KEENAN: A DARK IRISH MAFIA ROMANCE: Dangerous Doms

by Henry, Jane

  “We have to go,” he says. He rises to his feet, and I watch as his shield goes back up. The change in the expression on his face is palpable. Is this man such a chameleon, that he changes to suit who he has to be next? His jaw hardens and his eyes grow colder and distant again. He doesn’t speak at first, adjusting his pants and flexing his shoulders. I watch his muscles ripple, and I’m reminded I’m in the presence of a powerful man.

  “We will go to meet with my brothers now.”

  I don’t even know what could have happened right then, what he could’ve done to me. I feel the loss of his heat and touch, but try not to show it. I have to be brave.

  Stay brave, sweet Cait.

  I’m terrified at the thought of entering a crowded room full of strangers. I don’t want this. I want to be alone and solitary again.

  “What will happen?” I ask.

  He won’t meet my eyes. “They’ll ask questions, and I’ll tell them what I found. No more, no less. Answer truthfully, and you’ve nothing to fear.”

  But I do. I do.

  The look in his eyes makes one thing imminently clear: he’s what I should fear the most.

  Chapter Nine

  Keenan

  I don’t like her being in the presence of my father and brothers. She’s nervous and jittery, stuttering when she’s asked a question. I remind myself that she’s not been around others very often, and socializing like this is likely quite overwhelming. With my prompting, she answers quickly and honestly. My father seems satisfied. I don’t mention that I know he paid her a visit.

  “Bradley will have news tomorrow,” I tell him, and we continue with business as usual. But I want her alone. I need her alone again. Caitlin is uncomfortable in the crowded room, and I want her taken back to quiet. I don’t blame her. She’s been alone for how long? And now she’s thrust in the open, taken away from anything and anyone familiar. And she’s still mourning the loss of her father. So before dessert is served, I excuse both of us.

  Her father… something tells me there are clues I’ll need to unearth.

  She holds my hand when I take her back to my room, an act of trust. A small one.

  “Your father didn’t seem as—” her voice immediately trails off when she clamps her mouth.

  “As what?” I ask her, ascending the large, carpeted staircase with her.

  “Oh, nothing,” she says, her cheeks flushing pink.

  “It wasn’t nothing,” I admonish. “If you’ve something to say you shouldn’t, then don’t open your mouth to begin with. But since you did, you’ll complete the thought. Now say it.”

  It’s harsh, I know, but a lesson Malachy taught me at school and one I adhere by. Say what you mean and mean what you say.

  “He didn’t seem as mean,” she says, flushing. “Am I allowed to say that?”

  I school my features with effort. I want to laugh out loud. “No,” I tell her. “You do need to watch what you say about him. He’s different around my mam, though. Very different.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she says quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

  “My father is a harsh, exacting man,” I tell her when we reach the landing. “But he’s fair and loyal, and no one is allowed to say a word against him. Including you.”

  She frowns and doesn’t reply.

  “Respond correctly, Caitlin,” I instruct.

  She looks at me with challenge in her eyes, and it surprises me at first that she doesn’t do what I ask. She was docile as a lamb over dinner. Now she’s choosing to be defiant?

  I release her elbow, swing her out in front of me, and slam my palm against her arse. I won’t allow her to look at me that way, to challenge me.

  She yelps but tightens her jaw and doesn’t speak.

  “I said, respond correctly,” I admonish.

  “Yes, sir,” she finally says tightly, yanking her arm from me.

  “Did you forget what it felt like to be punished, Caitlin?” I ask her. “Would you like me to refresh your memory?”

  I want her to give me a reason, so I can feel what it’s like to wield my power over her once more.

  Her eyes cloud, and she shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, before she amends, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I take her into my room and bring her to the side of the bed. “Off with your clothes,” I tell her. “You’ve a nightgown hanging in the jacks. It’s what you’ll wear to bed when you sleep tonight.”

  “Jacks?”

  “Bathroom,” I growl impatiently.

  She looks at the bathroom, then back to me, but doesn’t argue. She prepares for bed in silence, and I watch every moment as she undresses herself. God, but she’s gorgeous. I don’t touch her, though. I don’t make a move.

  I strip my own clothes off and prepare for bed myself, when my phone rings.

  Bradley. “Yeah?”

  “I need a handwriting sample from Caitlin, please.”

  “Alright,” I say. I take down the details he wants me to get and beckon her over to the desk. “Come here and write this.” I point to the table.

  She scowls but obeys. I take the scrap of paper, fold it, and place it on the bedside table.

  “Now sleep,” I order, folding down the blanket and pointing to the bed.

  “Where… where will you sleep?”

  I raise a brow to her. “In my bed.”

  “And… and where will I sleep?”

  I repeat, “In my bed.”

  She furrows her brows together. “Alright.” She doesn’t say anything else, but I can tell she wants to. She climbs under the covers, keeping herself at the very edge of the bed. I’m exhausted and don’t fight this. When I’m ready, I climb into the other side of the bed and shut the lights.

  “We’ve guards outside these doors and bars on the windows. Surveillance cameras over every inch of this property. So don’t try it, Caitlin.”

  She doesn’t respond. I soon realize it’s because she’s already fast asleep. I check my texts and finish my business, ignoring my conscience that plagues me for being an arsehole. I can’t grow complacent or too soft with her, though. Finally, I place my phone on the bedside table. Soon, I join her in sleep.

  I wake early in the morning when my phone buzzes. It’s still dark outside the window. I glance at the time on my phone.

  Six a.m. Who the fuck is calling me this early?

  “Hello?”

  “Sorry to wake you, sir. Did I call too early?”

  “Wee bit, Bradley.” I say gruffly, walking away from the bed so I don’t wake Caitlin. If he’s calling me this early, he must have news for me.

  “You find something?”

  “Lots, sir. You’ll want to see this.”

  “Meet me in the foyer,” I instruct. “When can you be here?”

  “I’m outside your front door.”

  I disconnect the call and throw on a pair of joggers and a t-shirt. Caitlin stirs. I walk to her, lift the blanket, and tuck it in around her. I want to stay. I want to wake her with a kiss and show her the sweet, sweet secrets of her body. What I could do to her…

  With reluctance, I leave. One of my guards is slouched over by the door. Feckin’ hell.

  I shove him, and he nearly topples over. “Sleeping on the job?” I ask curtly. “I’ve got a woman in there I want kept safe. Hey, you.” I point to the second man who stands at attention. “You’re in charge.” I take the sleepy guard by the back of the shirt and shake him. “And you are dismissed.”

  “Sir!” he protests. “Please don’t. I need this job!”

  I narrow my eyes on him. “Then you should’ve taken said job seriously. Leave. Immediately.”

  I report that I’ve fired him to Carson. “Have Cormac escort him off the property,” I tell him.

  “What’d he do again?” Carson asks curiously.

  “Fell asleep while keeping guard.”

  There’s a pause. “You fired him over that?”

  “Of course I did. What good is he asleep?”

&
nbsp; “None,” Carson concurs. “But, question, boss. Was Caitlin in the room? Was she the one he was meant to guard?”

  “Shut it, Carson,” I tell him. “Fire him. Have Cormac walk him out. Get his papers.”

  I’m fuming by the time I get down to the entrance and let Bradley in.

  “So sorry to get you so early, boss,” he says, stepping into the house. He’s a short, stocky guy related to Sebastian, our doctor. Their family, like several others, has worked for ours for years.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him. “Let’s go to the office.”

  The office, one of the larger meeting spaces on this floor, is only a few paces from the main entrance. I sit at the chair behind the desk and welcome him in. “I want all the news you have.”

  “Can you tell me what she told you?” he asks, and the way he asks it makes me wonder if he suspects her of a lie. Goddammit, I hate the way it makes me feel when he asks that. I hate that she might’ve been lying. It isn’t uncommon for prisoners, of course. But why do I feel as if I were betrayed by a good friend? She isn’t my friend.

  “She told me she’s been kept in the lighthouse her whole life,” I tell him. “Her father told her there was danger outside the lighthouse, and that if she left, she’d be killed.”

  He nods vigorously. “Good. Good. This is what I need to hear.”

  I scowl at him. “She says she was not in possession of the notes and papers and that she knew nothing about them.”

  “Also true,” Bradley says, nodding his head. Okay, then. This is good. Maybe she didn’t lie to me.

  “She’s been thoroughly educated, and she’s well read. Her father taught her.”

  “The man who called himself her father,” Bradley corrects.

  I pause, leaning pack in the chair, and eye him curiously. Now that I didn’t expect.

  “Come again?”

  “Jack Anderson was not her father,” he says, shaking his head. “It wasn’t possible. He was American, we know that, and I traced his roots back to Boston. He likely had an affiliation with the Boston Irish.”

  “So how does that possibly prevent him from being her biological father?” I ask.

  “Because Jack Anderson was married once. To one of the Boston Irish. She died from ovarian cancer when she was thirty, and he had a vasectomy before she died.”

  Likely thought if she couldn’t have children, he wouldn’t either, I wonder. But then why did he tell Caitlin he was her father?

  And who was her mother?

  I shake my head. Bradley’s raised more questions than he’s answered.

  “Did you check the fingerprints on the notes we have?” I ask him.

  He nods, frowning. “Yes, and superficially it looks as if she could’ve taken the notes. But you don’t pay me to do a superficial investigation.”

  “Certainly not,” I tell him, and imagine reaching over the table and wrapping my hand around his neck. I don’t like how long it’s taking him to tell me this. “For fuck’s sake, spit it out,” I tell him.

  “Please show me the writing sample you got.”

  I take the folded paper out of my pocket and lay it on the desk.

  “Exactly what I expected,” he says. “The notes are taken in a decidedly masculine slanted script. Hers is not at all like his. It’s finer, more feminine.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “Her prints are on the outside of the books only. You found them in her possession. Therefore, her prints, as well as some of yours and Cormac’s are all over them. But in the pages of the books? Nothing. Hers are absent. And that’d be impossible if she were the one taking notes.”

  “It was her father, then,” I say with a nod. “Or Jack Anderson, I should say.”

  “Yes,” Bradley says. “What was his affiliation with the Boston Irish? I don’t know. But something tells me the clue will come if we find out who her mother was.”

  “And you’ve no answers for me on that count?”

  He shakes his head. “None,” he says. “How old is she?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve no idea.”

  “Do you know her birthday? Where she might’ve been born?”

  I shake my head. “Unfortunately not.”

  I stroke my chin. I want to find out everything I can about her. Who her real parents are. Why the man who called himself her father kept her so well hidden. Something tells me she fits into the picture of our puzzle, but I don’t know how or why.

  Bradley gets to his feet. “I’ll tell you who to ask.”

  I scowl. “Father Finn?”

  He nods, folding up his papers. “The very same. He’s the one that’ll know what to tell you. How did you even find out she was there?”

  I growl and don’t respond, making Bradley laugh out loud. “Naturally. Busybody priest, that’s who.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him, getting to my feet and escorting him out.

  Caitlin isn’t a traitor. She had no news of the notes we found, and no clue her father orchestrated the spying.

  But why would he spy?

  And who is she?

  I’m relieved and at the same time, troubled. I need to know more about this mysterious girl. But until I do, I’m not letting her out of my sight.

  When I open the door for Bradley, I see a figure roaming the garden outside the house. The morning still holds a bit of the chill of spring, but I step outside to get a closer look.

  I recognize the long, wavy hair, and her posture, arms crossed over her chest as she walks. Mam.

  Bradley goes to his car, and I shove my hands in my pockets, walking to the garden. Mam doesn’t notice I’m there at first, and she startles when she turns and sees me.

  “Keenan! I didn’t see you coming, son,” she says softly. She sits on one of the stone benches under a blooming arch. The sun’s barely risen, the light of early morning filtering through patches of leaves.

  “Sorry, mam,” I tell her. “I saw someone out here and wanted to investigate.”

  She smiles and nods, and it seems her smile is a bit sad.

  “Something troubling you?”

  She shakes her head slightly. “Ah, only a bit,” she whispers. “Just a bit.”

  Mam keeps her troubles away from us boys. The women of The Clan are expected to be strong and fearless. She doesn’t like to show fear, and I don’t blame her.

  “It doesn’t help anything,” she says. “But goodness, the girl bears the resemblance of someone I knew.”

  I sit up straighter. “Does she, now?” I ask. “Can you tell me?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s silly. Just an old friend of mine. But it’s strange, son. She bears her name as well. ‘Tis like looking at a ghost, seeing that girl of yours.”

  A chill runs down my spine. This is something we need to pursue.

  “Who was it?” I ask her. “Can you tell me?”

  “Yes,” she says. “But ye must not repeat it, son. Promise me that.”

  “I give you my word. But it’s important you tell me, mam. Caitlin is innocent, I know that. But she was told her father kept her in the lighthouse to keep her safe. Though she may not be a threat to us, it’s likely she’s in grave danger.”

  My mother’s eyes look sorrowful. “The Caitlin I knew was the daughter of Mack Martin.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  Mack Martin.

  The head chief of our rival clan.

  “Was?”

  My mother nods. “Yes. She left with someone she loved overseas. When she came back, she was a different woman. Changed. She wouldn’t speak to me of what happened. And then one day, she left and didn’t come back. We were told…” her voice trails off.

  I wait for her to tell me.

  “She’d taken her own life.”

  How is this possible? How could it be that the woman bears such a resemblance to Caitlin? Were they related?

  “Good to know, mam. I’ve got some investigating to do.”

  I know who’ll have the
answers. I’ll have to force Father Finn to fess up. I stand to leave, and she reaches for my hand.

  “Be careful, Keenan. If she was hidden, I can imagine there was good reason. Take good care of her, son. And if she was indeed Caitlin’s daughter… well, then she was right to be hidden.”

  If Caitlin is the granddaughter of Mack Martin, she ought to be hidden now.

  I don’t need to ask why. The Martins are a ruthless, barbarous lot.

  My mother feels an obligation to watch out for Caitlin.

  And hell. I do, too.

  Chapter Ten

  Caitlin

  I wake with a yawn, stretching in the bed, when my body goes still.

  I was so tired the night before, I fell asleep quickly, even with Keenan on the other side of the bed. He didn’t touch me at all, and his bed was so large we might’ve been strangers.

  Well. Okay, so, we are.

  I look over to the side of the bed, at the rumpled sheets, and sit up. Where did he go? And why didn’t I hear him? I suppose men like him learn to move discreetly.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, when I hear footsteps outside the hall. I freeze. I don’t feel safe here, not yet, not when his father could walk in at any minute. But when the door opens, it’s only Keenan that enters.

  He’s wearing a t-shirt and loose-fitting pants, when he enters the room.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  He raises one eyebrow. “Morning, lass.”

  I like the way he says that. My father was American, and though I’ve lived here my whole life, the Irish accent is new to me.

  “Where’d you go?”

  He looks at me again, a quizzical expression on his face. “You’re never to ask me that, Caitlin,” he corrects sternly. “I’ve many errands to attend that don’t involve you, and it’s best you don’t ask. Ever. Understood?”

  I can hardly make a move without doing something wrong. I sigh.

  He’s walking toward me. I swallow hard.

  Though I walk freely about this room, I’m still not free. I’m still his captive.

  “Yes, sir.” He walks past me toward the bathroom, and I feel oddly bereft.