Page 2 of Forbidden Desire

Beside those was the exit. Also known as the direct entry route for anyone who didn’t pay or go through a metal detector. The VIPs. A few feet inside, an enclosed staircase led… somewhere. The second floor. A mystery. Sometimes the curtains were closed over it, other times they tied the drapes back. Either way, two guards always flanked that ingress. No prizes for guessing who lorded over everyone from the elevated vantage point.

Damn her curious nature. Staying out of trouble was supposed to be her goal. Why did she have to be so damn inquisitive? Mysteries existed to be solved. Unknowns supposed to become knowns.

She didn’t know what was good for her. No, she did, she just cast that knowledge aside when it came to satisfying herself. Learning felt good. Being in the know was enticing. It aroused her. Yeah, okay, maybe that was a salacious way to put it but—

Someone stepped out of the shadow of the staircase into her path. She had no choice but to stop and hadn’t so much as looked up when he moved to let another man descend. A third. A fourth. They kept on coming…

Oh, okay. Glancing left and right as the thugs encircled her, the message was clear. Rejection wasn’t an option. Was the asshole upstairs compensating for something, or did he believe a show of strength would loosen the elastic of her panties?

“I’m supposed to go up because he won’t go down,” she said to none of them in particular and sighed. Dropping her cheek closer to her shoulder, her eyes drifted to the side. “Nothing like a man who starts as he means to go on.” She set her sights on the closest guy. “Let me guess, he has something really important to tell me… or something really impressive to show me?” She shielded her mouth with the back of her hand to stage whisper, “Spoiler alert, unsolicited dick pics are never appreciated, online or in-person.” The two in front grabbed an arm each as the others moved forward, carrying her in a wave to the stairs, a lot of stairs, and upward. “Use your words, boys.”

It didn’t matter. They didn’t speak. Nothing good waited for her beyond the door above.

TWO

THE DOOR OPENED from inside. Thrust into muted warm lighting, she tossed her hair from her face to take in what she could. Curtain over the corner opposite the door. Vacant desk. The men pushed and prodded her to the center of the round black rug with its red stag head emblazoned in the middle.

“I’m going to guess he’s overcompensating,” she said.

To the right, dull gold frames held together an arch of windows in the wall. Had they been there a while? Maybe. She didn’t know the history of the building and the distressed look was in. Could be nouveau vintage.

The banker’s lamp on the huge wooden desk, covered in a scatter of papers, was unlit. Why was it so dark? What did he have against illumination? Light came from hidden recesses in the ceiling. And, most notably, from a stag head crest emblazoned on the wall behind the desk.

A snicker snuck around her lips as she looked back to the chesterfield nestled in the nook created between the stairway and window walls.

“This guy has a mirror over his bed, doesn’t he?” she said. No one responded. Most of the soldiers were filtering out down the stairs again. “Is his bed shaped like a stag head too?”

Still nothing.

The curtain in the far corner moved and a guy appeared. More than six feet tall, well-built… Did she know him? No… Her eyes narrowed. The unknown guy looked back the way he’d come. Yep, the big reveal was on her horizon.

Two big, thick thugs stayed by the door to the stairs after it closed. Mr. Unknown held the curtain and stepped out the way as his compadre entered.

Oh, yes. Connel “Ire” McDade. Exactly who she expected.

His short temper got him that nickname. Legend surrounded this guy…

Six four, ripped, stubble on the square jaw. Hair black as the night, short at the sides, longer on top; somehow perfect despite looking only finger-combed… Slacks, jacked—uh, jacket, shirt, top three buttons undone.

And the eyes… stories were told about them too. About how he enticed women and cut men down with that laser-precise gaze. From where she stood, they looked as dark as his hair… but, by all accounts, they were green… Hmm, who would tell her something like that? Maybe it was in one of the zillion police reports she’d read.

“Did I insult you?” he drawled.

Oh, shit, why hadn’t someone told her about the voice? How was it so deep? Thick like molasses, yet smooth like the wisp of satin between her thighs. Shit. Why did she go there? What did her panties have to do with anything?

“You were born on the island,” she said, tucking her purse under her arm. “I heard that about you.”

“Was I?” he asked, strolling toward his desk.

“Mm hmm,” she said. A whisper of an accent still tainted his Americanized tone. “You were raised there for your first five years or something. Your mom’s a native… was a native…”

Maybe reminding him of his mother’s death wasn’t a smart idea.

Sinking into the seat, he relaxed with such easy repose, it was clear fear didn’t often visit him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Did you insult me?” she asked. “I don’t know. Who were you talking to and what did you say?” He didn’t so much as blink. Her head tipped toward the two guys by the door. “Your men are a reflection of you… and your values.” If a McDade had any of those. “You probably don’t hear it often, but sometimes no really does mean no.”

“You meant it?”

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