly, I stop still in the throngs of people, nearly dropping the phone. How much have I drunk? “I… passed the vetting?”

I look around for Orla, but she’s wandered into another shop. Typical.

He chuckles softly down the line. “Weren’t you expecting to?”

“Uh.” I expel a strange gargle. I’m not even sure it came from my mouth.

“We’ll need you to move in on Sunday.” Marcus either chooses to ignore my shock or isn’t fazed by it. He sounds like he’s walking. “Mr. Quinn will meet you on Sunday afternoon.”

“Right,” I breathe, staring dazed into the window of a luxury lingerie store. I force a casual tone even though my heart does the bongo against my chest. “Send me the details. I’m delighted.”

“Excellent. Don’t mess this up, Clodagh. You won’t be able to stay in New York if you do.” The words hang in the air as an ominous warning. “Mr. Quinn’s driver, Sam, will pick you up.”

Something isn’t right. Is it possible for the police to make mistakes? Doubtful. Is Quinn’s vetting really lenient? Again, I doubt it.

My sixth sense says that something’s wrong, but as Marcus ends the call, I bury that thought deep down under my delight. I can’t stop the goofy grin from taking over my face.

I’m staying.

I’m staying in Manhattan.

I need to hug someone. Where the hell did Orla go? Shoppers and hotel guests mill around, but Orla is nowhere in sight.

My hands tremble as I dial her number. “Orla! Get your ass back here.”

She begins to speak, but I cut her off. “I’m staying, Orla. I’m actually staying! I passed vetting.”

The screech down the line must be heard by everyone within ten meters. She says, “you’re kidding,” five times, and I repeat, “I’m not.”

“On my way! I went to the loo when you were on your phone. I thought you were talking to your gran, and you know how she likes to chat.”

The call goes dead. A long beat passes before I realize I’m frozen, holding my phone midair against my ear and grinning like a lunatic at a mannequin in the shop window. I think she smiles back.

I might be delirious.

She’s wearing emerald-green underwear with embroidered lace that would complement my red hair perfectly. The matching choker around her neck makes it the sexiest damn lingerie I’ve ever seen.

Invisible cords pull me toward it. Maybe I’ll save up and buy it now that I’m staying.

Orla comes up beside me and I grab her arm. “I’d look sexy as fuck in that. Don’t ya think? I might buy it to celebrate.”

Except when I turn, it’s not Orla’s arm.

It’s muscular, hard, and wrapped in nice-feeling material.

A broad chest in a blue shirt and vest looms over me. I look up… up farther… and am met with an angry stare, as arctic eyes blaze into mine.

Wow.

“Holy shit!” I shriek. “I mean…”

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