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

by Michele Mannon

  “A newbie, too. He hit me cousin Seamus with a punch to the kidney. Came close to killing him.” Shelley nudges me. “Best take out yer rosary now.”

  “What’s that in his hand?” Lucy exclaims.

  I swing my attention to the brass object looped around his fingers.

  “Total gobshite,” Shirley grinds out beside me. “So that’s how he hurt Seamus.”

  Brass knuckles. That’s how, I think.

  “I hope yer wan notices.”

  “Won’t someone stop him?” I demand, already knowing the answer. The better question to ask is “Is Finn aware?”

  It’s too late to warn him as he’s already climbing the steps to the cage. Smiling. Waving. Acting like a naive fool, completely oblivious to the violence about to reign down on him.

  I wave wildly but he doesn’t notice me.

  They approach each other.

  Finn offers him his hand.

  His opponent glowers at him.

  “Does yer wan think he’s in there to accept a bleedin’ award?”

  “Sorry, Clarissa. But he’s about to get handed his arse.”

  Finn leans in and says something, unfazed by his opponent’s intense stare. Whatever is said excites the man, who waves his weapon-free fist at Finn while shouting a stream of profanities.

  I take a deep breath, hoping Finn knows what he’s doing by antagonizing him.

  “This isn’t going to last long.”

  “Or end well.”

  “We’re here if you need us, Clarissa.”

  Finn sidesteps a punch then motions with his hands. “Come and get me.”

  The crowd begins to shout. “Get out of the ring before you get yourself killed.”

  “Lay those knuckles on him, Charlie.”

  “Cover your drinks, lads, blood’s about to go flying.”

  My heart sinks as two men approach the cage with an empty stretcher.

  His opponent charges forward, fueled with frustration. I understand that feeling well, having been on the opposite end of Finn’s sharp tongue.

  Arms to his side, Finn sways back and forth on his feet. Relaxed and seemingly unworried.

  Waiting.

  Either he’s as foolish as he wants everyone to believe or, like an expert poker player, he’s ready for the next gold-knuckled hand to be dealt.

  Finn waits until the man is a hair’s breadth away before reacting. Then with one punch he connects with his opponent’s jawline with a loud crack. The man’s head snaps sideways, the brass knuckles hit the mat and he pitches backward , eyes rolling to the back of his head as he falls.

  It’s so abrupt, so unexpected, the crowd gasps in unison.

  A series of “Sweet Mary and Joseph” echoes through the room.

  Finn scoops up the brass knuckles, approaches the cage wall, and gestures to the same older man who placed him on the list to fight. “Give these to your nephew Seamus, will you?” He tosses the brass knuckles and a collective cheer goes up.

  I should have seen this coming. He played this fight and this crowd beautifully. In one punch, he went from underdog to savior of Seamus’s honor. A champion.

  A hero.

  And I’ve just won a lot of money.

  Our eyes meet.

  This time it’s me, giving him two thumbs-up, along with a knowing wink.

  16

  Finn

  I’m riding high after yesterday’s win. Part of it is knowing I’ve still got the touch. But I have to say, the way the minx is staring starry-eyed at ol’ Finn-boy certainly puts a spring in me step. She can’t keep her eyes off me. Seeing me with fresh eyes and liking what she sees.

  About time.

  “Last night was nuts, Finn.”

  “If I had two brain cells, I’d be twice as dangerous.”

  We took an early afternoon drive in a rental car to Gougane Barra, a fine piece of countryside in western Cork. I had a picture of the church here hanging on my wall back home when I was a lad—the closest thing I had to Godliness aside from me mam. I wanted to bring Clarissa here today and take a rest from work.

  I pause from unloading the gear from the car boot to find her scowling at me.

  “You could have been hurt.”

  “I could have been a lot of things.”

  I admit her fretting is doing a number on me. It’s been a long time since anyone gave two shites about me. Her tenderness stirs up a foreign feeling in me. It draws me in like a Van Morrison song. Provokes a calmness in me while still knocking me off-balance. I’ve a sudden, aching desire to pull her in for a cuddle. Show her all the things I can be.

  But I don’t.

  Because I can’t.

  Touching her would be asking for trouble. Getting intimate, now that would be suicide. Hayden didn’t say much during my late-night call. Never does, the bastard. Is he pleased with how I, rather spectacularly, reestablished myself in the underground scene? Let’s just say he didn’t cuss me out. Leading me to believe he doesn’t know I’ve help or that Clarissa’s involved in the assignment.

  Said so himself, I could do as I see fit. Except Boss runs a tight ship. Involving an outsider who’s quick on her feet and has excellent investigative skills might not seem like a sound choice. No, sounds like I’ve lost my bloody mind. Best stay quiet about her involvement and keep things with Clarissa as professional as possible. “You did good work last night.”

  She beams. “Teamwork.”

  I cringe.

  “You’re the brawn and I’m the brains.”

  “No.”

  Her eyebrows lift.

  I tap my temple. “You’re the muscle and brains.”

  Her sweet laughter fills the air.

  “We’re sucking diesel now.”

  “What?” she gasps, laughing harder.

  I remove the fishing poles and hand one to her. “Pray our luck continues and that Johnny will tell O’Brien all about my success.”

  “You are the talk of Cork. O’Brien will take the bait, I’m sure of it.”

  “The talk of Cork, eh?” I eat up her admiration like a half-starved pup. Jaysus, it feels good to be myself for a spell.

  Fishing poles and lunch basket in hand, we walk around the sixth century stone monastery nestled there, now St. Finbar’s church. Behind it, is a large pond.

  “It’s beautiful,” Clarissa exclaims.

  I steal a look at her. Rosy cheeks and rich auburn hair twisted into a knot on her head. Eyes alight with pleasure. Beautiful is right.

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “The weather’s grand for fishing, eh?”

  She laughs, and a twang of guilt washes over me. The real Finn is who she’ll get today—nothing I can do about the lies I’ve told.

  I leave it at that and enjoy a comfortable quiet while we settle into a perfect fishing spot where the water runs the deepest. We bait our hooks, Clarissa spearing a worm without so much as a flinch. She casts her reel like a seasoned fisherman. Impressive. Far from the afraid-to-chip-a-nail gal Antonio sent running for the hills.

  Clarissa’s a woman worth keeping if I ever met one.

  “What’s that grin about?”

  I simply nod at her pole.

  “Maine is the land of lakes.” She pauses to cock her head at me, and I see trouble. “A hundred euros if I catch the first fish.”

  “I’m in. But another hundred if mine is bigger.”

  Slowly, ever so feckin’ slowly, her eyes drop. “Size isn’t an issue. Technique is.”

  “That so?” Jaysus, this woman was made for me. Our eyes connect, and I offer her a lazy grin, then cast my line slightly farther than hers. “One man’s truth is another man’s lie. In a wee bit, you’ll learn that lesson.”

  “We’ll see,” she replies.

  “You will.”

  Her cheeks flush prettily then she falls silent.

  I like her. Respect her. But I’ve a long list of why-I-shouldn’ts, number one being my disappearing from her lif
e once this job is over. Hard to remember the last time I spent time with a woman that didn’t involve a good snog followed by a goodbye. I was sixteen when I had my last girlfriend. Maureen, a dark-haired beauty with a sweet disposition. Need I say, it didn’t last long?

  And now?

  Clarissa thinks I work on the sunny side of the law. The CIA. Not like I can share my life choices with her, especially not with her being the fine reporter she is. Especially not with Hayden being the deadly bastard he is.

  Besides, she’d be out of her bleedin’ mind to date a hitman.

  Madelyn is doing it. Dating that icy cutthroat, Declan.

  Aubrey has her hands full with that loverboy, Diego.

  Why not Finn-boyo?

  Guilt, that’s what this is. I’ve no business considering a relationship.

  “Are you good at what you do?” she asks out of nowhere, as if reading my mind.

  “Not much to fishing.” Fishing. Hunting. Killing.

  “Not fishing.” She sighs, exasperated. “Your job. Or can’t you talk about it?”

  She’s sitting pretty on a boulder next to me. Looking for a heart-to-heart and far too perceptive for her own good. But, today, I want to give her a taste of the real Finn, which requires a certain amount of honesty.

  “I was a laborer up north, working odd jobs, a wee bit of this, a wee bit of that, and a whole lotta fighting in between. At night, the lads and I’d take the piss at the underground. Come to find out, my hands were good for more than laying cement blocks.”

  “Ever knock a man out with a single punch?”

  “A time or two.”

  She snorts. “Right.”

  “I learned from the best. The man that recruited me.” Shite. Loose lips sink ships, Finn-boyo.

  Her eyes widen. She’s thrilled I’m sharing.

  “He taught me to hit a man just so.” Gently, I reach over and glide my knuckles across her jawline, modeling one of the vulnerable areas a skilled feck like me can knock some arse-twat off his feet. Hayden groomed me to be more precise with my punches. Exert less effort for maximum gain.

  “Wow. They recruited you? You didn’t seek them out?”

  I drop my hand and stare at the water. “It’s the truth.”

  Feckin’ Irish guilt, that’s what I’m feeling.

  “Good. Because there’s nothing worse than a liar.”

  Bloody hell. Are these fish out to Sunday mass? Because if there was ever a time I wanted a distraction . . .

  “Are your colleagues as badass as you?”

  I find myself smiling at that, and at how good she is at drawing information out of a fella.

  “That’s a no, huh?”

  “My boss is the worst of us lot. He’s a mean bastard. Cunning. Relentless. But when it comes to fists, I hold my own, which is more than the others can say.” I stop and turn her way. “He’d be mad as a box of frogs if he knew you were helping me.”

  Mad . . . murderous . . . both begin with the same letter, right?

  She touches my arm, drawing my attention. “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t. You really, truly don’t.”

  A slight splashing noise interrupts us. We both come to our feet.

  I test the weight of my rod. Light as a feckin’ feather. Judging by the look on Clarissa’s face, hers is as well.

  “That fish is dinner,” she declares, settling back down onto the boulder.

  “He’s having a good laugh at our expense. We’ll see how he feels when he’s laughing his way into my frying pan.”

  Our eyes meet, and then we burst into laughter.

  Seconds pass before we settle back into a comfortable quiet. I relax and enjoy the moment.

  The sun dips in the sky.

  While the fish are off somewhere in the murky depths, Clarissa keeps stealing glances at me like I’m the sweetest of mince meats.

  I could sit here all day.

  “Life is surreal sometimes,” she murmurs after a spell.

  I chuckle. “Surreal isn’t what I’d be calling it.”

  “Fishing here with you, in this beautiful place. So random. So unexpected. It’s a pause in the chaos. A glimpse of what my days could be like if I’d taken a different career path.”

  “If this were your norm, you wouldn’t appreciate it. A person like you, who gets her kicks from an adrenaline-induced high, who thrives on challenge and dodges obstacles like pesky boat rides or Irish wankers mucking up her work, you’re doing exactly what you’re meant to be doing.”

  She flinches, and I feel my stomach drop. I’ve seen this look before, back in her ship cabin.

  “No. I made a promise.” She shakes her head. “Whatever it takes.”

  The rawness in her tone raises the hairs on my arms. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to ruin the day.”

  “There’ll be more of them.” She resists, so I narrow eyes on her. “I won’t break, if yer worried over me mental health. C’mon. Tell me.”

  Her lips part, and she gives me this look like I’m three sheets to the wind.

  I tap my temple.

  “Fine. The truth isn’t pretty.”

  “Yer preaching to the choir of no-goods. Go on.”

  “I was living with a Syrian family in Aleppo when the Russian bombing campaign began. Word was that it’d be safe, only Taliban-occupied areas would be targeted. That there’d be time to evacuate if the strike-zones were broadened. But my information was wrong.”

  My grip tightens on the fishing pole.

  “It was a bright, sunny day. Blue skies. Quiet and tranquil. A day similar to today. The Taliban had retreated, leaving the city a few days earlier. We thought it was over. Everyone had come out of hiding. A sense of hopefulness filled the air. That ended when we saw airplanes on the horizon.”

  She peers up at the cloudless sky.

  But I watch her closely, and the myriad emotions playing out across her face. Pain. Anguish. Heartbreak.

  “Christiana and I were playing outside. I grabbed her hand and we ran toward the shelter. But nowhere was safe, there was nowhere to hide. Within thirty minutes, the neighborhood was flattened.”

  I curse beneath my breath.

  “There was an announcement to evacuate. That more strikes were coming. Back at the apartment, my host family was buried in rubble. I pulled brick by brick off them except it was too late, though. I could do nothing but cover their bodies with blankets before we left.” She pauses to suck in a breath. I want to toss down my pole and wrap her in my arms. Wisely, I give her space and what she really needs, someone to listen.

  “I took Christiana with me and followed the progression of people fleeing the city and headed toward the Mediterranean Sea. She had a concussion and faded in and out consciousness, cradled in my arms throughout the entire walk. No doctors or medical services were available because of the overwhelming number of injured victims.”

  Christ’s sake. Am I hearing her right? She carried a little girl from Aleppo to the Mediterranean? How many miles is that? A hundred?

  “Several journalists were on the beach and covered the fleeing refugees. Under different circumstances, I would have been one of them.” She gives a shallow, self-depreciating laugh. “They brought a field doctor over to where we were huddled. But, it was too late. She died in my arms while everyone looked on. One of them recorded it, thinking the story of a western woman caring for a dying Syrian child would resonate back home. He was right, too. It would have. Airing the tragedy along with my personal account of events might have been dramatic enough to attract the western networks and bring some coverage to the travesty unfolding abroad.”

  For the first time in my life, I feel feckin’ helpless. What can I say? What can I do to ease her pain? How in God’s name can a murderous devil like me comfort a saint like her? I will myself into motion. Standing and stepping over rocks then settling down beside her, wrapping my free arm around her shoulders and tucking her into me.

  I want
to shelter her.

  I want to protect her from everything ugly.

  But who’ll shelter and protect her from me?

  She turns teary eyes to me. “I bought the footage from him so he couldn’t sell it. No matter how disgusted I was by the lack of genuine coverage back home, I couldn’t exploit her death for a story. Her life must mean more than profit. So, you see, our investigation isn’t about me advancing my career. If I build a name for myself, not only will I be exposing criminals like O’Brien, but I’ll be in a better position to sell my documentary. Christiana and her family deserve to be seen as human beings, not nameless victims of war.”

  I contemplate snapping the fishing pole in half.

  Shite.

  Shite.

  Motherfeckin’ shite.

  Because it’s me being snapped in two. Broken into two, exposed and suspended in air.

  What in God’s name do I do?

  “This isn’t about me advancing my career,” she says. It’s more, so much bleedin’ more. And I’m going to ruin it all.

  “I warned you it wasn’t pretty. Was it too much?”

  Hell, yeah. I shake me head no. Praying for rain. Wishing a snapping turtle or some other vicious creature would grab hold of me and drag me under.

  Guilt. That’s what this is. Bloody Irish guilt.

  The fishing pole jerks within me grasp. A wee nibble. Some interest. Though I feel like laughing, I do nothing but keep still and will the little bugger onward.

  She gasps seconds later, and relief washes over me. “Oh. My. Word.” She comes to her feet. “I caught one.”

  Thank you, Jaysus. I’ll be lighting a candle in your honor on me next visit inside a church. “Seems like you have a wee warrior on yer hands.”

  I feel a vicious tug on me pole. He’s got to be a big fella, judging by the pull.

  Clarissa reels in her catch. He’s a decent size. Big enough.

  “You win.” I toss my pole on the ground. “How about I help you unhook him, we throw him back, then go have ourselves a picnic?”

  Her gaze swings from my pole to my face.

  I shrug, struggling with the small movement because my shoulders are weighed down from guilt.

  Guilt from the lies I’ve told.

  Guilt from the lies I’ll continue to tell.