by Elle Kennedy
“What, trying to get to know you?” he said sarcastically. “Lord, the nerve of me.”
She shrugged. Checked her phone.
“You can talk to me, you know. I’d never give away your secrets.”
“What’s that saying about secrets?” she said lightly. “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”
“Benjamin Franklin,” he muttered under his breath.
“Nice. You know your American history. I guess that’s because you lived in the States for three years. New York, right?” She sounded smug, as if purposely flaunting that she knew more about him than he did about her.
Sean set his jaw. “One of these days I will find out who you are.”
“You know who I am. I’m Bailey.”
“Liar. You pretty much admitted that’s not your name.”
Her noncommittal shrug made him want to steer the car straight into a brick wall. God knew he hit enough of those when he was around this woman.
The infuriating conversation came to an end as they reached the city’s north end. Rabbit’s pub was located in one of the dodgier areas off O’Connell Street, and unlike the other establishments he owned, this particular one wasn’t a front for money laundering, but a legitimate business. The Garda had raided it on more than one occasion in the hopes of cracking down on Rabbit’s drug network, but O’Hare’s Pub was cleaner than an operating room. Some business was conducted in the back rooms, but money never traded hands, and any plans formulated there were talked about but never documented.
Sean parked at the curb and turned to Bailey. “Any chance of convincing you to wait in the car?”
She just laughed.
Of course not.
They slid out of the car. Sean was thankful for the familiar weight of the pistol at his back and the one in his boot. Bailey was also armed, but neither one drew a weapon as they approached the pub’s red paint-chipped door.
D and Liam were positioned on nearby rooftops with their sniper rifles, and Ash was on the street somewhere, hidden from view. Sean spotted Sully, though. Sitting on the outdoor patio of a neighboring café and reading the paper. No doubt armed to the teeth.
Since Rabbit swept everyone for wires and mics as a rule, Sean and Bailey were going in dark, but he knew the other men were in communication with one another. And fine, maybe he felt a tad better knowing they were backing him up.
The interior of O’Hare’s looked like any other Irish pub. Weathered wooden tables and booths, dark paneled walls, and TV screens flashing sports highlights. Only thing noticeably missing was the warm Irish welcome.
The bartender straightened up at their entrance. He was a stocky man with a bushy red beard and an icy glare that would make Satan himself shiver. Rory Smith, a longtime member of the Dagger who was obsessively devoted to Rabbit.
The group crowded around the dartboard turned around too, aiming menacing scowls in Sean’s direction. Nobody spoke. They just glared.
“Evening, lads,” he said wryly.
A dark-haired man rose from the only occupied barstool. Cillian Kelly, Rabbit’s right-hand man, smirked at the newcomers. “Right on time,” he told Sean, his pale blue eyes flicking briefly at Bailey.
“My girlfriend,” Sean muttered.
The smirk turned into a broad smile. “I see.”
He stiffened when the man reached out and gently brushed his thumb beneath Bailey’s eye. She didn’t so much as flinch, but she also didn’t look happy with the uninvited touch.
Sean mentally added Cillian’s name to the list of men whose fingers he wanted to break.
“I didn’t realize you were whaling on your women these days,” Cillian remarked in a dry voice.
“I’m not,” he snapped, then forced himself to temper his hostility. “Where’s Rabbit?”
“Waiting for you.” Cillian swiftly moved toward the back corridor, and Sean and Bailey followed him, only to be stopped when they were out of sight of the main room.
“Spread ’em.” Cillian smiled again, indicating he needed to pat them down.
“Don’t bother,” Sean said coolly. “We’re both armed with nine mils. The lady’s got a knife strapped to her ankle, and I’ve got a second pistol in my boot.”
“Hand ’em over.”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you really think I came here to fuck with Rabbit? I just want my brother, Kelly.”
“Better safe than sorry,” the man chirped. “Or at least that’s what my ma used to say.”
He highly doubted that. Sean had known the guy’s mother, and the broad had always been too sloshed to form coherent sentences. Ditto for Kelly Senior. With both his parents raging alcoholics, it was no surprise that Cillian had turned elsewhere for guidance and support. He’d found it with Eamon O’Hare, who was more than happy to take lads in and use them as soldiers for his cause.
“We’re not giving you our weapons, Kelly. Deal with it.”
He waited for Cillian to challenge him, but the man chuckled. “Fair enough. But if either one of you draws, I’ll put you down like a rabid dog.”
Cillian took off walking again, heading for the closed door that led to Rabbit’s domain. The moment Sean stepped into the familiar space, he searched it for signs of Oliver, but there were none. Card table, couches, telly. Rabbit wasn’t one for luxuries; the shabby surroundings suited him just fine.
The man himself was sitting at the table, watching them with dark, expressionless eyes. Unlike Flannery, who’d aged tremendously well, Rabbit looked decades older than the early fifties he was. Sean supposed it was easy to stay young when you weren’t getting your hands dirty—Flannery had his thugs to do that for him. But not Rabbit. He’d fought in the trenches with his men, slicing his enemies with knives and crushing them with his meaty fists.
His face bore the weathered wrinkles and scars of his lifestyle, but his lean, muscular body still rippled with power. He wore a plaid shirt, unbuttoned to reveal the wife-beater beneath it, and with his unruly gray hair and unkempt beard, he looked more like a scrub than a kingpin. But anyone who came into contact with Rabbit knew he was deadly as hell when he wanted to be.
He clasped his hands, the fingers of his right hand millimeters from the silenced Glock on the tabletop. “Why are five of my lads dead?”
Sean cocked a brow. “Because one of them was a bloody idiot.”
There was a pause.
Then Rabbit sighed. “Paddy?”
“Who else?” Sean shook his head in annoyance. “The son of a bitch shot a ghost. Yep, turned out there was an undercover garda in the bank. Things went to hell from there.”
Rabbit nodded thoughtfully. “And how is it you got away, lad?”
“That was Gallagher’s idea.” The lie flowed out smoothly, and thankfully there was nobody there to contradict him. “He knew we weren’t getting out, at least not all of us. He ordered me to play a hostage so we could get the package out.”
Another nod. “And the girl? Any reason she was in the bank too?”
Sean had anticipated the question. Flannery had already gotten his hands on the bank footage, so it stood to reason that Rabbit had done the same.
“That was a misunderstanding.” He scowled at Bailey, who played along by wincing. “She tried to stop me from taking the job, and when I didn’t listen she decided I needed backup.” He spat out the last word, his disgust on the subject more than evident.
Rabbit’s lips twitched as he studied Bailey’s slight frame. Sean felt like laughing too. Every man who saw her underestimated her. She might look small and innocent, but Bailey was the very definition of looks could be deceiving.
“I’m sorry.” Bailey directed the soft, desperate plea at Sean. “I screwed up, baby. I know that.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said tightly, before turning back to Rabbit. “Where’s Oliver?”
“Around.” Rabbit shrugged. Made no move to get up.
Sean was aware of Cillian standing behind them with his gun in hand,
but that didn’t stop him from snapping at his former employer. “Well, bring him here. I’m not giving you a bloody thing until I know my brother is safe.”
The older man chuckled. “For Christ’s sake, lad. You know I wouldn’t hurt Ollie. You boys are like sons to me.”
The words didn’t appease him in the slightest. They both knew damn well that Rabbit would slit his own child’s throat if it helped the Irish Dagger.
“Whatever you say, Eamon. But me? I’m not saying another word until I see my brother.”
Rabbit let out an exaggerated sigh. “Tell Doherty to bring the lad,” he instructed Cillian.
Sean heard Cillian’s retreating footsteps but didn’t turn around. The door creaked open as Kelly barked out an order to someone in the hall, and then he promptly resumed his guard duty.
“So does this pretty bird have a name?” Rabbit spoke in a conversational tone, but his gun remained inches from his hand, and the air of danger shrouding the room didn’t dissipate.
“Bailey,” she said nervously.
“Bailey. That’s beautiful.” Rabbit finally left his chair and headed toward them. He wasn’t a tall man—at least five inches shorter than Sean’s six-two frame—but he carried himself with deadly confidence.
Sean’s jaw twitched when Rabbit clasped both of Bailey’s hands in his. “I’m Eamon, luv. But you can call me Rabbit.”
“Nice to meet you,” she murmured.
Rabbit chuckled. “Very polite young lady you found yourself, lad. Should I be offended that you didn’t introduce us before now?”
“That’s because she has nothing to do with my business. And believe me, I’m not thrilled that she decided to involve herself.” Sean frowned at Bailey, who meekly averted her gaze.
“Well, it looks like you punished her thoroughly for it.” Rabbit didn’t hide his disapproval. He was a violent motherfucker, but he possessed a peculiar moral code—a man didn’t lay a hand on his woman. Ever.
Sean’s lips flattened. “No. Ronan Flannery did.”
Rabbit’s gaze flew to his. He clearly hadn’t expected that, and Sean enjoyed catching him off guard. Before Rabbit could question him, though, the door opened again.
Sean turned around, and all the air in his lungs promptly hissed out.
Oliver.
Thank fucking God.
“Ollie!” Bailey’s relieved exclamation broke the silence, and then she was darting across the room and throwing her arms around Sean’s twin.
He ignored the streak of jealousy that raced through him and distracted himself by studying his brother. Every hair, every feature, assessing his twin for any harm Rabbit might have caused him. But Oliver looked fine. Dark circles lined his eyes and his wavy blond hair was disheveled, but he looked more tired than hurt. And he was alive, which was all that mattered.
The twins’ gazes locked over Bailey’s head. Oliver nodded slightly, and unspoken conversation rapidly flowed between them.
You okay?
Fine. Why the hell is Bailey here?
Don’t ask.
I want her out of here.
Trust me, so do I.
Rabbit watched Oliver and Bailey’s embrace in fascination, then chuckled again. “Interesting. Or . . . maybe not.” He smirked at Sean. “You lads always did like to share your toys when you were young.”
Possessiveness reared up and hardened his jaw. “She’s mine.”
The fierce claim caused Oliver to look over in surprise. He released Bailey, whose expression revealed nothing as she dropped her arms from Oliver’s neck and cautiously walked back to Sean.
He swallowed his bitterness. Leaving Oliver’s side was probably torture for her. And having to pretend to be Sean’s girlfriend when the man she loved was standing five feet away? Probably made her sick.
“As you can see, Ollie is just fine.” Rabbit lifted a mocking eyebrow. “I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.”
Without a word, he pulled the flash drive out of his back pocket and tossed it to Rabbit. The man had solid reflexes, catching it easily before smiling magnanimously. “Wasn’t so hard, was it? And see, I’m a man of my word. You helped me, I helped you in return.”
“You kidnapped my brother—that wasn’t helping me,” Sean snapped. “But damned if you won’t help me now.”
Rabbit turned the flash drive over in his hand a couple of times. Then he spoke, thoughtful again. “Does this have something to do with the bruise on your pretty bird’s eye?”
Sean glanced at Ollie. “Take Bailey to the café next door. I’ll be there in a minute.”
As expected, his twin gave a resolute shake of the head. “No way.”
“Just fucking do it. I don’t want either one of you around for this.”
The twins stared at each other again.
Sean transmitted another silent message.
Do it, Ollie. Bailey will fill you in.
After a long beat of hesitation, Oliver ended the stare down with a nod. “Fine.”
“Go with Ollie,” Sean told Bailey. “I’ll be there shortly.”
She clutched his forearm, playing her part of fragile, loving girlfriend to a tee. “I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered.
“I won’t be long. I promise.”
Unable to stop himself, he dipped his head and kissed her. Just the fleeting touch of his mouth to hers, but Jesus, he wanted more. He wanted to drive his tongue inside, to hear that tiny whimper she’d made last year when he’d nibbled on her bottom lip.
But he couldn’t do that. Not because they were being watched, but because Bailey didn’t belong to him. She belonged to the man who looked like him. The man who stepped forward now to take her hand.
Cillian snapped into a defensive stance as Oliver tried to lead Bailey to the door. Rabbit’s guard dog swiftly placed himself in their path, his fingers ominously curling around his weapon.
Sean’s shoulders stiffened. “Let them go.”
Cillian glanced at Rabbit, who stayed quiet.
“Let them go,” Sean repeated, praying like hell that he wouldn’t have to draw his own weapon. “You have no need for Ollie anymore. We’ve got business to discuss.” He shot Rabbit a pointed look. “Ronan Flannery.”
The name achieved the desired result. Rabbit’s lips twisted. His light brown eyes darkened with menace. Then he nodded at Cillian, who immediately stepped aside so Bailey and Oliver could pass.
Oliver’s eyes found Sean’s again, conveying a warning—Be careful—before he ushered Bailey out the door.
The moment they were gone, Sean exhaled a relieved breath.
Son of a bitch.
He’d done it. Oliver was no longer being held in some scuzzy safe house. Bailey was no longer risking her life beside him.
He’d done it.
“For Christ’s sake, Seansy. You don’t need to look so relieved.” Rabbit sounded oddly defensive. “I didn’t hurt him. Wasn’t gonna either. The lad spent a lovely week at my flat in Ballymount. Had plenty of books and grub and fine Tullamore Dew single malt.”
Sean stared at him.
“It was the only way to guarantee your cooperation, you stubborn feck!” Rabbit rubbed his beard in aggravation. “I loved your father. I love you and Ollie.” He waved the flash drive around. “But the cause needs this, don’t you see? I couldn’t trust Gallagher to get it for me.”
“Gallagher died for you yesterday, you bastard.”
“He was working for Flannery,” Rabbit said flatly.
Interesting. Was that what Flannery’s mole was feeding Rabbit these days?
“You’re sure of that?” Sean prompted.
Rabbit exchanged a look with Cillian, who remained stone-faced. “Pretty sure,” the man replied. “Don’t you see, Seansy? I needed you there to keep the men honest. And you did. You got the package. So let’s just call the rest of it water under the bridge, eh? Bygones and such.”
Sean laughed humorlessly. “You kidnapped my brother and blackmailed me into r
obbing a bank, and you’re talking to me about bygones? No dice, Eamon. Only way you’re going to redeem yourself in my eyes is if you help me now.”
A heavy sigh rumbled out of Rabbit’s chest. “Then have a seat, lad. Let’s see what we can do.”
* * *
“What the hell is going on?” Oliver hissed as he and Bailey left O’Hare’s Pub.
“Let’s not talk out on the sidewalk.” She sighed. “Come on, we’ll grab a table over there while we wait for Sean.”
Oliver didn’t put up an argument. He willingly followed her to the café down the street, where Sullivan was currently staked out. Neither one of them acknowledged the blond Australian, but from the tic in Ollie’s jaw, she knew he’d spotted Sully. The other man nodded almost imperceptibly, a ghost of a smile on his face, then resumed reading the newspaper. Bailey saw his lips move slightly—probably reporting to the others that Oliver was okay.
The patio had a huge red awning that allowed them to sit outside without worrying about the rain, but a soft mist still floated through the air. Bailey and Oliver sat down and ordered coffees, eyeing each other across the small table.
It felt strange to be staring at a man who was identical to Sean. For the most part, the twins were carbon copies, right down to the sensual curve of their mouths and the faint crinkles around their vivid green eyes. It was only when you looked past their identical features that you began to notice the slight differences. Oliver’s wavy blond hair was longer, curling under his ears and at the back of his neck; Sean’s was cropped military short. Oliver’s jaw was always relaxed; Sean’s was tighter than a guitar string about to snap. Oliver’s face was clean-shaven most of the time; Sean’s was always shadowed with stubble.
Still, despite the differences, the similarities were impossible to ignore, bringing a helpless feeling to Bailey’s stomach. Why couldn’t she lust after this brother? It would make her life so much easier, and yet . . . when she looked at Ollie’s mouth, she didn’t want to kiss it. When he touched her, she didn’t forget her name.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked once their coffees arrived. She studied his appearance—T-shirt, cargo pants, and army surplus coat stretching over his broad shoulders. He didn’t look like a man who’d been mistreated, unless you counted the exhaustion lining his eyes.