Initiation (Master Class Book 1)

by Sierra Cartwright

  Jack nodded, considering himself warned. “Fetch me another pint, mate.”

  The bartender nodded and moved off.

  Jack returned to watching the woman. It could be worse, he supposed. She was passionate, if her music was anything to go by. In need of taming, if the bartender’s words were anything to go by.

  Her passion turned him on.

  He’d want Sinead, no matter what his máthair Chríona, grandmother, said. The way Sinead moved her hips made his cock harden. He could almost imagine the way she smelt, of musk and desire.

  He joined the applause as she ended her solo and she moved to the back of the stage.

  He drank his second stout and enjoyed the rest of the set. Part of him wished she would dance again. Another part of him was relieved she hadn’t. He wasn’t sure his libido could take seeing her underwear and bare midriff.

  At the end of the set, the gathered crowd gave a lukewarm applause. He watched Sinead place the pipes on the wooden planks, then plop herself down on an amplifier.

  Her skirt rode even higher and she didn’t sit like a lady. Now he knew why Yanks drank their beer so damn cold. ‘Twas to cool the flames of ardour.

  He watched—or more like it, stared—as she e Heuncapped a bottle of water, tipped her head back and drank deeply.

  The band’s lead singer said a few words to Sinead then nodded and moved off, leaving her alone.

  Jack seized the opportunity.

  In a few steps, he was on the stage. A couple more brought them face-to-face, or, in this case, her face to his crotch. And wasn’t this his lucky day? It wouldn’t be long before he’d have her on her knees, hands secured behind her back as she sucked his cock. “Great show.”

  She smiled. It wasn’t a warm and welcoming smile. It was more the smile of a princess. It was polite enough, dutiful, but it sure as hell wasn’t inviting.

  The houselights came up a little more.

  This close to her, he saw a few beads of sweat on her brow and across the sweet curve of her upper lip. And he was also close enough to read the writing on her in-your-face T-shirt: You’re not rich enough. Smart enough. Or man enough. Don’t even try.

  They’d be seeing about that, as well. “Do you intimidate most men, Sinead?”

  “All men,” she corrected, recapping her water bottle. “I don’t have time for men.” She levelled a gaze at him. “Even if I wanted a quick toss, it wouldn’t be with an anonymous man. You groupies are all the same.”

  The way she talked about sex, with her brogue and feminine sensuality that nothing could disguise, made his cock throb. He wasn’t just hard now. Not at all. He was ready. “Although I wouldn’t mind bedding you, I’m not interested in a quick toss, Ms O’Malley.”

  “An autograph? Do you have a pen? Then perhaps you’ll leave me the hell alone?”

  Polite, wasn’t she? “I’m not looking for an autograph.”

  “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me?”

  She stood and turned away. By the time she’d taken two steps, he’d curved his hand around her shoulder and applied enough pressure that she stopped.

  Slowly she turned back to face him again. Since he stood nearly a foot taller than her, she had to tip her head back in order to meet his gaze. “Take your hand off me. I’ve another set to prepare for.”

  “I’ve travelled halfway round the world to meet you.”

  “You should have bought the CD and saved yourself several hundred pounds.” Her smile was chilling. “You’ve met me.” She reached her hand up to pry his fingers off her shoulder. “Release me immediately.”

  He was aware of the way she felt beneath him, womanly, but with unaccountable strength. He wanted her. “We’ve important things to discuss, Sinead O’Malley.”

  “You are beginning to annoy me.” She exhaled.“I’m thinking maybe you’re a bit off your rocker, Mr…”

  He slowly released her.

  “Jack.” He extended a hand. She ignored it. Smart lass. “Jack Quinn.”

  “Jack Quinn?” Her mouth dropped.

  A very perfect, very pink tongue sneaked out. Good God, didn’t that cause another fantasy?

  “The Jack Quinn? Hated enemy. Mad as a hatter?”

  He didn’t quite know what to say to that. A man who chased a woman halfway around the world because of a comb didn’t seem to be all there.

  “Sorry, I didn’t recognise you without the horns and tail.”

  “I’ve never been the devil, Sinead.”

  “Couldn’t prove that by my family.”

  She took her time looking him over from his head to his dusty shoes. Judging by her sneer, she found him wanting.

  Not the usual reaction from the ladies.

  “So you’re the bastard who’s been stalking me?”

  “I’ve been trying to get an audience with your highness for a while now,” he agreed.

  “You’ve been following me for six thousand miles, Mr Quinn.”

  E-mails, letters, phone calls, messages at venues along the way. “You’re a difficult woman to reach.”

  “I’m sorry to say you travelled all this way to have me reject you and your ridiculous marriage proposal in person.” She moved an electrical cord out of the way with her toes. “Since you’re apparently thick or stubborn or both, the answer to your proposal, Mr Quinn, is not just no. It’s hell no. I don’t care if it would make your grandmother happy or secure your family line. I will not marry you. Not now, not ever.”

  She gave him a sunny smile that really, he knew, meant ‘fuck you’.

  “You are blunt.”

  “I need to be as you’re apparently addled. Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off the stage and out of my life.”

  “We need to talk, Sinead. We will talk.”

  “I have nothing beyond that one word to say to you.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m not interested in your family’s problems.”

  Her green eyes flashed irritation and her voice dropped an octave or two. “I’m not interested in you, Jack Quinn.”

  She’d added the last, he supposed, in case he’d missed her point.

  “You can get back on a plane and go home. County Mayo, isn’t it?”

  As if she had to ask. Their shared history went back well over eight hundred years. The details of the sordid events were recorded for all time in the Annals of the Four Masters—the compilation of Irish history that dated back nearly two thousand years.

  Sinead looked at him. Her eyes flashed venom. “Cuimhnich air na daoine o’n d’thainig thu.”

  She speaks the tongue, does she? “Remember the men from whom you are sprung,” he translated.

  “I, for one, will never forget.”

  “It’s not just my problem, Ms O’Malley. It’s ours.”

  “Ours,” she repeated. “Ours?” Her laugh was more an unladylike snort.

  “Everything okay here, Sinead?” the drummer asked, climbing onto the stage and offering her a short glass of amber liquid. Good Irish whisky, Jack presumed.

  “I can handle Mr Quinn myself.” Sinead accepted the glass.

  The young man glared at Jack when Jack unashamedly drank his fill of the woman in front of him. Did the whelp have a crush on the woman? Jaysus, were they screwing each other?

  And too bad if they were.

  Sinead was going to be his. He’d not let a gobshite stand in the way.

  She tipped back her head, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat, then closed her eyes and downed the beverage in a single swallow.

  She made a soft kissing sound as she closed her eyes in apparent rapture.

  Lord have mercy.

  He ached to stroke his knuckles along the curve of her cheekbone, trail the pad of his index finger down her nape…

  She sighed. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “You’re not just a bad dream? More’s the pity.” She smiled at her protector. “Mr Quinn was just leaving, Brandon.”

  “Bugger all,” Jack said. “You might as well hear me o
ut.”

  “You’ve nothing to say that I want to hear.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing except goodbye.” She slid the glass onto the speaker.

  “Ouch.” He gave her his quick, calculated, disarming grin that always scored points in contract negotiations. It didn’t seem to soften her at all.

  “You sure you don’t need help taking out the rubbish?” Brandon asked.

  “Go on with you. If he hasn’t left within a couple of minutes, I’ll call security.”

  Jack wondered if she’d be so blasé if she knew he intended to tie her up, tie her down, drag her back to Ireland and his family home within the next twelve hours. Kicking, screaming, biting, it didn’t matter. In fact, he looked forward to her fighting him. It would make his victory all the sweeter.

  “Go,” she told Brandon again.

  The overconfident pup looked over his shoulder and glared at Jack before moving off.

  “The lad, Brandon. Is he a member of your fan club?”

  “One of the hundreds.” She checked her watch, a whimsical piece with white gloves at the end of the hour and minute hands. “I’ll give you two minutes.” She folded her arms, with her left wrist on top, where she could keep an eye on the ticking seconds.

  “Do you believe in curses, Ms O’Malley?”

  “Not on your life.”

  She twitched. It was subtle, but her nose wrinkled and her brows furrowed. Being a descendent of the Kellys and O’Malleys, there was no way she didn’t believe in curses.

  “Or the Banshee?” According to Celtic legend, the Banshee was either human, fae, or even spirit. To some she was young and beautiful, to others, an old hag. She wailed, keened, cried, or dropped a comb as a portend of death or destruction.

  “I believe in stuff you can touch with your hands, Mr Quinn. Instruments, balance sheets, ledgers. I don’t have time to be fanciful.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a metal comb.

  As the silver winked, reflecting the overhead lights, colour drained from her cheeks. He watched her fight the urge to take it from his hand, to see if it was real.

  She had the same reaction his grandmother had.

  “My máthair Chríona found this.”

  Instead of taking the comb, she reached for her whisky glass. Realising it was empty, she rolled the glass between her palms. “My condolences, in advance, to your family.”

  Bitch. Temper and temptation warred within him. No one mattered more to him than his máthair Chríona. His jaw tightened. The less civilised side of his nature demanded he sling Sinead over his shoulder, drag her from the room then find the nearest wall and slam her up against it.

  He deliberately put the comb back in his pocket, his actions controlled. Then, anger in check, he discarded the option of fucking her ragged and settled for capturing her chin, not at all gently, between his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke, his tone was harsh, his words blunt. “You deserve a good hiding, Sinead.”

  That shut her up.

  Heat chased up her cheeks, replacing the colour that had momentarily drained away when she had seen the comb. When she opened her mouth again, she was back in full form. “A good hiding, is it? I’ve already said you’re not man enough for me.”

  “Shall we see?” He stroked his middle finger across the top of her lip. “I think I’m just the man to teach you to mind your manners, lass.”

  “You won’t be touching me again, diabhal.”

  Like hell he wouldn’t. He intended to be on her. In her. “You are aware, wombat, that the Banshee doesn’t follow all families. She does not follow the Quinns.” He smiled viciously. “She follows the O’Malleys. My máthair Chríona believes the warning was meant for you.”

  The flush on her cheeks darkened.

  With precise aim, firing back at the direct hit she’d scored, he added, “Not many of you left now, are there?”

  “You really are a bastard, Quinn.”

  She curled her hand into a fist and Jack wasn’t sure whether or not she was going to take a swing at him. Part of him hoped she did. Then he’d have every reason to sling her over his shoulder and drag her back to his hotel.

  “Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.”

  May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the devil. Or her figurative meaning, screw you.

  She trembled, though, despite her bravado, despite her hard words. He’d unnerved her. And, he wondered, what bothered her most—him, or the Banshee? “The curse ends with us, Sinead. With you becoming my bride.”

  She laughed. Really laughed. “You really are mad as a hatter.”

  Band members began moving towards the stage. The electric guitarist tuned his instrument, all but drowning their conversation.

  Sinead unclenched her fist then clamped her hand on his wrist. “Your two minutes are up, Quinn bastard. I never want to see you again.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I’ll be here when you’ve finished.”

  “I’ve no use for you, sir.”

  Was that the slight dig of her fingernails in his skin?

  “Go home.”

  “Aye. And when I do, you’ll be by my side. Mark my words, Sinead. You’ll be Mrs Quinn.”

  “When my ancestors roll in their graves.”

  Her fingernails sliced into his skin. The woman had claws.

  “This is no longer about you and me, lass.”

  “Sinead!” Brandon called.

  “I’ve finished with you.” She pulled her hand off his wrist.

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she moved away, defiant and delicious.

  He moved back to the bar.

  “This one’s on the house.” The bartender slid acomplimentary pint in Jack’s direction. “I told you she was a tough one.”

  Jack looked at his wrist and studied the half crescents carved into his skin by his fiery opponent. “You warned me.”

  “She’s only been here a few times, but we already call her the Titanic.” The man swiped a white towel across the shiny wood. “Men see her lovely smile and think they’re in for smooth sailing. Then afore you know it, you hit the ice—the ice in her veins.”

  Jack hoisted his glass in her direction.

  Round one to the lovely lass from Westport.

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  About the Author

  Sierra Cartwright was born in Manchester, England and raised in Colorado. Moving to the United States was nothing like her young imagination had concocted. She expected to see cowboys everywhere, and a covered wagon or two would have been really nice!

  Now she writes novels as untamed as the Rockies, while spending a fair amount of time in Texas…where, it turns out, the Texas Rangers law officers don't ride horses to roundup the bad guys, or have six-shooters strapped to their sexy thighs as she expected. And she’s yet to see a poster that says Wanted: Dead or Alive. (Can you tell she has a vivid imagination?)

  Sierra wrote her first book at age nine, a fanfic episode of Star Trek when she was fifteen, and she completed her first romance novel at nineteen. She actually kissed William Shatner (Captain Kirk) on the cheek once, and she says that’s her biggest claim to fame.

  Her adventure through the turmoil of trust has taught her that love is the greatest gift. Like her image of the Old West, her writing is untamed, and nothing is off-limits.

  She invites you to take a walk on the wild side…but only if you dare.

  Email: sierracartwright@hotmail.com

  Sierra loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by Sierra Cartwright

  Mastered: With this Collar

  Mastered: On His Terms

  Mastered: Over the Line

  Mastered: In His Cuffs

  Mastered: For the Sub

  Mastered: In the Den

  Bonds: Crave

  Bonds: Claim

  Bonds: Comma
nd

  The Donovan Dynasty: Bind

  The Donovan Dynasty: Brand

  The Donovan Dynasty: Boss

  Her Two Doms

  Bound and Determined

  This Time

  Fed Up

  Signed, Sealed and Delivered

  Homecoming: Unbound Surrender

  Night of the Senses: Voyeur

  Subspace: Three-Way Tie

  Bound Brits: S&M 101

  Bound to the Billionaire: Bared to Him

  Halloween Heart Throbs: Walk on the Wild Side

  Clandestine Classics: Jane Eyre