Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4)

by Michele Mannon

  12

  Clarissa

  I’m starting to like Finn McDuff. He’s easy to be around, funny, and quick with a comment. He’s generous; the innkeeper was thrilled with her tip. He’s efficient, too, as evidenced by my new clothing from this morning’s no-nonsense, in-quickly and out-even-faster, shopping trip.

  Did I mention he’s easy on the eyes?

  Way easy. Black eyes and all.

  And he’s a filthy, dirty talker. I’m not easily embarrassed but I’m out of my league with Finn. In intimate detail, I imagine him using his tongue on my clit or fingering me to climax while he bends me over a clothing rack. He’s relentless, too, almost like making me blush is his mission in life.

  He can certainly talk the talk. Except experience tells me his version of walking the walk is more like a fumble and stumble.

  The more I’m in his company, the more curious I am about him. What frazzles him? What would wipe the smile off his gorgeous lips?

  We relocated to a small, dank hotel in Cork City. It’s tucked away on a side street. Fewer flowers, more dark hues of brown and black. And he’s arranged for separate rooms with a connecting door.

  Tonight, we’re at The Maddest Monk, a pub located several blocks away but within walking distance. Finn informs me this is one of two places we’ll be hanging out. But we’re starting out here because “the pub draws the biggest eegits in town.”

  I have to admit he’s right.

  And Finn is in his element.

  Two pints in and we’re surrounded by men. Finn has the attention of the entire crowd, taking “the craic” while looking gorgeous in a new, green Northern Ireland Football League jersey. Its white stripes accentuate his broad shoulders, and the snug fit over his muscled body leaves no doubt about his masculinity.

  He’s an outsider who quickly fits in. Trading jokes and insults at a speed that leaves me dizzy. I’m fascinated and afraid to look away for fear I’ll miss something.

  “You sound like a bloke from Belfast who swallowed a Yankee,” the foolish man standing at the bar quips, poking fun of Finn’s American accent.

  I stare at Finn with new insight. So, he’s from Northern Ireland but spent time in the States, enough time that his countrymen can detect an accent?

  Finn answers without pausing. “You sound like a Corker stroking himself at Sunday mass. Those feckin’ high notes are killers, eh?”

  “He’s got a point,” a man within earshot says.

  “Eugene does grunt a lot when speaking,” another is eager to add.

  “That high-pitched tone of his,” a third joins in, “is worse than any highfalutin prick’s.”

  Eugene clenches his jaw. Pissed off and ready to explode.

  “Nothing a pint of Irish Champagne can’t cure,” Finn exclaims, waving the bartender over and ordering a round of Guinness.

  Hands slap Eugene on the back.

  The man smiles.

  I stare aghast at Finn. What a player. One second, he’s ready to knock him on his ass, the next he’s pulling him in for a hug. Yes, I knew this about him . . . but seeing him in action . . .

  “Heard this one?” Finn demands, gesturing for everyone to pull in close. “This fella, Murphy, applies for a job at a Dublin firm. Also keen on getting hired is Bob, the Yankee. The boss has them take this test, being there’s one job but both men are equally qualified. The results come in and, wouldn’t you know, Murphy and Bob have exactly the same answers.”

  “Yankee cheated,” Eugene interrupts.

  “Of course he did . . . damn Yanks.”

  Finn shakes his head, then lowering his voice, continues. “So, the boss goes up to Murphy to break the bad news.”

  “I feckin’ knew it.”

  “Let ’em finish, you eegit.”

  “ ‘Murphy, thanks for coming,’ ” Finn continues, “ ‘but we’re giving the American the job.’ ”

  The crowd leans in.

  “ ‘That’s unpatriotic, Murphy complains. This is Ireland, and my being Irish should count for something. Besides, we both got nineteen out of bleedin’ twenty questions correct. I don’t see the problem. How could one incorrect answer be better than the other?’ Murphy asks.”

  There’s a pause. One second. Two. The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I can’t take my eyes off of Finn and am as eager as everyone else to hear the punch line.

  “The boss shakes his head. ‘We’ve made our decision based on the question you missed.’

  “ ‘And just how would one incorrect answer be better than the other?’ Murphy asks.

  “ ‘Simple. On question number seven, the American wrote down, I don’t know.’

  “ ‘So?’ is Murphy’s response.

  “ ‘You wrote down, ‘Neither do I.’ ”

  The floors of the pub shake with laughter.

  Finn turns to me and winks before sipping his beer.

  The crowd hovers, eager for more.

  Prime pickings.

  I clear my throat. “So, Cork City seems like a nice place to live. Does everybody know everybody here? I bet it’d be difficult getting away with any sorts of crime.”

  The men laugh.

  Finn leans in close and whispers, “I wasn’t finished with my pint yet.”

  I frown. But before our conversation can continue, we’re interrupted.

  “This city is the next best thing to heaven.”

  “Didn’t they catch Eugene’s own mother stealing the neighbor’s chicks?”

  “True story, that.”

  My eyes go wide. Oh, no.

  “Shut your gob, McLeighton,” Eugene snaps.

  Finn clears his throat then waits for their undivided attention. I’ve never seen a person able to command attention the way he does. “The underground scene still a bunch of patsies?” he demands.

  Eugene comes up to a full stand.

  My ears perk up. Underground scene?

  “You participated before?” someone asks Finn.

  “A few times,” is Finn’s reply.

  I raise my eyebrows at him. Participated in what, exactly?

  “Close yer trap, McLeighton. His larkin doesn’t know.”

  Everyone looks at me as I frown at Finn.

  “She’ll come around once the euros roll in.” He moves away from the bar and steps into the middle of the crowd.

  “You good, eh?”

  Finn shrugs. “Stubborn, is all.”

  “You think you can show Eugene a move or two?”

  “Nah.”

  They stare at Finn in disbelief.

  I inhale sharply, watching the gleam of mischief in his eyes.

  “He’s had his fair share of embarrassment for the night.”

  Oh, no.

  In a half a blink, Eugene charges. He throws his whole body into a punch aimed at Finn’s smug face. I brace myself, wondering how swollen his eyes are going to look by night’s end.

  Finn swats his punch away like it’s an annoying nuisance.

  Someone tugs my arm. “You might want to step back for this.”

  “My mot shouldn’t see this,” Finn loudly declares.

  Eugene turns to me. “Close yer feckin’ eyes, Yank.”

  I stiffen. Sure, I’ve been called a lot of names in my lifetime. Yank is as harmless as they come. But his nasty tone leaves something to be desired, and I’m two steps shy of jumping into the fray with Finn.

  Our newfound friends come to my defense.

  “A few pints and Gennie-boy is always bruising for a fight.”

  “Leave his miss alone.”

  “The pretty one doesn’t deserve a tongue lashing.”

  Their shifting loyalties infuriate him even further. “This Northern wanker strolls into town and you lads fall in feckin’ love? He takes the piss out of me and you think it’s comical?”

  “Here we go,” someone warns.

  Finn chuckles.

  I shake my head at him. Are you insane?

  My answer comes quickly. Finn
gives the entire pub a striptease show by ever so slowly working his new jersey over his head. Once removed, everyone waits while it takes him a full minute to fold it.

  He hands it off to me. “Make sure no blood gets on it.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  Finn moves with lightning speed, thrusting his body forward and hurling his fist toward Eugene’s surprised face. He pulls his punch, so his fist lightly connects with the man’s chin as opposed to knocking Eugene back on his ass. Teasing the man.

  “I’m not looking to fight you,” Finn murmurs. “But I don’t appreciate how you addressed my mot.”

  I gasp as Finn hurls himself at Eugene. He body slams him and forces him to stagger backward.

  Men scurry out of the way.

  The barman gathers the glassware from the bar.

  Eugene loses his mind. Arms swinging, he charges Finn.

  Finn’s ready, and easily sidesteps one punch and then another. He’s light on his feet. Skilled . . . like he’s done this before.

  “Money’s on the Northerner.”

  “Mine, too. Hand it over to his missus for safekeeping.” Finn’s shirt is plucked from my hands and replaced with euros. It takes a few minutes to collect their bets.

  And as soon as I’ve done so, the fight’s over.

  Men curse, as the crowd parts.

  I gasp.

  Eugene is standing over Finn, a triumphant look on his face. My attention drops to Finn, there on the floor. His lip profusely bleeding.

  “I want me money back. He did that on purpose.”

  “He let Eugene hit him.”

  “Feck off, you gobshites.” Eugene stalks over to me. “Maybe another night, eh, Yank?” Eugene takes the euros from my shaking hands. “Come and get your winnings, lads.”

  No one steps forward.

  “You wankers,” he hollers, stuffing the entire winnings into his pant pocket as he thunders off.

  Finn stands on wobbly legs.

  Every eye is on him, and I fear for his life.

  “Pull that shite at the underground and they’ll be carting you out of there in a casket, you feck.”

  Finn grabs his shirt, takes my hand, and hurries us outside. I catch his smile in the moonlight but for the life of me can’t imagine why he’d pull a stunt like that. Those men, they saw what I did.

  They bet on a winner.

  “Why?” I murmur.

  “Everyone loves an underdog with potential. So I gave them one.”

  13

  Clarissa

  I awake to the sound of whistling. Prying my eyes open, I find Finn at the foot of my bed.

  “Up and at ’em, sunshine.”

  “What time is it?” is all I can manage. My head is heavy, and my thoughts are groggy, the effects of four pints of Guinness claiming their price. I can’t remember the last time I was this hungover.

  And how long has it been since I had that much fun?

  After throwing the fight and escaping the angry mob, Finn pulled me into a different pub closer to our hotel. We relaxed, drinking and joking and teasing each other. It’s a comfortable pattern we’ve fallen into.

  Finn’s great company. He’s wickedly smart. Easy on the eyes. Infuriating.

  I see why a respected agency like the CIA would recruit him.

  “You’ll feel better after a good run,” he informs me.

  I groan, then struggle to sit up. “Are you for real?”

  He winks. “As real as it gets, colleen.”

  “Come on. Shake it off. I want three kilometers under my belt before daybreak.” He gestures to the nightstand, and I turn my head to find a tray with a plate of eggs, coffee, and two aspirin. “Ten minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  I could tell him no, lay back in bed, and nurse this wicked hangover. But whether it feels like a steel container from the ship has landed on my head, the challenge in his tone has me moving.

  “That a girl,” he comments, closing the door behind him as he breezes out of my room.

  I eat then dress in new sports-leisure wear—a sleeveless shirt, shorts, socks, and sensible running sneakers. Hair up in a ponytail and a hint of mascara, and I’m good to go.

  Finn rakes his eyes over me as he stands to greet me in the downstairs foyer, and then we’re off.

  An hour later, I’m ready to kill him for the relentless pace he set.

  We’ve stopped for a break. I’m crouched over and breathing hard when his sneakers come into eyesight.

  “You kept up well.”

  Between pants, I bark out, “Enough with the sarcasm.”

  He chuckles. “I’m impressed. Most would have told me to feck off a few kilometers back.”

  “Maybe I’m saving up my curses for a rainy day.”

  He offers me his hand and then tugs me upright.

  “What are we doing, Finn? Drinking. Fighting. Running a damn marathon. This isn’t a vacation. We,” I gesture between us, “have a job to do.”

  “Truth?” he asks. A simple word, but one that carries a lot of weight.

  “Of course. I detest liars.”

  “Even if a lie sits better in the ol’ ears?”

  Where is he going with this?

  “Even if a lie protects you?” he insists.

  I roll my eyes. “What’s with the twenty questions? You offered the truth. Give it to me straight.”

  “You sure you can handle the truth?”

  “Finn!” I exclaim, exasperated. Why do I feel we’re having two separate conversations? What lies has he told? What is he keeping from me?

  “You asked for honest. Last night . . . this morning . . . it was a test.”

  I stiffen. “What kind of test?”

  “To see if you’d hold up. Before things get serious, I wanted to see how you’d handle yourself in different circumstances.” He stands there, hands on hips, T-shirt clinging to his chest, looking handsome despite being wet with perspiration. Insulting me and making me feel like a lab rat he brought out to play with.

  He looks past me and squints into the sun. As if his confession hasn’t crushed me. As if the friendship I believed was developing between us was a figment of my imagination.

  A test.

  And I thought last night . . . holy hell, what was I thinking? That we’re more than partners, yet not quite lovers? That we’re friends?

  I spin on my heels and stalk off. Somewhere behind me, he curses. This is what I get for letting my guard down.

  Thank God I didn’t sleep with him.

  “Don’t be like that,” he says from behind me. Closer than expected. Too close for his well-being.

  I continue on at a brisk walk yet can feel him behind me, shadowing me.

  “What about the job?”

  I stop short and spin around, ready to say Lord knows what, but then he barrels into me and I’m in his arms. Lowering his head, he whispers in my ear, “What if I were honest and told you that my telling you all this was a test, too?”

  I struggle to free myself, but quickly realize it’s hopeless. So, I go on the attack. “Since we’re being honest, explain why you initiated then lost that fight last night.”

  “Who says I started anything?”

  “You played every man in the room. They bet against their friend for you. Only you let that fool win. Why?”

  “Perceptive mot.”

  I try to raise my knee into his groin, but his big, beefy thigh blocks it.

  “You’ll understand my reasons better tonight.”

  “As if I’ll go anywhere with you.”

  “You will if you want that story.” He looks down at me for several seconds, like he’s trying to make up his mind. With a shake of his head, he continues, “We’ll be entering a club that’s part of the underground.”

  My heart quickens. “The underground?”

  “Nightclubs. Dance halls. Restaurants. The like. A type of shebeen that hosts the shadiest flimflam around.”

  “Including O’Brien.”

&nbs
p; He nods. “Men out to make a quick buck.”

  “You said O’Brien would show because of you? How so?”

  “Let’s just say the boss has a feeling he’ll surface and leave it at that for now.”

  I look at his handsome face. So serious. So unFinn-like. He can’t even say “boss” without dragging out the four letters. It reminds me of when I was a kid and used to emphasize words I didn’t like. “Ugh, Mom. You really want me to eat brruusseels sprouts.” Either Finn doesn’t like his boss, or he fears him. My irritation quickly changes into curiosity. Why not ask, now that he’s being honest? “On a scale of one to ten, how angry will your boss be when he discovers you’ve partnered with me?”

  His body stiffens around me. “Zero,” he mutters.

  “You mean the worst, like a hundred.”

  “I mean zero, like a dead man who doesn’t rate.”

  I swallow hard. Not at his explanation but more so because of the sudden tension I feel in his body. “So, he’d fire you over this?”

  Finn doesn’t answer.

  “Then I need to make this partnership worth it. Can’t have you risking your career for the sake of helping mine flourish.” His earlier message about testing me after the fun we had last night still stings. But reaffirming that this is a business arrangement between us is the best way to progress.

  “Just follow my feckin’ directions,” he gruffly says. “Understand?”

  “You lead. I follow.”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled.” I gasp as he tugs me up onto my toes and into his chest. “One more wee detail you best prepare for,” is all the warning I get. With a dip of his head, he presses his lips to mine.

  And kisses me.

  It’s light and gentle and shockingly enough, so unFinn-like. It’s not an innocent kiss or an overtly seductive one.

  And it sure as hell isn’t clumsy.

  My eyes flutter. Why isn’t it clumsy?

  As if sensing my confusion, he glides his tongue between my lips and deepens the connection. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lean into him. Wanting to discover exactly what I missed before.

  He groans and breaks away.

  I blink as he locks eyes with me, running his fingers across his smooth jawline while trying to hide how his cock is as hard as Bethlehem steel inside his loose-fitting track pants.