Tough Love (The Shakedown Series Book 3)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  She imagined they wouldn’t—and she imagined a lot. Damn him and his seductive aura. A little part of her nearly started shaking with laughter. Seductive aura. But the words were created for him. He couldn’t have blended into a crowd if he tried—especially if said crowd was female.

  She shook her head as if disgusted with herself and rounded the car. After she secured herself in the passenger seat, he lowered himself behind the steering wheel.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  She tried to keep her eyes straight ahead, but they kept darting to his profile.

  It wasn’t that Carragh was just classically handsome—the perfect Roman nose, the jawline, the gifted mop of black hair. It was that his presence was just so big and commanding. It demanded you look at him.

  She sucked in a long breath and willed her attention to the scenery. He was taking the long way, through tree-lined streets and not the highway.

  The neighborhoods were familiar. She and her sisters had driven along these very roads, dreaming about how someday they might have a big house and big families. Now, Starr was on her way. Phoenix, however? She would find her own way with Declan.

  A sadness crept up on her. Blanketed her whole body. Threatened to smother her. Today was a happy day, and the thick clouds of sadness that settled around her would not do.

  She had a good life dancing. She loved Shakedown and all the people there. It's just every time she and her sisters got two steps forward it seemed there was someone ready to push them back three… or thirty. Men like Tomas MacKenna seemed born to threaten them.

  When Carragh finally pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, her body had numbed. He switched off the ignition and they both sat there, not moving to get out. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand and squeezed it.

  “You strike me as a guy who would want to make sure I make it all the way in.” What was she saying? She should not be encouraging this man.

  His blue eyes focused on her. “You told me to stay away.”

  “I did.”

  She had to break this trance she’d fallen into, so she forced herself to open the door. Colder air wafted in and a chill ran through her whole body.

  His hand descended on hers before she could move to get out, and she paused. “The reason I keep showing up is to watch over you. If you see anything disconcerting—anything at all, you call me.” He held out an old-fashioned business card, stiff white paper with embossed silver letters.

  Like the fool she was growing accustomed to being, she took it.

  “But I will stay away… because you asked me to,” he said.

  “Good.” It was the right thing to do—for both of them.

  Once inside, she should have marched herself straight to the bathtub to wash off any remnants of that man's hands on her shoving her in a car. Put on music to drown out the remembered greasy voice of Tomas MacKenna. Put on a movie to ogle another man—any man—other than Carragh’s face that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her mind.

  Instead, she went to the window, parted the curtains with fingertips, and studied his car idling below. She couldn’t see him, but she could see his large hand still curled around the steering wheel.

  Finally, the car began to back up. Somehow, she knew he meant it when he said he’d stay away, and it made her stupidly, unjustifiably sad.

  8

  The chain rattled as Carragh’s glove hit the bag. His shoulder ached and his hands were nearly numb, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to hit it hard enough. He took more swings and picked up the pace.

  “Who are you picturing?”

  He rounded on Sean, whose telltale keys jangling by his side must have mixed with the chain’s rattle.

  The guy stepped back, arms up in surrender. “Whoa. By the look in your eyes right now, I’d say the guy’s already dead.”

  Carragh grabbed the release tab with his teeth and freed his hand. “Maybe.” He worked his fingers for a few minutes, then freed his other hand.

  Sean casually widened his stance.

  “Scaring you?” Carragh picked up his shirt, swiped under his arms, then threw it in the corner of his office. He’d grab a shower in a bit.

  Sean didn’t answer, of course. Carragh sniffed and grasped his tumbler of vodka sitting on his desk and threw it back. He then pounded to the bar cart to pour himself another. He took a sip and paused to glance outside. Bright sunshine lit up the water thirty floors below making it look like liquid blue fire—like a certain dancer’s eyes.

  “Drinking while working out. I like it.” Sean plopped himself down on the gray linen couch and propped his feet up on his glass coffee table.

  “Aren’t you in Philadelphia?” He sipped his drink, kept his eyes on the scene below.

  A train looking like a child’s toy from this distance snaked along the tracks and then disappeared into a hole in the ground as if the ground had swallowed it.

  The man didn’t answer, so he turned to him. “Well?”

  “Nothing to find. Your father’s gonna be pissed. He rather looked forward to the leverage when the deal got signed.”

  “He usually does.” So, the Monroes hadn’t been talking smack about them like he suspected. His father seriously might be losing it.

  Then again, how would he know? He’d been avoiding his father of late, leaving the dirty groundwork to Sean. Carragh was done being Tomas MacKenna’s clean-up man.

  “So, it’s Friday.” Sean stretched his arm across the back of his sofa. “Hot date, or you heading to Shakedown?”

  The man was fishing. “You’re not going to Shakedown.” Carragh had already had to forcibly remove him one night—and he would continue to if he insisted on frequenting the place.

  “You know there are ways to sneak around,” the man chuckled. “You been doing it since you were 14.”

  “I don't need to sneak around.”

  “That why you haven’t been to Declan’s club in a while?”

  It had been weeks since he’d laid eyes on Luna Belle. She’d told him to stay away, so he did despite it almost killing him. Her request only grew his desire to see her, drink in her pink lips and long legs.

  He’d find himself heading south, the direction of Shakedown, when he shouldn’t be. Or he’d see a woman with red hair and his hand would spin his steering wheel so he’d grow closer just to check to see if it was her. He’d once, absentmindedly, found himself scrolling through some God-awful burlesque videos on YouTube, seeking out a tall woman with hair the color of fire coral.

  All of that only underscored the definite need to stay away. Obsessions were weaknesses—one he wasn’t about to adopt.

  Plus, his father was many things, but a liar was not one. He’d laid down the law that day he’d kidnapped her. It didn't mean Carragh was marrying some princess from one of the big families in the area, though.

  “Saw Maura leaving,” Sean yawned. “Thought you were through with her.”

  “Yeah, but she showed up. Dropped to her knees and opened her mouth.”

  “Then you should be in a better mood.”

  “She’s not. Told her to leave.” The thought of another woman’s mouth on him right now made his stomach roil.

  Sean appeared thoughtful. “Let’s say we go get a real drink somewhere. Like on the waterfront?”

  “Don’t like my selections here?”

  “Well, since you aren't offering any. Come on.” He rose. “Let's swing by Shakedown. Tired of seeing your grumpy ass sulking so much. You’re always in a better mood after you see her.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about. And no thanks.” He wasn’t jeopardizing her safety—and needed his father to think he won something. He hadn’t. Carragh was merely buying time.

  Now, though? Someone was putting grist to the rumor mill.

  Just last week George Mack at the 219 Club had asked him what he knew about the waterfront. No one knew Carragh had just signed a deal with another developer know
n for understanding structures near bodies of water. He’d wanted to wait to announce in April, but someone talked as George referenced the developer by name.

  Then there was James McFoy asking too many questions about what he planned for his future.

  The real kicker was Tracy Blackstone, a commercial real estate agent, showing up at his office, cold, to lay out four properties for sale on the river.

  “If you could just fuck her, get her—”

  Carragh’s arm pressed against the man’s windpipe, his other hand circling the back of his neck. He’d moved so quickly Sean hadn’t had time to suck in a breath after his bullshit words. He gasped a little.

  “Maybe you do want to be on the other end of my boxing glove.” His knee dented the couch, his leg pressed again his cousin’s. The man shook, which was the right reaction.

  “No time,” Sean gasped out. “Got to go to Emerson’s. Signing party.”

  Shit. Despite his father’s suspicions, the MacKennas and Monroes were finally signing their joint deal—something in the making for a decade. Time really had slipped on him.

  Carragh dropped his hold and Sean coughed as he bent over to place his hands on his legs. “Warn a guy before you go all caveman,” he said to the floor.

  “Watch your mouth in the future. You know the way out. See you there.”

  He and Sean had been beating the shit out of each other since kids so no hard feelings. Now, Carragh needed the man to go. He had to gather his thoughts since the vodka nor workout did little to right his mind. He’d grab a shower and then head over to the meeting or whatever his father wanted to call the display.

  For years, the Monroes and MacKennas danced around one another in the same business. A shrinking number of shipping yards were where the two families finally realized working together might be in both of their best interests. The Monroes had the yards. The MacKennas had the goods—any goods with little paperwork required. A win-win for two families with similar and absent scruples.

  And, they had about the same level of trust with one another, too.

  His cousin’s last-ditch effort—directed by Carragh’s father—to see if the rumor Patrick Monroe was working a side deal yielded nothing. Kind of late in the game for seeking dirt, but his father’s actions underscored how little confidence he had in anyone. Still, the partnership was being formalized.

  Acquiring burlesque clubs wasn’t high on the acquisition list—until they now were, thanks to Carragh’s one mistake. He’d let people see he cared about the club and its inhabitants, a true weakness if his father ever saw one. Caring about anything wasn’t on his father’s to-do list any time soon, and Carragh was supposed to fall in those same callous footsteps.

  He also was supposed to do business like his father.

  Tomas went for the easy money—guns, contraband pharmaceuticals, whatever the black market demanded. Carragh, however, wanted a more survivable line of business.

  The waterfront could be so much more than ingress and egress for Tomas’ import business that didn’t mind what came or went. Real, legitimate money could be made in importing industrial machinery—power generating, transport, medical, and more. Keeping the lights on and things moving was always in demand, and it was something Carragh was going to see the MacKennas move into once his father retired for good.

  Sean rose, stretched his neck and then faced him. “Need time to put on the brave face?”

  “I have no other face.” He had one—the one that ensured his father or anyone else never suspected he was more than through with his father’s way of life.

  Sean strode to the door, paused and gripped the frame. “Well, prepare yourself. Nicole will be there tonight.”

  Fucking great.

  9

  Emerson’s was an old tourist-trap restaurant that had seen better days with its wooden bar smelling of stale beer, round tables with red-and-white-checked tablecloths, and dim, dark lighting. It also was an establishment that anyone with a conscience didn’t frequent.

  For business gatherings, Carragh’s father favored the private room tucked in the back, probably due to its two-way mirror lining the side wall where he could look out over the restaurant and see whoever entered—but no one could see in.

  Several sets of French doors led to a balcony whose bonus feature included a long staircase leading to the alley, should anyone not wish to be seen coming in or out of the place. Carragh had used it a time or two himself.

  Tonight, however, he paraded through the front door. If he had to be here, let everyone in the restaurant see him and be signaled as to who was in back tonight. His presence alone would send enough tongues wagging—and it threw yet another bone to his father, who appreciated bold gestures.

  The man was about to find out how bold he could be.

  In the back room, his father stood with Patrick Monroe in the corner. They each held Scotches in their hand, and by the sound of their boisterous laughing, some story was being told.

  Tita Monroe, Patrick’s wife, chatted with two other women he didn’t recognize, but who could tell them apart? They all sported the usual blond dye job done up in a French twist and had diamonds hanging from their earlobes.

  There were at least eight other people in the room, mostly men, some who Carragh recognized as muscle, others whose identity was a complete unknown. But then he’d stayed out of the family’s tentative alliance with the Monroes. It made it easier to make the deal null and void once he was in charge.

  Nicole was conspicuously absent given her trophy daughter status with her family. They trotted her out when they wanted to distract the men in the room. She’d make her preferred grand entrance later. She’d also know Carragh himself would show up late on purpose. Then again, the woman knew too much about him.

  He’d unwisely unloaded on her one night after a fuckfest in his father’s limousine two years ago—how he hated being his father’s lackey. She’d cooed and agreed he was meant for bigger things. A snow job if he ever heard one.

  “Ah, so he does lift his head from paperwork.” A slap to his shoulder and the clink of ice in a glass had him turn around.

  Carragh held out his hand. “Leo. Please tell me that’s Midleton?” He eyed the man’s glass.

  The man chuffed. “Thought you were a vodka man.”

  “Changing flavors.”

  Leo pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. “Heard that. Let’s get you a drink.” He inclined his head to the bar. A cute little brunette in a black vest and starched white shirt smiled as they neared.

  “Get my man a Midleton, will ya, gorgeous?”

  She dipped her head and fluttered her eyelashes up and down at Carragh. When had women grown so obvious?

  Leo swirled the liquid in his glass. “So… heard you might be changing a lot of things soon.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Leo.”

  As the girl poured his drink, Leo leaned in. “So, this deal with the Monroes. How do you feel about it?”

  “Carragh.” His father’s voice boomed, his hand held up in a come hither gesture.

  He leaned down to Leo. “Come see me tomorrow.” He knew Leo to be very unhappy with his father—though the man’s loyalty had proved meager to anyone over the years. Carragh could still get information out of him without revealing his own—like why he thought Carragh might be changing things.

  He took the whiskey the girl set on the bar top. “Thanks…” he glanced at her name tag “…Susan.” He dropped a twenty into her empty tip jar.

  “Patrick, you remember my eldest.” Tomas put his hand on Carragh’s shoulder.

  Carragh took Patrick’s outstretched hand. “Patrick.”

  The man’s eyes dimmed a bit at the informality. It felt fucking great.

  “Carragh. You look like the spitting image of your mother.” A smile returned to his eyes and his face in record time. He recovered well—comparing him to the maternal side of the family over the paternal. Carragh had to give him a point for that. />
  “So they say.” He took a sip of the whiskey.

  Patrick eyed his glass. “Thought you were a vodka man.”

  “Didn’t know my choice of drink was so well-documented.”

  Tomas studied the ice in his glass. “Carragh enjoys change. It’s why he’ll be a terrific asset in our Philly operation.”

  Philadelphia? Like hell. It was so like his father to spring orders on him in a public place. “We’ll see. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some air.”

  Carragh made his way to the first set of French doors and stepped out into the warm night air. March was such a crapshoot in Maryland—snow could be falling from the sky or the sun could be warming daffodils.

  Just the thought of the flower raised an image of his mother. It was her favorite.

  “Carragh MacKenna.” Nicole’s voice sounded from the other end of the balcony. She leaned against the banister, a cigarette in her hand, black hair hung loose, her long waves flowing over her shoulders.

  She pitched the cigarette over the side and pushed off. Her breasts wobbled underneath her wrap dress as she moved to him in her heels.

  He met her in the center of the balcony so they’d be hidden behind the brick wall between the two doors. No reason to get anyone’s tongues wagging more than they already were.

  Her heel seemed to give way and she tumbled forward. He caught her, and a flash of Luna losing her balance a few weeks ago crossed his brain.

  “Oh, clumsy me.” She clung to his forearm. “Ooo, it’s so cold out, and you’re so warm.”

  He set his drink on the railing and shrugged off his coat, draping it around her shoulders.

  “True gentleman. Thank you.” She took his drink, took a swig. “Mmm. Whiskey. Not your usual.” Her dark, almond eyes shone like amber. She was beautiful. She also was a pain in the ass.

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  She handed him the glass, now marked with her lip print. “Where have you been keeping yourself, Carragh MacKenna?”

  “I’ve been around.” He sniffed. Her perfume invaded his nostrils.