It takes great willpower and years of professional training to keep from asking questions. No need. There’s no such thing as coincidences. Where else could O’Brien be transporting the uranium if not to the hillside warehouse?
Finn is going to be pleased.
I glance toward the corner, suddenly remembering the man. South African? Irish mob? Just your average Joe in a suit? But he’s gone.
“Bad news, luv,” Fiona interrupts my thoughts. “Sign over there just went up. Looks like yer wan is fighting Mad Dog McDonald next. I heard he once beat a fella unconscious while the man was down. A dirty fighter, he is. Better warn yer wan.”
“What?” I spot the sign. Sure enough, Finn’s name is listed next to Mad Dog. “Jesus,” I whisper.
“Jesus can’t help him. You best go over there and give him a kiss while he still recognizes you.”
I swallow hard as I take her advice, pushing through the crowd toward Finn. He looks up from the floor as I approach, midcurl in a sit-up, shirt off, muscles on full display, a dopey smirk on his lips.
“Not you, too?” he comments.
I frown.
“You come to warn me?”
“I don’t think I can watch one more fight. Especially not with Mad Dog, who is rumored to be unethical in the cage.”
“Unethical?” Finn snorts. “That what you call it?”
A loud shout cuts off my reply. “Bugger me blind.”
I’m pushed to the side by the old white-haired man who collects the bets and arranges the fights. He storms by me then gives Finn a swift kick in the leg.
“Ouch,” Finn mutters.
“Mad Dog? MAD DOG! You bloody gombeen. You barely scraped through the first two bouts.”
“Won both, didn’t I?” Finn resumes doing sit-ups, nonchalant as can be, which further irritates the man.
“You deserve the beating that’s coming. The fight is posted, you bleedin’ eegit. No chance of switching things around.”
I frown in confusion. “You didn’t arrange this fight?”
The old man glares at me. “He did.”
“Finn did?” I demand.
We turn in unison toward the man in question and the old man resumes his attack. “O’Brien has money on you, hear me? If you lose—”
“So, O’Brien bet on Finn?”
“Everyone likes a sure thing.”
It’s my turn to glare at Finn.
The old man crouches down so he’s eye-level with Finn. “Hear me loud and clear.” He pokes his finger into Finn’s cheek. “Do. Not. Lose. Or I’ll kill you before O’Brien can get to you himself.” Straightening, he shoots me a parting glare before storming off.
“You have a way with people.”
“That’s what I do best.” His eyes gleam with mischief as he says it. If I weren’t so sick to my stomach, I’d find him amusing.
“Seems everyone is counting on you to win.”
“You worried I won’t?”
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
He rolls to his feet, his movements smooth and controlled.
“Think about the job. If I win, I’ll move on to fight the South African. O’Brien won’t miss that fight, and neither will Mrs. Ogdenhayer. Whatever information is to be had will be ripe for the picking.”
I stare at Finn. Clever, cunning, complex Finn. This version of him is a far cry from the man I tried to seduce in Mexico City. He’s something far different, far beyond the scope of my comprehension, far more complicated than he projects. Makes sense. Isn’t that why the CIA hired him?
Doing his job.
As are you.
“I heard O’Brien is moving the uranium from the docks to the warehouse tonight.”
Finn grins at me.
I smile back. “Fiona’s Johnny is busy unloading cargo from lorries. That’s why O’Brien isn’t here to collect on his bet.”
With a lightening quick grab, I’m pulled into his body then hoisted off my feet. “Brilliant. That’s what you are.” He swings me around then repositions me on the floor.
I’m breathless. Speechless. Happy in a way a woman is when her boyfriend looks at her in a way that says, “You’re the one for me.”
He leans down and, quick as can be, steals a kiss from my lips. It’s butterfly light. Brief. Yet I arch into him, needing more.
Our eyes connect.
My breath hitches as a myriad emotions pass through his baby blues. Pride. Passion. Want.
Seconds seem like minutes.
“Finn,” I murmur.
“You’ve done yer bit, now let me do mine.”
I want to ask if he can beat him but don’t. If Finn says he’ll win then I’ll trust him to do so.
But from the other room.
“I’ll have a pint waiting for you.” Like shots of whiskey are presently waiting for me.
His lips nuzzle my ear. “Go on, then. But there best be more waiting for me than a pint. Because after all this fighting, I’m in the mood for lovin’.”
He spins me around and gently pushes me away.
But that word . . . loving . . . stays with me as I leave him alone to fight Mad Dog.
Five minutes later and I’m tossing back a second shot of whiskey. But it does little to quiet my thoughts. What if Finn is wrong and he can’t win? What if Mad Dog knocks him unconscious and continues to beat him? Who will stop the fight then?
“The jacks is back there if yer going to vomit,” the bartender informs me.
I’m alone at the bar. Everyone else has crowded into the back room to see Mad Dog fight.
I hold up my hand. “It’s not the whiskey that’s making me nauseous.” Finn’s words play on repeat. Mood for loving. Loving. Loving.
He meant sex. Fucking.
It’s me who’s suddenly having an oh-no-she-didn’t revelation. Oh-no-I-didn’t fall in love.
Holy hell. I think I’m in love with Finn. I shake my head. But it’s no use, the realization won’t go away.
“I love Finn.”
There. I said it aloud. The stool didn’t fall out from beneath me. The earth didn’t shake. Time didn’t stand still. “My God. How did this happen?”
I jump as a voice from behind me interrupts. “I’m asking myself the very same question.” My eyes go wide as the man in the suit settles into the seat next to me.
He’s handsome, in a dark, dangerous way. Jet black hair. Brown eyes. A few days growth on his jawline. A shiver runs up my spine because, despite his interruption, he seems displeased.
The bartender returns.
“She’ll have another whiskey. I’ll take a bottle of Dos Equis.”
“Foreign imports are in the back room,” the bartender gruffly replies.
The man taps his Rolex. “I’ll wait.”
The bartender curses and stalks off toward the back room.
“You have a way with people,” I say for the second time tonight.
He doesn’t answer, and an uncomfortable silence falls between us. From beneath my lashes, I study him. A mistake, because looking at him is like staring into a deep, dark pool of water, calm on the surface but with a murky undercurrent ready to drag you beneath. I notice everything about him at once. His expensive watch. The tailored cut of his suit. How handsome he is, in a sensual way that attracts me as much as it alarms me. He’s sophisticated. Out of place in this Irish fight club.
Unsettling.
“I can see the attraction.”
I spin in my seat to fully face him. “What?”
He offers me a lazy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Which answers, in part, what you’re doing here.”
This man is talking in riddles, and it’s infuriating. I raise my chin. “I’m here with my boyfriend. A fighter.”
“Finn.” He pauses. “Whom you love.”
Whoosh. Hearing him so bluntly giving voice to my feelings shocks me to my core.
Yes, I love Finn.
And no, it’s none of this man’s business
. “Shouldn’t you be in back, watching the fight?”
“To witness lover boy’s win? Not necessary, especially when the bigger gamble is at the bar.”
I frown. Whiskey brain or not, it’s obvious he’s talking about me.
“How am I a gamble?”
“You love Finn. But my next question is, what do we do about it?”
Unbelievable. This man wants to give me relationship advice? I should walk away from him. But either the whiskey is messing with my head or the sudden weight on my love-struck heart is rooting me in place because, instead of escaping, I adopt the very Irish gift of gab. “We? What makes you qualified to give me advice? Have you ever even been in love?”
No doubt this man has had his share of women. Sex. Physical release. Little discussion about love and a whole lot of lust. His whole demeanor suggests he thrives on being in control, from the tap on his watch face to his ambiguous comments. Complicated, unexpected, emotions must be beyond a man of his nature. So, I don’t expect him to answer.
“Yes.”
My jaw drops, and it takes me several seconds to recover. “In love, I mean, not in lust.”
“I know the difference.”
His expression is blank, devoid of emotion. But call me crazy, he’s telling the truth. I cock my head at him. “How many times?”
“Once. Only and always once.”
Holy shit. This handsome, arrogant man has a broken heart? I’m stunned. “What happened?”
“I let her go.”
My eyes widen. “Why?”
“Life isn’t about always having what you want.”
“And you want her? Still?”
“Yes.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Then what are you waiting for? Go after her.”
Something indefinable passes across his brown eyes. Going after her isn’t a new idea, I think. Yet here he is, inside this fight club, having a discussion about love with a stranger.
“What did you do?” I prompt, going on gut instinct.
“I hurt her.”
His tone is flat, like we’re discussing the weather. So calm. So in control. So broken. He looks away, deep in thought. I’d bet thousands of euros he’s thinking about her.
“You don’t seem like the type who ever gives up.”
His head turns and he narrows eyes on me.
“If you love her, fix it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I lost someone close to me. A young girl named Christiana.” I close my eyes, willing myself to stop. But I’m on a mission to make her death have meaning, right? Maybe my loss can help him see how precious time is. “Love, like life, is fleeting. Whatever it takes, whether it’s asking forgiveness or being vulnerable or whatever is holding you back, show her you love her.”
I open my eyes to find him staring at me.
“Who are you?” I murmur.
He takes a sip of beer then answers me with a question. “Are you a nurse?”
I shake my head.
“A teacher?”
“No.” I pause, my eyes widening as I piece together why he’s asking about my profession. Drunk or not, I keep quiet about being a reporter.
He persists. “You’re not going to tell me.”
I shrug my shoulders. “You answered my question with a question. You first.”
“I’m no one you want to know.” Again with the flat tone, like he’s warning me, like we haven’t been sharing secrets and revelations.
“Too late,” I tell him. “I might not know your name, but I’ve seen your soul.”
He snorts. “And it’s blacker than a pint of Guinness, isn’t it?”
“Hard to say, given I’m wearing whiskey goggles.”
That makes him smile. There. Back on track.
“So, what’s the worst that can happen? She tells you to fuck off?”
“No. Been there. Done that.”
I raise my shot glass, saluting her. “She must be quite the woman then.” My vision blurs as the whiskey hits me.
The bartender appears, pops the lid of a Dos Equis, and pushes it in front of the man. Then he lines up three more bottles on the bar. “Leave the money on the counter, will you?” he mutters before addressing me. “Another?”
“Not if you want to be the man to tell Finn I’ve passed out in the jacks.”
“If your wan isn’t being hoisted out of the cage on a stretcher, that is,” the bartender reminds me. “If you two don’t mind, I don’t want to miss it.”
I frown and watch him head toward the back room just as the bell rings.
The chanting begins. “Mad Dog, Mad Dog.”
I draw in a breath.
“Did you bet on him?”
“Of course.”
“Loyal, eh?”
“But worried,” I reply, exasperated. “If you knew Finn, you’d understand. He’s full of surprises. I never can predict what’s going to happen next. I think he enjoys taking a beating.”
“Fuck. You really are in love with him.”
More silence. Then abruptly, the fight club in the next room falls silent.
I tense. Something big just happened.
The man next to me stands. “Let me leave you with this. Love is like whiskey goggles, it impairs you. Love, Clarissa, blinds your judgment.”
He finishes his beer. “Finn just won.”
Shrieks, cheers, and “holy shites” erupt from behind us.
But my complete, utter attention is on the stranger. He used my name. I. Never. Told. Him. My. Name.
What else? “You know Finn?”
There’s a hint of a nod. “He’s why I approached you. I have a message for him. And, in consideration of our conversation, a message for you, as well.”
I blink.
“Another place, another time, and things might be different. Right now? Bad motherfucking timing.” He sets the beer bottle on the bar. It wobbles back and forth, back and forth, before settling.
“Disappear, Clarissa. If you don’t leave, you’re going to get hurt.”
28
Finn
The lass is uncharacteristically quiet during our morning run despite my animated description of how an underdog like yours truly brilliantly defeated Mad Dog. Everyone loves an upset. O’Brien is no exception, so I hear.
Whiskey hangovers are the feckin’ worst. She admitted as much this morning, when I came to collect her.
“Nothing a good run won’t cure.”
“You’re the devil, do you know that?” was her reply.
I race ahead of her then jog backward in an effort to get a laugh. And find I’m disappointed when she doesn’t take the bait. I have this nagging sensation something else besides the drink is bothering her.
“Feeling better yet?”
“Define better.”
I grin. Whatever it is, I’ve now got her talking.
“The Russian did well last night,” she comments.
“That he did.”
“So, you think you’ll fight him?”
I shrug. “You never know. Fate is a funny thing.”
“Sylvia Ogdenhayer was serious about upending O’Brien’s winnings. Are you going to throw the fight like she asked?”
“Depends on who we need more. Who has more information, O’Brien or Ogdenhayer?” Directly after our breakfast being interrupted, I called the boss with news about making contact with the uranium supplier. Hayden didn’t say much—never does—but I cracked on, feeling pleased with myself. TORC will be putting an end to the black-market uranium trade sooner than later with my help.
“And what does your boss say?” Clarissa interrupts with a surprise uppercut.
What is she going on about now? “My boss?”
“Is he happy about our progress?”
“My progress. You are not in the picture.”
“So, the CIA frowns upon you working with civilians?” she presses, searching for information. What’s brought this on now?
I brush her qu
estion off with a joke. “Only the ugly ones. Now a pretty minx like yourself . . .”
She scowls, and I stop midflattery. Bugger me blind because she sees right through me. Clever wan. I love this about her as much as I dislike lying to her.
“I need to tell you something.”
Alarm bells go off because whenever a woman prefaces a discussion with that bleedin’ phrase, no good follows. But just as I’m about to make my play, my attention shifts over her shoulder and onto the sleek, black town car coming over the hill.
“At the bar last night—” She stops mid-sentence, catching on. “What is it?”
“Who is it. And the answer, I’d say, is O’Brien. Now put your listening ears on, play your part, and pray he takes a shining to ol’ Finn.”
We slow our jog as the sedan pulls up and a rear door opens. We enter the vehicle and slip into the open seat across from three men, Clarissa positioning herself so her thigh presses against mine and her left arm sneaks around my back. I briefly wonder what she’s about but focus my full attention on O’Brien.
He’s easily identifiable due to his bulky size. A big fella with a soft, round middle and thick thighs, arms, and neck. His cheeks are ruddy and his eyes small. But however lacking in the looks department, he makes up for it in attitude. He carries himself like a man used to power. The two muscular thugs seated next to him seem fit enough to back him up.
“Finn,” I say without further pretense and stick out my hand for a shake. O’Brien refuses it and instead offers me the same look you’d offer an Irish midge before crushing it beneath your heel. “And this is my beour,” I push on like an eegit, hoping to loosen things up. “You come about that job? Got to say, I’m eager for work.”
O’Brien’s eyebrows arch. It’s a start.
“Hear that?” The man squeezed into the seat next to him sneers. “Thinks we’re here to talk about work, he does.”
“Johnny said he’d put in a good word,” the voice of innocence chimes in from beside me, finally done fidgeting enough beside me to join in the conversation.
They turn to glare at Clarissa. “That shyster doesn’t pull his own weight and now he’s asking favors.”
She ignores them and addresses O’Brien. “Fiona says you are the most powerful man around and, if my Finn wants manual work, you are the person to ask.”
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 17