"Are you going to marry me now, Lila from Rogue?" he finally asked, using the nickname he’d given her when they’d first met.
He heard her gasp of breath before he felt her lips on his chest, just a whisper of a kiss.
"I married you years ago," she answered. "In my heart."
"Let’s make it legal, too," he said. "Before my brothers leave. Beach, church, living room, wherever you want. What do you think?"
She lifted her head, a dazed smile on her lips. "I think I love you."
"The beach it is," he murmured.
"Day after tomorrow, then? Before Finn and Keira go?"
"Perfect," he answered. "And maybe we can talk about the other things people do after they get married."
"What other things?" She looked at him suspiciously.
"Things like Molly."
Her eyes widened. "A baby?"
"I’m Irish, Lila. We have lots of babies. It’s sort of expected."
She raised an eyebrow. "I’m Asian Latina, it’s expected that I’ll clean houses or go to Stanford. I didn’t do either."
He laughed then. "You don’t want a baby someday?"
Her gaze narrowed but she didn’t answer.
His hand slid over her ass and his voice turned molten, like hot maple syrup. "A little girl with your brown eyes, and my devious nature?" He caressed the space between her thighs. "Maybe a math genius like her mama?"
Lila sighed. "Maybe just one. But if it’s a boy we’re sending it to your brother."
Cian chuckled as Lila moaned and his fingers continued their exploration of her darkest places. "Which brother?" he whispered, kissing her on the shoulder. “I have three.”
"Liam. If it’s a boy, Liam gets him. At least for the summers."
"Deal," Cian murmured before rolling her beneath him and starting the work necessary for a little girl with dark eyes and her father’s devious nature. She’d never know Chicago, but she’d be a MacFarlane through and through.
Wait! Want more Dublin Devils? Get the BONUS EPILOGUE here!
And if you love super sexy romantic suspense, check out Selena’s Powerplay series. Turn the page for an excerpt of THE KINGMAKER.
Excerpt From The Kingmaker
He stared at a pair of legs—long and shapely, with dark olive skin that glowed in the low light of the room. They ended in a pair of very strappy stiletto-heeled shoes, and toenails the color of a fine burgundy. Unfortunately, those spectacular legs were currently pressed against a wall while his client—his very married client—mauled the owner of said legs in a swanky hotel suite in southwest D.C.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Derek groaned as he stood in the doorway viewing the clusterfuck that had just exploded all of his plans.
“Unh,” Jason Melville grunted as he stopped ravishing the woman’s neck and raised his eyes to gaze over his shoulder at his very pissed campaign consultant. “Derek,” he gritted out. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Derek slammed the door and strode across the room to glower at Jason and the woman splayed against the wall.
“What exactly is it then, Jason? Because it looks to me like you’re about to screw a woman who is not your wife hours before we’re supposed to announce your candidacy for President of the fucking United States. Did it ever occur to you that she could blow your entire campaign to hell before it even starts?”
Derek’s gaze drifted from Jason’s rapidly reddening face to the brunette he had pinned, hands above her head, against the expensive wallpaper. As Jason released her and she straightened her clothes with a huff, Derek could see that the rest of her was as exquisite as her legs. Classic bone structure covered with smooth as silk, flawless skin. Exotic eyes the color of dark chocolate, tipped up at the outside corners, the lashes long and luxurious. And below all of that, a pair of tits that would tempt any president—well, maybe not the current one, since she seemed to swing toward men.
“I’m a professional escort,” she hissed. “And I’ll have you know that I’m very discreet. I would never discuss a client’s business with anyone, whether he’s the president or a janitor.”
Jesus. A hooker? Could it get any worse?
“Look, sweetheart, I’m sure you’re the picture of discretion, but the presidency is not something to risk over a tumble with an escort.” He squeezed out the last word like he could hardly tolerate saying it, and her cheeks turned pink in response, her mouth tightening and eyes narrowing.
Jason exhaled a big breath and stepped further from the brunette.
The woman pursed her plump lips and nudged Jason out of the way before brushing by Derek, heading for the bathroom, her perfectly firm and round ass swaying in the pencil skirt that hugged her like a second skin.
Derek whipped around to glower at his candidate who blatantly adjusted himself in his $1000 Armani dress slacks.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Derek snarled. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I’m under a hell of a lot of pressure,” Jason muttered. “And I’m tired of being the only one in D.C. who doesn’t get to indulge a vice once in a while. I need a goddamn way to relieve the stress.”
Derek walked to the thermostat on the wall and turned on the AC to rid the room of the scent of the hooker’s perfume, which was perversely turning him on even in the midst of his anger.
“Well, if this is how you handle your stress, I’m not sure you’re cut out to be president. While indulging a vice, as you put it, may be commonplace in D.C., it also nearly always ends in scandal that ruins careers. Particularly for a young, good-looking candidate with little kids at home. Do I need to mention Gary Hart and John Edwards to you?”
Jason grabbed his jacket off of the bed. Derek heard the water turn on in the bathroom and wondered exactly how much money he’d have to cough up to make this woman go away, and how long it would be until she came around again wanting more.
“London is known for her discretion,” Jason said as he unrolled his shirtsleeves. “No one will ever find out.”
Derek raised an eyebrow.
“Fine. I’ll stop, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I won’t see her again, and I’ll be a good boy and jack off in the shower instead. God knows Angela’s not going to help me out.” Frustration rolled off the Senator in waves, almost palpable in the re-circulated air of the room.
Derek thought of Jason’s Patrician blonde wife and their two preschool-aged children. His stomach churned. Why the fuck did these guys get married if they weren’t going to make the commitment? It wasn’t essential to have a wife in order to be successful in politics these days. He shook off the thoughts and focused on the problem at hand.
“How much?” he asked.
“How much what?” Jason responded, searching for something on the floor next to the bed.
“How much do you normally pay her?”
Jason muttered, “Got it!” in triumph and stood to put on a pair of diamond cufflinks. “London? She’s a grand an hour.” He checked his watch. “And she’s been here about twenty-two minutes.”
Jesus. A grand? The last time he’d gotten laid, Derek had spent fifty bucks on two cocktails, and then taken the pretty young reporter home for a couple of hours before sliding her into a taxi and saying goodnight. Final total? Maybe a hundred dollars. A grand seemed excessive.
“So how much do you think it’s going to take to keep her quiet?” he asked.
Jason ran a hand through his perfectly disheveled dark hair tipped at the temples with the first smatterings of gray—hair dye to lend him more gravitas—and cocked his head at Derek.
“She won’t talk. Really.”
“Bullshit,” Derek answered just as the woman in question emerged from the bathroom looking every inch the respectable wealthy D.C. wife, a perfectly fitted plum-colored business jacket molded to her hourglass figure, her thick hair in an upsweep, and those sexy as hell strappy shoes still attached to her perfect legs.
“I won’t talk,” London r
epeated, casting him a dismissive look.
Derek turned to her, fury simmering only slightly below the cool as steel façade he’d worked to develop and maintain for fifteen years.
“Look, I’m sure you’re a lovely escort, very trustworthy and all, but you have no idea what kind of investment I’ve made in Jason here. One wrong word, one wrong look, or a secret shared between you and one of your ‘friends’, and his career, as well as mine, are shot to hell.”
“I don’t tell secrets to friends or anyone else, and I’ve never looked wrong at someone in my life.” She paused. “So what are you going to do now? Kill me?” Her left eyebrow lifted and he could see the spark of derision in her face.
He rolled his eyes at her. “We’re not on House of Cards, sweetheart,” he answered drolly. “How much will it take to have you leave the country for a few weeks?”
London smirked. “Really? You want to pay me to take a vacation even though I have absolutely no intention of saying anything to anyone ever?”
“It’d make me feel better,” Derek answered.
“Fine. I’ve always wanted to do the Bahamas. So, what? Ten? Twenty?” She looked at Jason before striding over and adjusting his tie. Jason’s face lit up and he licked his lips as he looked down at her like a piece of prime grade steak.
Derek’s rage bubbled up threatening to explode. “Senator!” he snapped. “Eyes on me.”
London snorted delicately and stepped away from Derek’s candidate.
“Jesus,” Jason’s face flushed. “Just pay her and get it over with,” he snapped before he stepped out of the room swiping the screen of his phone as he went.
Alone in the bedroom, Derek and London stared at each other for a moment, and he swore her uber-confident, devil-may-care exterior cracked briefly.
She moved to the nightstand and gathered her purse before walking to him and holding out her hand. “I don’t care if you give me extra, but I do insist on the grand I earned.”
Derek looked down at her. She was on the tall side for a woman, probably five eight or nine. But he was six two, so she seemed delicate as he stared at her achingly perfect face. She could have been a top model or an actress, and if her snark was any indication probably plenty of professions that required verbal smarts as well. Why was she doing this? Servicing arrogant, careless men who only wanted to have their egos stroked more. Why would such a spectacular woman sell herself so short?
He knew he should pay her and send her on her way, but he was caught in some sort of twilight zone, drawn in by her smart mouth, her resistant attitude, and that damn spicy perfume that floated around her like a tropical flower.
“Why?” he asked, voice soft. “Why do you do it?”
Her eyes turned hard. “I have complete control over my life, Mr. Ambrose. Don’t you dare pity me.”
“You know my name.” Some part of him buried deep sparked with anticipation.
“Everyone knows your name,” she answered.
He clenched his fist and then shook his hand at his side, trying to release the urge to run his fingertips across her satiny cheek.
“You’re not everyone.”
“No, I’m not. I’m nobody, and that’s how I wish to stay. Now, will that be cash or--?”
Derek sighed, then removed his phone from his pocket and swiped the screen. “It’s Derek,” he said, never taking his eyes off of London. “I’ll need twenty thousand in cash brought to the Senator’s suite. My personal account please. And make it snappy.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later London rode in the back of a taxi on the way to her Dupont Circle brownstone. It was still early by Washington standards and she knew she could call in to Margrite, her boss at the agency, and make herself available for another client, but the morning’s dealings had left her with a bad taste in her mouth. And not only because Jason Melville was a boring prick. No, it was Derek Ambrose that had ruined her normally level disposition. The censure that had permeated his face when he looked at her. The way he’d dropped the cash in her hand as if he might catch something if he touched her.
It had been a long time since London had felt the need to justify herself or her profession to anyone. Her work as an escort had begun eight years ago after she’d spent two years as a runaway teen, fighting to make her own way in a world and a city that simply weren’t designed for a minimum-wage earner without a high school diploma. She would never claim the job was easy, but she’d learned to do what she had to in order to earn a very nice living, and still maintain some semblance of a normal life.
“Normal” meant she surrounded herself with friends who didn’t ask questions and accepted her for who she said she was. She left work at the hotel door, and lived the quiet, upscale days of a woman with money in her off-hours. She had a house in a highly respectable neighborhood, she casually dated respectable men on occasion, and had highly respectable friends like Joanna, who was currently standing on London’s front stoop waiting for her.
London exited the cab and thanked God she’d had the chance to freshen up so that she didn’t look like she was doing the walk of shame at 11:30 in the morning.
“Hi!” Joanna called out cheerfully, smoothing her silk Alexander McQueen skirt as she wiggled on high-heeled Prada pumps.
“What brings you out before noon?” London joked as she put the key in her front door and ushered Joanna inside.
Jo flipped a strand of perfectly coiffed auburn hair over her shoulder and batted YSL-coated lashes, her big brown eyes sparkling with the mischief that they typically were. “I was at the salon around the corner and wondered if you might be willing to exchange lunch for decorating advice.”
Normally London would be happy with an afternoon watching Joanna spend her husband’s money on knick-knacks, but the encounter with Derek Ambrose had left her disoriented and dissatisfied somehow. Yes, she’d learned to accept the life choices she’d made since she left home at seventeen, but something about the way he’d looked at her had made regret blossom inside. Now she knew she had to kill it off—fast—before it took root, choking off her ability to reach that space in her mind where she was able to be London the hooker, rather than London the society girl.
“Could we do it next week? I’ve spent all morning running errands and I’m so worn out. I almost wonder if I’m coming down with something.”
Joanna set her Kate Spade bag down on the foyer table and put her hand to London’s forehead. “You do look a little peaked. Why don’t you lie down and I’ll get you some water. Do you have a headache?”
“No. Just tired and cranky.”
“Maybe it’s PMS?”
“Maybe,” London answered non-committally as she walked to the front living room and collapsed on the sofa.
Joanna returned with a glass of ice water and London welcomed the distraction for a moment as she drank half of it down.
“You’ll never believe who I met last night,” Joanna gushed after she sat in an armchair near the sofa.
“I’m sure I won’t, so spit it out.”
Joanna stuck out her tongue before continuing. “Senator Melville and his wife.”
London’s heart skipped a quick beat then settled back to its normal rhythm.
“What’s so special about him?” she muttered into her water glass.
“The rumors are that he’s running for president, and Brian’s going to support him if he does. With the kind of resources Brian’s firm can throw behind Melville, we’re thinking the thank you might include a minor cabinet appointment or a diplomatic posting.”
London always feigned ignorance of all things political, and it drove Joanna’s husband, Brian, insane. He worked for one of the largest law firms in D.C. and spent much of his time on the Hill lobbying for various clients. His goal was to be Secretary of State someday.
“So when do you find out if he’s announcing?”
Joanna looked at the Cartier bracelet on her wrist that had a small clock in the center. “Actually, he’s suppo
sed to hold a press conference in just a few minutes. Mind if I turn on your TV?”
London gestured at the flat screen on the wall over the mantle. “Be my guest.”
Joanna took the remote from the coffee table and turned the television to WNN. “Oh look! Here it is.”
Jason Melville’s handsome face filled the screen and London saw the flashes of cameras and heard the shouted questions that reporters tossed from the audience. Melville’s words were smooth and polished, just like his appearance. He was flanked by his wife, Angela Vandermeer Melville, his two preschoolers, and his parents, the owners of Melville Industries.
But it was the man standing at the back corner of the stage that captured London’s attention. He stood taller than the Senator, and was even better looking. His hair was tousled, but not in an artificial way like Melville’s. The dark blonde locks were cropped close on the sides, but longer on top, and had enough wave that London suspected they were impossible to tame.
His broad shoulders and narrow waist were emphasized by the perfect cut of his suit, but his tie was askew, as if he’d been yanking on it, and his body hummed with a kind of restless energy visible even on camera. As Melville gestured around the stage, talking about supporters and advisors, the camera zoomed in, and London got a split second close-up of those eyes. The icy blue eyes that had stared her down not two hours ago in a bedroom of the Renaissance Hotel. Coupled with the hard-as-steel jaw, those eyes were intimidating. But then everything about Derek Ambrose was intimidating. And sexy. Really damn sexy.
“Oh look,” Joanna breathed as she watched the screen raptly. “There’s Derek Ambrose, he must be Melville’s campaign consultant. Isn’t he the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever laid eyes on?”
London scoffed. “If you like them big and mean, I guess?”
“How do you know he’s mean? Ooh, have you met him?” She turned to face London, her face lit up with excitement.
“Just look at him. Look at his expression. That is not the face of a nice guy.” London nodded her head as if it would give her statement more weight.
Touch of Dark: Dublin Devils 3 Page 19