I’m crying because I underestimated my audience.
My honest, visually-rich piece on the underground uranium trade went viral. Ratings are through the roof. Viewer response is so overwhelming, every major network wants to interview me. Turns out, people are interested in more than celebrity gossip and scandal. Real issues featuring real people matter. Hopefully, the trend will continue. That’s why I became an investigative journalist in the first place.
“To insightful stories.”
I raise my glass. “To telling the truth, no matter how ugly it may be.”
My colleague next to me takes my toast to heart. She’s been questioning me all evening, intrigued by the whole experience. “Clarissa, what was it like working that closely with a CIA agent?”
Honesty. “Exhilarating and exasperating.”
“How so?”
I bite my lip, trying to find the right words. “It felt like a chess tournament. Each move counted. Strategies changed on a dime. Patience . . . well, let’s say even the most devoute parishioner praying on bended knee for hours on end would find their patience tested.”
“Sounds exciting.” My colleague winks. “I’m inspired to find my own CIA agent to play chess with.”
I laugh. Good luck with that.
The CIA caught up with me before I even left Ireland. I answered their questions based on what I believed to be true—up until it wasn’t. I directed them to the warehouse and to what remained of the uranium. As far as the men who’d tipped off the CIA—come to find out all the trucks had been stopped and eventually the buyers arrested—I told them the truth, that I have no idea who they were but that they did the world a service by stopping O’Brien.
I’ve been questioned multiple times since Ireland. Followed and watched. It’s only right. I wonder how they feel, now that the news portrays them as the heroes in this story?
“You think you’ll see him again?”
I blink. “Who?”
“Him, the agent?”
Honesty. “It’s complicated.”
“Of course, it is. What they do . . . we do . . . is complicated. Let’s start with a question, okay? If you could ask him one more thing, what would it be?”
Do you really, truly love me? Instead, I reply, “Are you really, truly that much of a lying asshole?”
My colleague visibly jerks. “Okay then. No more questions.”
“No more questions,” I repeat, then hold up my flute and signal the waiter. “And more champagne.”
Finn
My beour is addicted to Sous Vide Egg Bites. I rub my jaw, startled by that and wondering what other little things I’ve yet to discover about her. Foremost, does she have a forgiving heart?
I’ve been following her for days, waiting for an opportunity to present myself. Paying obscene prices for cups of unrecognizable coffee. Fretting over her reaction to my reappearance and basically acting the maggot. I’m away with the fairies in thinking she’ll give me a chance, and then a lifetime together.
What I need is a plan. Dropping in on her at Starbucks isn’t it. Popping out from behind a fake plant during that bloody fancy party last night would have been in poor taste—though I was properly groomed and presentable in a bleeding suit and cologne that made me smell like an expensive gigolo.
Seeing how successful my minx has become is the reassurance I was searching for. I didn’t ruin it for her. I could leave knowing she wasn’t just well, but thriving. Then she gave that speech. A sweet dedication to a little girl that brought tears to the eyes, humbled the most depraved of souls, and, subsequently, sealed Clarissa’s fate.
Mine.
But how to proceed?
Flowers? I roll my eyes at that.
Starbucks gift card? Better.
Flowers and a gift card? Bleeding brilliant.
A plan clicks into place and I’m suddenly filled with determination. By the time I’m done, she won’t know which way is which.
I take a final sip of coffee, make a face my grandma would be proud of, then tossing the cup into the rubbish bin, leave Clarissa alone to eat her egg bites.
Clarissa
The house is quiet, which suits me well because champagne hangovers are the worst. Foggy brain. Foggy vision. My seeing things . . . like Finn. Or more likely the broad shoulders and tight ass of a stranger leaving Starbucks who reminds me of Finn.
Would Finn find me then follow me but not approach me? I shake my head, knowingly. He’d pull out all the moves. Sweet-talk me while begging my forgiveness, not knowing he already has it.
He wouldn’t walk away without a word.
I sigh, hanging my handbag on a hook and kicking off my heels. A glass of cold water with an aspirin and bed, then I can drift off into oblivion where my thoughts no longer exist, and I can escape that man.
I’m headed barefoot down the hallway toward the master bedroom when I step on something soft and silky. It clings to my big toe as I lift my foot to examine it.
A pink rose petal.
Of all the strange things to step on. Where did it come from?
I shift on my feet, feeling multiple petals beneath my soles . . . and something slightly bigger but much harder.
Puzzled, I crouch and, carefully placing my glass on the wood floor, reach beneath me for the hard object. When I lift it high for further inspection, I gasp.
What. The. Hell.
A Starbucks gift card?
A petal slips free from the plastic and drifts to the floor. I watch it, fascinated, feeling like a woman in an Eighties horror flick who’s presented with the first warning sign that her world is about to go apeshit yet too stunned to run.
Glancing around, I notice more petals and more gift cards. And . . . a sock . . . shoe . . . second sock . . . second shoe . . . pants.
I rise then follow the trail of clothes, collecting gift cards as I go. My movements slow and zombie-like while my thoughts race for an explanation. By the time I reach my bedroom door, my feet are clad in rose-petal slippers and I’ve gathered enough Starbucks gift cards to buy stock in the company. I’m so thrown off, I feel faint.
He’s here.
I enter my bedroom but abruptly stop when my foot hits the gray Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs on the carpet. The gift cards tumble like dominos from my grasp.
He’s here and he’s naked.
His name escapes my breath. “Finn.”
“Clarissa.”
My eyes track his voice then go wide. Yep. It’s Finn. Lounging in my bed with his arms behind his head, biceps flexed, and naked as the day he was born.
What. The. Hell?
“Presumptuous, don’t you think?” I grind out.
“You don’t like the flowers?”
“The flowers?” Hard to remember his initial surprise when a bigger one awaits me in my bed.
“And the gift cards.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making amends.”
He shifts and the sheet slips, revealing his unforgettable eight-pack and the well-defined V-cut that, like the tip of an arrow, directs the eye downward. I look my fill, how could I not? Is it possible he could even be in better physical condition? Sexier, even? He’s tan from being in the sun, without a shirt . . . without me.
I stop mid-lip lick to scowl at the brazen man. “Do you honestly think sleeping with you will make up for your lies?”
“Might soften the sting a wee bit.”
Did I hear him correctly?
“Hop in and let’s see.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
“That’s what she said.” He grins at me, in that charmingly infuriating way of his. It’s what holds me in place, when my walking out on him is what he deserves.
“Come here, Clarissa.”
“Sex isn’t a cure-all.”
“Maybe not. After four bloody months without it, without the feel of you against me, without hearing the soft mewing sounds you make when I’m inside you, without staring into yer lovely eyes, you r
uined sex for me.”
He hasn’t been with anyone else.
“All I want to be is inside you.”
Resist, Clarissa. Don’t. Give. Into. Temptation.
“I want my beour back.”
Damn it.
“Is your name even Finn?” I whisper.
Our eyes lock and the tension between us builds. “I never lied to you about the things that matter. My name—”
“—Antonio?”
“Forget that wanker,” he hisses. “Besides, you feckin’ knew that was an alias just like Samantha was. We weren’t exactly on familiar terms back then.”
Familiar terms.
He throws off the sheet and climbs out of bed. I gasp and take a step backward as he prowls toward me, naked and too beautiful for words. “My name’s Finn Michael McDuff.” His eyes lock on my own. “And considering we’re speaking sincerely and from the bloody heart, I’ll repeat the God’s honest truth in case you missed it.”
He pauses, and I melt. Because his next words crush any lingering doubts about him . . . us.
“I love you.”
Epilogue
Life with a woman who is inquisitive by nature, asks hard-hitting questions for a living, and has the keen knack for seeing past my malarkey isn’t easy for a fella like me.
But I’m up for the challenge, God help her.
“I can never show my face in Starbucks again. They think we’re insane.”
I roll her onto her back, and she moans as I sink back inside her. “Want me to stop?” I smirk, knowingly.
“Never.”
“So, you don’t want to cancel the delivery?”
She arches her hips, drawing me in deeper. I’ve fucked her six ways to Sunday over the course of three days. Surviving on love, her moaning me name, and Starbucks delivery service. The minx thinks it’s funny forcing a big bloke like me to subsist on foods like Chicken Caprese and Yogurt Parfait. Taking the piss, she is. “Putting those gift cards to work,” she says.
“They think we’re in love,” I correct.
“Finn.”
“I love you, Clarissa. And we’ll make this work, long-term-like.”
I still my movements, awaiting her response. Forgiveness is one thing. Committing to me for a lifetime, that’s another.
“Okay.”
My jaw drops. I’ve got to say, I expected more of a fight. And there’s a shiteload of things to work out. Like the boundaries that must be set for work, the secrecy Hayden demands be upheld, the logistics of where home will be, and how we’ll make it work even when we’re apart.
My colleagues seem to manage. That shyster Diego’s relationship is thriving. Jaxson and Kylie haven’t killed one another yet. Declan’s wan hasn’t left the cold-hearted killer. As for the bastard, Hayden? I’m still scratching me noggin’ over the huge motherfeckin’ secret he’s been keeping all these years. God help that woman, whoever she is. Because he’s coming for her . . . whether she’s ready or not.
“We’ve a few things to discuss.”
She presses a finger to my mouth. “Not right now, we don’t,” is her urgent reply.
I grin. Greedy woman. But she’s got a point. I lift my hips then slowly sink forward. “Better?”
She shakes her head no.
No? “Christ on a bike.”
Got to say, confusion is written on my face because she bursts into a garbled mix of laughter and words. “You have.” Laughter. “A way.” More insanity. “With words.” Hysterical laughter.
Not bleeding now, when I’m at a loss for words.
As far as actions . . . I lift my ass and drive back home, stealing the laugh from her lips. She loves it, and as I hasten the pace, so do I.
“Yes, Finn.” Moan. “Faster is better right now.” Grunt. “Hurry.” Sigh. “Before the delivery guy arrives.”
I rear up. “That’s what this is about?”
She winds her arms around my neck, cocks her head, and gives me this look that I feel straight in me bones. She’s mine. I’m hers. And right now, that’s all that matters. “Three minutes. Are you up for the challenge?”
Now, I might be a lot of things. Hitman. Occasional liar. Fighter. Player. A few wee times, a bleeding eegit. But what I’m not is a fella to pass on a challenge like this. “Two and a half,” I counter.
And then, it’s off to the races.
Thank you for reading PLAYER. I loved writing Finn’s story! If you enjoyed this book,
please leave a review.
Finn’s nemesis/fellow hitman Diego has his own sexy story. Check out his “bed-breaking” action in HIT MAN.
Don’t miss Hayden and Luciana’s stories (that’s right, there are two of them!) Follow me on Bookbub, Amazon, and/or sign up for my newsletter for more information on LIAR and BASTARD, and future releases.
Liar
A DEADLIEST LIES NOVEL - SNEAK PEEK
HOW IT ALL BEGAN . . .
Gunfire is as common as tortillas and tamales in Loreto. A good day is when the streets aren’t running red and the gentle hum of nature dwarfs the dismal reverberations of death.
Good days are rare. Good nights even rarer, with tonight being one of the worst.
“Hide, Luciana. Fast,” my brother Diego’s shout cuts through the night.
Nightmares are something you’re supposed to wake up from not into. But I’m quick to realize that’s exactly what’s happening.
I roll out of bed, my heart racing. Fearing how this time, the stucco walls of our small house aren’t enough to keep danger out. I bite my lip in hesitation, briefly consider rolling beneath my bed but instead race across the small room to the window. With shaky hands, I yank the nails out of the rotting frame. One by one, until I’m finished and able to open it. But only partially, the warped wood allowing me to tug it up a quarter of the way. A year ago, I’d have squeezed through the gap. Before God blessed me with healthy big breasts and full hips that sway as I walk. A late-blooming growth spurt that’s changed me from a gangling sixteen-year-old to a seventeen-year-old with a figure that, unfortunately, seems to make men sit up and take notice.
In a town where staying invisible is the only way to survive.
Invisible . . . I give up on the window as a stream of cursing erupts from the living room. My only remaining choice is to hide behind one of the floor-to-ceiling bath curtains I’d hung up to hide the cracks in the walls. I slip behind the vinyl closest to the door and listen attentively as I try to piece together what’s going on.
“Compadres, cálmate,” I hear my brother say. Hard to know if he’s afraid or not, his tone is flat and unruffled. I’m terrified. This is the first time company like this has paid us a house call. We’ve avoided being directly sucked into their business, even when recruitment into the Mexican drug cartels has become the norm.
What has Diego done?
“You think you’re worthy of being Cobras? You were ordered to kill someone. Proof you’ve got los cajones to be one of us. So?”
I stiffen in horror. Diego murder someone? Our parents died in a cartel-initiated shooting. Since then, it’s been him, me, and our combined wits enabling us to survive in an ever-changing environment.
No. My brother is not joining a cartel. I won’t allow it.
“Haven’t killed anyone yet,” I hear him say.
Oh no. That tone—
A loud pop rings out.
“Until now.”
“Mierda. He shot Manuel straight between the eyes.”
There’s gunfire followed by the telltale sound of a struggle. My brother can brawl with the best of men. He’s no one’s victim. But he’s battling a few men, who’ve busted into our home, and I’m struggling to come up with a way to help him. I’ve got a few solid moves, learned for self-defense rather than a full-on attack. Now how I wished I’d listened and not stubbornly refused when my brother encouraged me to learn how to shoot. A bullet beats an upward thrust of the heel of a hand any time.
“Grab his sister. We’ll dr
ag them both before Arturo.”
I inhale sharply as fists connect with flesh. Footsteps sound, along with Diego’s lie. “She’s at a friend’s house, pendejos.”
My bedroom door slams open, yet I’m prepared for it. The door rebounds off my outward facing palms, leaving a small gap between the wooden surface and me. Enough where from a hole in the vinyl shower curtain, I can see the man in the dim light as he marches over to my bed, falls to his hands and knees, and peers under it.
Cursing beneath his breath, he stands and turns toward the small window directly across from me. I hold my breath as he marches toward it and out of eyesight, praying he’ll think I’ve slipped away and am long gone.
I wish I were . . . except for Diego . . .
Another shot is fired in the living room.
Another furious screech. “Fuck. Juan.”
The man in my room freezes for two long seconds before screaming, “Juan! You’re gonna pay, motherfucker.” He charges from the room, but I can’t exhale the air I’ve been holding in my lungs quite yet.
Dios, Diego. What have you gotten us into?
“You wanted proof, compadres?” I hear him taunt. “I gave you proof. Next time you’ll think twice about breaking into my home.”
“Take hold of his other arm,” someone barks. “Arturo will deal with him.”
I count to forty before racing into the living room. Two men lay on our carpet. Manuel and Juan, two lifeless bodies to contend with. Two more victims of a world I’m now being dragged into.
I burst through the open front door and into the street, searching the darkness. Up ahead, I see them. Three men hauling my brother away.
Following them is unnecessary because I know where they’re taking him. To Arturo. The most powerful of the organized crime leaders. Or, at least he was, until the Bastard arrived in town several months ago.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 25