My heart stills. Time stills.
His eyes skim over me.
“Better?” I whisper.
“You have never looked more beautiful.” All the tension and worry leaves my body in a long, drawn-out exhale. He cares. And maybe, just maybe, he loves me as well.
I don’t ask him but simply bask in the moment.
We have time.
I catch sight of the car, and so does Finn because he stops in his tracks to scratch his head.
Car doors wide open, engine running, and a park job a three-year-old child might make.
“Jaysus,” he rumbles.
And I laugh, all my worries disappearing with that single word. Because if this isn’t proof that Finn wants me—desperately—I’m not sure what is.
33
Finn
Irish guilt is worse than the flu. It clings to yer soul, suffocating and painful. It lingers until you can’t breathe, can’t think straight, can’t get out of the funk of it. I hate myself for what I’ve done, for what needs to be done.
Clarissa’s suspicious, and rightly so. But trusting. Too feckin’ trusting. And she’s giving me space, room to wallow in my remorse.
I’ve wracked my wee brain all the way across Ireland for a different ending. Only to realize that this is the happier alternative. She’s in the way. She’s collateral damage. I’d be a bleeding eegit to think Hayden’s sudden epiphany about love will soften his concerns about her involvement. No, there’s only one option, and death isn’t it.
Follow orders and keep her safe.
She won’t see it that way once she checks her files and fully realizes the extent of my deception. She’s going to hate me and believe everything between us was a lie.
I curse beneath my breath.
“Want to tell me what’s bothering you?” she’s quick to seize on the break in silence.
“Nostalgia.” Because the time spent with you were the best weeks of me life.
“You miss Ireland?”
“What I miss is being up inside you.”
“Pull over.” She raises an eyebrow, challengingly. “But you should consider turning the car off this time.”
With her smiling at me like that, I’m tempted to haul her sweet arse up the knoll flanking the roadway. I resist, instead giving into a different sort of mind feckery. “We’re almost there.”
“Derry?”
“Someplace I want to visit first.” It’s bollocks, what I’m doing. If da were alive, he’d slap me on the noggin for bringing her here days before we part ways.
Why torture myself? Why pretend, one last time, that I could be a different man?
A wrought-iron fence appears up ahead, and I slow the car.
“A graveyard?”
I nod.
Her pretty lips part in surprise. “You want to have sex in a graveyard?”
“That’s not why I brought you here.” I feel me lips twitch. “However . . .”
Her laughter fills the car.
I soak the sound up like a sunny day.
It’s a small burial site, and it warms me heart to see the trimmed hedges and mowed grass. Love and care go into the upkeep. I find peace of mind in that. I drive to the fork in the lane then bear left and follow the one that leads to their graves.
Parking, I hurry around the car to open her door. Hand in hand, I tug her along until we’re standing over them.
“Your parents?” she breathes.
“Yes.” I take a few seconds to brush the leaves off their graves. “Ma and Da, meet Clarissa,” I mumble. There’s no rhyme or reason to bringing her here to meet them. I can almost hear me da saying, “Look at the state o’ you.”
But this is as real as it gets. I’m sharing a part of me. Why? I dunno. I wonder if she’ll think this was a lie. Will her hatred overshadow the truth—that this thing between us is real.
Besides me, she begins to read.
Here lies Donegal McDuff.
Still waiting for someone to call his bluff.
June 14, 1955 - June 3, 2009
Here lies Maureen McDuff.
Whose last words to her dearest husband were, “Enough is enough.”
November 1, 1961 - June 3, 2009
“They died on the same day?”
“Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
I squeeze her hand. “They lived life to the fullest.”
“I can see where you get your sense of humor from.”
“They would have liked you.”
“Any sisters or brothers?”
I point to a small, simple gravestone. “Over there. My older brother died when I was five years old. Struck by a car.”
“They all died in car accidents.”
“Yes.”
She’s quiet, thinking about that. I can’t tell her that I’m more likely to die by gunshot or be blown up by dynamite than find my end by the tail end of a vehicle. So, instead, I state the obvious. “Been a while since I’ve been back here.”
“In your line of work, I imagine coming home would be hard.”
Impossible—when there’s no one to come home to. If things were different, it’d be you.
“They’d be proud of the man you are, Finn.” She leans into me and I want to cry at the moon. Instead, I wrap my arm around her waist and tug her in tighter. “Close yer eyes.”
“Why?”
I sigh. “Just do it, right? Give me this moment.”
She grunts and does as I ask. “I need to ask you a difficult question. About Christiana.”
I feel her stiffen then relax. Trusting me. “Yes?”
“If you could do it all over, if you could choose between making her happy or protecting her, what would you do?”
She shakes her head. “That’s a no-brainer. Happiness is intangible. It’s not something you can give a person. It comes from within. Sure, I’d like to believe my presence generates joy, that my actions fill hearts with pleasure. But ultimately, it’s up to the individual.”
“So, you’d choose to protect her.”
“Yes. I’d protect her to the best of my abilities.”
Clarissa’s quiet, probably thinking about the little girl she carried across a desert to protect. Mission failed, despite her efforts.
“She’d be proud of the woman you are, Clarissa.”
I hear her intake of breath but leave well enough alone.
After a while, we walk back to the car, hands joined until I’m forced to let go.
I place the key in the ignition but before I can turn it, her lips are on mine. Her kiss is gentle. Full of goodness. Full of hope. It lasts a short while though I’ll remember it a lifetime.
Her kisses are sweet but her next words bittersweet.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
34
Clarissa
It must have been the blindfold that perked Finn up. He produced it out of nowhere and with a naughty smirk on his lips. Promising me a feast of the senses. Turning me on in that delightfully wicked way of his.
“Practice,” he’d murmured in my ear, slipping it around my eyes before pushing me back and onto our bed at the Derrytown Inn. “For tomorrow’s surprise.”
Four earth-shattering orgasms later and I’ve become a huge fan of blindfolds.
Tired yet happy, I allowed Finn to play tour guide this morning, following him through the streets of Derry with him pointing to places he played as a lad, the first pub he had a pint in, the shell of a building that once was his home. He offered me a glimpse into what shaped him as a man and with each short narrative of “his troubled youth,” I fell in love with him even more.
Now we’ve arrived at the harbor and joined the line of people waiting to board a ship.
“We’re spending the day cruising?”
He nods.
“You hate boats.”
“Sometimes you do things you hate in the best interest of someone else. Besides, I’ve arranged for accommodations.”
/>
My eyebrows shoot up. “Accommodations?”
“A cabin. Food and drinks included. And, your luggage is already onboard.”
“My luggage?” I gasp. “We’re staying overnight? And when did you plan this?”
“Never mind with the thirty questions and focus on the thirty ways I’ll be making you come once you settle in.” He offers me a wicked grin. I still can’t believe he arranged all this.
“You hate boats.”
“Give me a reason to love them then.” He turns toward the ship. “Stay put while I see about priority boarding.”
“Priority . . . wait. Finn. Passports.”
He taps his pocket. “Right here.” Then before I can rummage through my knapsack and confirm that, yes, indeed, the wicked, cunning man rifled through my bag, he’s hurrying off.
I scowl, not liking how he went through my things. We’re like an old married couple.
He returns, and we’re promptly ushered ahead of the line.
“In all of my travels, I’ve never been on a cruiseship,” I say in wonder, my earlier anger fading.
“This one promises to be memorable,” he mutters as a reply.
We locate our cabin, located not too far from the boarding area. It’s well-appointed, with a king-size bed, a small bathroom, and a terrace overlooking the water. I spy our luggage, pre-delivered as promised. Finn might act the easygoing oaf, but the truth is, he doesn’t miss a thing. “Expensive,” I murmur. “The CIA better be paying you well.”
“A high price, for sure, is what I’ll be paying,” is his answer.
“What do you mean? Don’t tell me you surprised me with a trip you can’t afford?”
He doesn’t respond and moves us further into the room.
“Finn?” I press, alarmed at the abrupt change in mood. He steps away to pull back the bedspread. Then, like the naughty magician that he is, produces the blindfold and a rope. The latter isn’t made of black silk like the blindfold but is thin enough to easily bind someone with.
And that someone is me.
“Hands behind yer back.”
I laugh nervously yet place my hands behind me. “What’s your next trick, hot wax?” He gently ties my wrists together, the rope’s fibers softer than expected. “Not too tight?” he murmurs, soothingly.
“No.”
“Good. Now onto the bed you go.”
“Wait. My clothes.”
“Let me worry about what comes next.”
My heart skips a beat in anticipation of the naughty promises to follow. Instead, the glaring horn of the ship pierces the air, the noise sounding more like a warning than an invitation to board.
“On the bed, honey.”
Honey? Not minx. Or beour. Or storeen. Or my name.
I shrug off my sudden bout of uncertainty. This is Finn, after all. Finn, who accepts me for me, from my dirty sex-talk, to my ambitious streak, to my love of a good challenge and ability to adapt to surprises like this.
I climb onto the mattress and come up onto my knees. The mattress shifts beneath his weight as he positions himself behind me. His hand slides beneath my shirt and over my stomach. His warm breath on my ear. “God’s truth is I want to bury myself inside you and never leave.”
“Then do it.” I look over my shoulder at him. “And Finn?”
“Yeah?”
I suck in a breath. Do I tell him now? Or later? “I’d like it if you stayed.”
Something flashes in his eyes before he gently nudges my head forward then fixes the silk blindfold over my eyes.
The ship horn blares.
Finn curses. “Forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
“Make me come five times and I’ll forgive anything.”
The mattress creaks beneath us as he moves away. My imagination runs wild. Velvet handcuffs? Hot wax? What exactly does he want to be forgiven for.
I listen for the rustle of his clothing from behind me. The ship’s horn sounds again, two long, noisy bursts that drown everything out.
“Finn?”
He doesn’t answer me. He did much the same last night, playing with me, causing my senses of touch, taste, smell to heighten. The blindfold is soft, the rope comfortable on my skin. The air salty. The flowers on the bedside table fragrant.
The room silent.
“Finn?” I say more urgently.
Has he left the room? No. Why would he?
My sixth sense is what raises the alarm and has me struggling to free the rope binding me. A sinking sensation hits the pit of my stomach. It’s similar to the feeling of desperation that gripped me by the throat when the last foreign aid truck drove out of Aleppo.
Cursing, I struggle with the knots. Not too tight, but, evidently, expertly done.
“Finn,” I shout, just as the ship jerks.
I pitch sideways and land with a bounce on my side, still struggling with those blessed knots. For one crazy moment, I wonder if he’s watching me, wonder if this is part of a game he’s playing. But Finn wouldn’t stand around while I struggle, it’s not in his nature.
Dodge and avoid is more his style.
“Forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he said. Holy hell, what has he done?
The rope slips free and I tear off the blindfold. Hands shaking, I slide off the bed and search the room for the document last known to be in his possession—my passport.
Damn you, Finn.
I race out of the cabin, empty-handed, then down a hallway. Losing my balance, briefly, when the ship jerks again.
With every step, his deception sinks in.
I stop short when I exit onto the deck.
No.
No. No. No.
The ship has sailed away from port and is heading upriver toward the Atlantic.
With me onboard.
Without Finn.
Without my passport. No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t.
It takes ten minutes for me to locate the concierge. I’m in a blind panic by the time I approach her.
“There’s been a mistake. I need to get back to Derry.”
“You will. Give or take fourteen days.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You another one of those who thought they signed up for the seven-day cruise? Hate to inform you, luv, but this is the long one.”
He booked me onto a fourteen day excursion? I’m going to miss everything. His fight. The uranium trading hands. The grand finale of my story.
What have you done, Finn?
“There’s been a mistake. I can’t leave Derry.” I grind my teeth together. “Can’t you call the captain? We’re not that far—”
She makes a clucking noise. “It’s written in the contract you signed.”
Paperwork Finn signed.
“No unnecessary changes to the itinerary unless it’s a medical emergency.”
I pause, considering.
She gives me a look that says, Don’t even try bullshitting a bullshitter. But she must see the blind panic in my expression because she decides to take pity on me by getting on her walkie-talkie and relaying my message.
She talks a bit more in an accent that’s untranslatable, then ends the call. “All set.”
“Really? How long is it going to take to turn the ship around?”
She chuckles. “That’s brilliant. Turn the ship around. Luv, the first port the captain says you can get off in is London. He’s making an exception for you.”
London. “And . . . if I misplaced my passport?”
Doom and gloom passes across her face. “Ye Yanks. Always losing yer passports. Sorry, you won’t be able to disembark without one.”
“What if I call the London embassy ahead? Request a replacement?”
She chuckles. “That’s grand. We’re at a ‘Level 3, luv. A substantial threat level. All kinds of security measures in place. We’ll be back in port by the time any replacement arrives.”
I fight off my panic. “How long will it take?”
“They told
the Yank on the last cruise three weeks or longer.”
“Three weeks?”
“Or longer.” She shakes her head. “Can’t say this doesn’t happen all the time. That’s why we place warnings on all the paperwork and in big, bold letters to keep yer identification secure. On this side of the ocean, everything’s not so loosey-goosey” as ye Americans say. But if it eases yer mind, you can disembark back in Derry without a passport. We recently added a preclearance clause to the paperwork for all ye forgetful Yanks.”
“What am I going to do now?” It’s a rhetorical question, one I ask myself and which doesn’t require an answer.
“You’ll have a grand time onboard. Considering yer circumstances, yer in luck because this ship has all the amenities . . .” She continues on, describing all the ways I can enjoy myself onboard.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Trapped on this vessel.
God, he played me like an Irish fiddle. Blindfolded then blindsided me. But the question foremost on my mind is why?
Why would he do this to me?
Did he think it was too dangerous? Was he trying to protect me?
Damn it. He planned this, so there must be a reason why he’d screw me over like this. Whatever that reason is, it doesn’t matter.
My story won’t have an ending.
“Look on the bright side. Food and drink are included. And I’ve a feeling you could use a stiff drink. Bar’s just inside, dearie. Nothing a shot of whiskey can’t fix.”
I grit my teeth and stalk off, my mind racing for a way off this ship.
35
Finn
“No Clarissa tonight?”
Fiona skulks up to the bar beside me, finally drawing the courage to approach me.
I’ve been drowning me troubles for a good part of an hour. Things should be happening quickly now. A week or so and I’ll be biding ol’ Ireland farewell. O’Brien will be six feet under. The boss will be focused on Africa. I’ll be nowhere but on the slow path to the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
That is if all goes according to plan.
“No Clarissa?” Fiona repeats.
“No Clarissa. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. No more.”
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 20