Page 27 of Carnal Wagers

So when a beautiful woman fell into my lap, quite literally, and challenged me, finally pumping in some colors on a random bland day in a decade of them, I paid attention.

Since she wore a coat made of superfine merino, she wasn’t a moneygrubber. She certainly wasn’t a flattering socialite with that attitude or a floozy looking for her next hit. And she wasn’t a clan groupie, chasing the edge of danger that fucking an O’Leary promised. Despite her wet hair clinging to her head and face, she managed to look polished as her devious eyes plotted and her plump lips twisted in their own little game of tug-of-war.

She was a deviation from my norm and a pretty distraction with an accent that didn’t belong. Something about her sent a thrum of unsolicited and inconvenient hunger zipping through my veins, and with it, a rush of restlessness.

She sauntered into my family’s gastropub like she owned it, heels clacking against the hardwood. Chairs screeched as patrons contorted in their seats for a better look. Water dripped and pooled in her wake, but she kept on, hips swaying under the vibrant chatter and music. She disrobed out of her coat with an elegant twist of her arms to reveal a drenched silk blouse clinging to her curves, a lacy bra outlined beneath, and long graceful legs that disappeared beneath a skirt that was both too long and too short. She stood among the wooden tables and under the warm lighting, the star of a show of her own making, with all the feigned innocence of a fairy of old come to steal a man’s sanity and good sense.

There was no doubt she was a woman fully aware of her assets and unafraid to display them, but it wasn’t her classy sex appeal that snagged my attention. It was the mischievousness that colored her words. It was the hint of vulnerability that scratched its way to the surface and fought against her bravado, and the anguish that glinted in her eyes every time they met my own. It made me want to expose her every weakness and feed them to the darkness inside me until I pulsed with the same energy that overflowed from her pores.

“Sit. I’ll handle the drinks.”

“Playing gentleman, after all?” she asked over her shoulder as she unfastened her hair clip and a tumble of wet brown hair slapped down her back.

“When it suits me,” I muttered under my breath, heading for the bar. I cracked my neck, my skin tight and itchy. I wanted that thrum of excitement she sparked from earlier back.

The bartender tensed and dropped his head to wipe down the counter with renewed vigor. “Forget something, boss?”

I gave one shake of my head, then clenched my jaw and drummed my fingers along the rail of a barstool. She’d interrupted my plans to dole out some much-needed pain at the gym, and so far, I earned nothing for it. The void remained.

“My brothers?”

He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Still in the back. Want them up here? I-I can get them.”

Another firm shake of my head. My eyes tracked every step the vixen took.

“Get me my usual. And…” I tilted my head. She looked like the type to take sweetness with her darkness. “An Irish coffee.”

“Sure, boss. Coming up. Right away.”

I rubbed my bearded chin and watched her. She didn’t take the booth under the stained glass windows the hostess directed her to. Instead, she pointed to the three empty armchairs nearest to the fireplace, the ones on permanent reserve for my brothers and me, day and night.

The hostess declined, with the same straightforward pretext she offered all clients. The poisonous brew of a sprite didn’t accept the excuse. Instead, she stepped past the hostess, determined to get what she wanted, under the watchful gazes of everyone in the establishment, many on clan payroll.

She wasn’t the first who tried to sit there, and she wouldn’t be the last, but I found myself disappointed with her predictable actions. So boring. Perhaps I miscalculated by following her back inside.

But she didn’t sit. Didn’t even touch the backrests. She stood between the semicircle they made, facing the hearth, and anchored me with a gaze as blue as the sea crashing off the rocky coastline of Howth Head, Ireland, on a windy day.

“Ma’am, I have to insist. These seats are reserved. You can’t sit here,” the hostess said.

“I’m just here for the warmth. Best place to dry.” She pinched the front of her blouse and pulled for emphasis. The fabric suckled onto her skin like a mouth to a nipple.

“The owners prefer not to have their private space invaded.”

Her eyes crinkled with a lopsided smirk, her stare fixed on me as I approached. “Let’s see if the owner can speak for himself.”

I chuffed, eyes squinted. With a head gesture, the hostess left us.

“You’ve done your homework.”

“Yes.” She took stock of the space with a slow swerve of her head. “Quite a nice place you have with your brothers.”

I stalked closer, a predator snaring a prey, but she didn’t take the hint and back away. What would it take to frighten her? To get all that softly tanned, smooth skin to flush red with excitement or pale in terror? I curled my index finger around a thick, wet strand of her hair. It was just hair, coarse, somewhat dense, nothing special, probably like the rest of her. Nothing to explain this thrill she rioted in my gut, with the start of a high I’d long forgotten existed.

“How does a foreigner know that?”

“I told you we were supposed to meet.”

“For what?”