Page 15

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

I adjust the tiny recording device hidden in my earring, my fingers brushing against my neck. Eamon's eyes track the movement from across the car, his gaze lingering on the pulse point at my throat.

"Stop fidgeting," he says, voice rough. "You look nervous."

"I am nervous." I check my appearance in the visor mirror. The black dress hugs every curve, designer but not flashy. Professional enough for a criminal consultant, sexy enough to distract. "Moran's going to see right through this."

"No, he won't." Eamon reaches over, his fingers grazing mine as he flips the visor up. "You're going to walk in there and own that room. You're Sarah Mitchell, and you're the best money launderer on the East Coast."

The heat from his touch spreads up my arm. Three weeks of this dangerous partnership, and I still react to him like a teenager with her first crush. Even now, heading into enemy territory, my body responds to his proximity.

"Sarah Mitchell doesn't exist," I whisper.

"She does today." His thumb traces across my knuckles before he pulls away. "Today, you're mine. My specialist. My woman bringing expertise to expand our operation."

The possessiveness in his voice makes my stomach flutter. I know it's an act, part of our cover, but the way he says 'my woman' sends heat pooling low in my belly.

We pull up to the warehouse that serves as Moran headquarters. Men lounge near the entrance, guns hidden under jackets. This isn't federal surveillance or corporate espionage. This is walking into a viper's nest where one wrong word means a bullet to the head.

"Remember what I told you about respect," Eamon says, getting out to open my door. The gentlemanly gesture serves dual purposes—establishing the dynamic Moran expects while giving him an excuse to put his hand on my lower back.

His palm burns through the thin fabric as he guides me toward the entrance. I force myself not to lean into his touch, even as my body craves more contact.

"Kavanagh." Lorcan Moran emerges from the warehouse, his green eyes immediately fixing on me with predatory interest. Red hair, expensive suit, the kind of smile that makes women disappear. "And this must be the specialist."

"Sarah Mitchell." I extend my hand with confidence I don't feel. His handshake lingers, fingers stroking my palm in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Eamon's hand tightens on my back, a silent warning. Or maybe jealousy. I can't tell the difference anymore.

"Insurance fraud expert," Moran says, still holding my hand. "Eamon tells me you've been very... helpful to his family."

The innuendo is obvious. Heat floods my cheeks as I extract my hand. "I prefer to think of it as creative accounting."

"I bet you do." Moran's gaze travels down my body with obvious appreciation. "Shall we discuss your talents upstairs?"

The office overlooks the warehouse floor through one-way glass. Moran gestures to a leather chair positioned where he can watch me while I sit. Everything about this setup screams power play.

"Drink?" He moves to an expensive bar, his movements predatory and controlled.

"Whiskey," I reply, crossing my legs and watching his eyes follow the motion. If he wants to play this game, I'll use his distraction to my advantage.

Eamon settles into a chair where he can see both Moran and me. His jaw is tight, hands clenched. The jealousy radiating from him is almost palpable.

"Sarah has tripled the Kavanagh's clean revenue," Eamon says, his voice carrying an edge. "Her methods are... innovative."

"I specialize in turning liabilities into assets." I accept the crystal tumbler, letting my fingers brush Moran's as he hands it to me. His pupils dilate. "A warehouse fire becomes capital improvement. A shipping delay becomes business interruption coverage. All perfectly legal."

"Clever." Moran sits across from me, leaning forward. "And your fee?"

"Fifteen percent, plus consulting." I lean back, letting the movement pull my dress higher on my thighs. Moran's eyes drop immediately. "I handle the paperwork. You handle the business."

While he's distracted, I slip the first recording device under the table's edge.

"The feds have been sniffing around our shipping," Moran says, dragging his attention back to my face. "Traditional methods become risky."

"Federal agencies don't talk to each other." I cross my legs the other direction, watching his gaze follow. "DEA investigates trafficking. Treasury handles financial crimes. Insurance fraud falls through the cracks."

I stand to admire a painting on the wall, placing the second device behind the frame while commenting on the artwork. Moran's eyes are glued to my ass as I stretch to reach the frame.

Behind me, I hear Eamon's sharp intake of breath. When I turn, his eyes are dark with something that has nothing to do with our mission.

"Beautiful piece," I comment, returning to my seat.

"I prefer live art," Moran says, his meaning clear.

Eamon's knuckles go white against his whiskey glass. The tension in the room ratchets higher.

"Tell me about your expansion plans," I say, redirecting the conversation while my pulse races from the dangerous undercurrents.

For the next hour, I outline money laundering schemes while Moran reveals operational details. His gaze never leaves my body, hands gesturing in ways that invade my personal space. Each time he leans closer, Eamon's breathing gets more controlled.

"The Donovans think they can muscle into our territory," Moran says, refilling my glass. His fingers linger on mine around the crystal. "Your methods could help us... discourage them."

"Competition requires flexible thinking." I let him maintain the contact while slipping the third device into the flower arrangement beside my chair. "Insurance provides cover for all kinds of business activities."

"I like flexible women," Moran murmurs, thumb stroking across my knuckles.

A glass shatters. We both look over to see Eamon setting down the broken remains of his tumbler, whiskey spreading across the side table.

"Clumsy," he says, voice deadly quiet. "Let me clean that up."

Moran releases my hand as Eamon moves to the bar for napkins. The message is clear—back off.

"Your partner seems protective," Moran observes.

"Eamon values his assets," I reply, the double meaning hanging between us.

When Eamon returns, he positions himself closer to my chair. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell his cologne mixed with the whiskey he spilled.

"Sarah's methods require discretion," Eamon says. "The wrong kind of attention could compromise everything."

His hand settles on my shoulder, thumb brushing the bare skin above my dress. The touch sends electricity down my spine even as I maintain focus on Moran.

"Of course." Moran's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I respect... business partnerships."

We finalize details for another hour, the sexual tension thick enough to cut. Moran's obvious interest, Eamon's barely controlled jealousy, and my body's traitorous response to both dangers create a powder keg of hormones and adrenaline.

"I'll consider your proposal," Moran says as we prepare to leave. He kisses my hand instead of shaking it, lips lingering against my skin. "I hope we'll be seeing more of each other."

"Count on it," I reply, extracting my hand with apparent reluctance.

Outside, Eamon grabs my elbow, pulling me toward our car with barely leashed violence.

"Get in," he growls, opening the door.

I slide into the passenger seat, pulse racing from the mission's success and Eamon's obvious fury. He slams his door and starts the engine with unnecessary force.

"That went well," I venture.

"Did it?" He pulls into traffic, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Because from where I sat, it looked like foreplay."

"It was an act, Eamon. Part of the cover."

"Was it?" He stops at a red light, turning to face me. His eyes burn with possessive fury. "Because watching him touch you, watching you let him..." His voice trails off.

"You're jealous."

"Damn right I'm jealous." The light turns green but he doesn't move. "The way he looked at you, like he wanted to bend you over that desk and?—"

A car honks behind us. Eamon floors the accelerator, and we shoot forward.

"It was necessary," I say, checking the recording devices on my phone. All three are active, transmitting perfectly. "We got everything we needed."

"And what's that worth? Letting him paw you? Letting him think he can have you?"

I turn in my seat to face him. "Are you saying you can have me?"

His eyes meet mine for a dangerous moment before returning to the road. "That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?"

The car falls silent except for the engine and our ragged breathing. The adrenaline from the mission mixes with the sexual tension that's been building between us for weeks.

"The devices are working," I say, trying to regain professional footing. "We have recordings of him discussing criminal operations."

"Good."

"There's something else. He knew about federal investigations. Too much detail. Someone's feeding him information."

Eamon's attention sharpens. "FBI?"

"Maybe. Or DEA. Customs. Could be anyone with access." I scroll through the audio files uploading to secure servers. "This corruption goes higher than we thought."

"How high?"

"High enough to know about undercover operations. High enough to put agents in danger." The implications hit me fully. "High enough to get me killed if they figure out who I am."

Eamon pulls over abruptly, parking in an empty lot. He turns to face me, expression intense.

"That's not going to happen."

"You can't know that."

"I can and I will." His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek. "No one touches you. No one hurts you. I don't care what agency they work for."

The promise in his voice makes my heart race faster than any danger. This man who I'm supposed to arrest is swearing to protect me from my own people.

"Eamon..."

"I know this is fucked up. I know I'm the last person who should be saying this." His thumb traces my lower lip. "But you're mine, Sorcha. Not the FBI's. Not Moran's. Mine."

Before I can respond, his mouth crashes against mine. The kiss is desperate, possessive, everything we've been fighting for weeks. I melt into him, hands fisting in his shirt as he claims my mouth with rough hunger.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"We can't do this," I whisper against his lips.

"We already are," he replies, pulling me closer.

The mission was a success. We have evidence, surveillance access, and intelligence about corruption. But as Eamon's hands tangle in my hair, pulling me back for another kiss, I realize we've crossed a line there's no coming back from.

Tomorrow, we'll deal with consequences. Tonight, I stop fighting what I want and take what I need.

Even if it destroys everything.