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Chapter Twenty-Two

Carys

W hen I realize the lights are on in my suite, I assume it’s Jay. A part of me both hopes and dreads it might be Finn. But he’s not the type of guy who waits in a well-lit room. No, he’d much prefer a dark corner, scaring the shit out of me to prove a point.

When I step into my suite and find my father and Eric toasting each other by the minibar, it causes my heart to sink.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

Eric turns toward me, sliding his tumbler along the polished mahogany table. “Sook called me.”

I frown and cross the room, taking the last glass from the minibar to pour myself a drink. “My lawyer called you, but she didn’t bother to show up?”

“Sook said she could make the calls to get you released without coming. They didn’t have a reason to detain you. Chance and circumstance.” He grimaces. “Harboring a fugitive tends to make you a target for the authorities.”

It’s not uncommon for him to come to my rescue. Despite everything, he can be strangely protective. I used to find it sweet. Today I’m annoyed.

“What I do and who I do it with outside of office hours isn’t any of your concern.” I swirl my drink around, watching as the whiskey comes close to slipping over the edge. “It has been none of your business for years.”

If Sook solved my legal troubles without even coming to Ireland, it means they sent Kim in as a last-ditch effort to get something out of me before they had to release me. I’m growing weary of subterfuge and half-truths. Is it that hard for people to be honest?

“When you’re using company funds to pay off an FBI agent, it becomes our business.” My father arches his eyebrows.

He doesn’t have a single gray hair. The inclination toward vanity is one of the few things we have in common. He appears so much younger than his actual age. Another half-truth.

“I was in a hurry and needed access to cash. With time, I would have paid the money back from my personal accounts and investments.” I swallow my drink and then slide the glass onto the table next to Eric’s. “Instead, I only gave him half what I owed and almost died trying to sort it out.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” my father scoffs.

Shoving down the sleeve of my shirt, I reveal my upper arm and the bandage still gracing it. “The FBI agent who helped me is dead. There was a shootout at his rental in Volgograd. So, if you two geniuses thought you were helping me out by cleaning up my mess, you almost cleaned me up with it.”

Eric holds up his hands. My father’s face has lost color. Either they’re both incredible actors, or they don’t understand why Ricardo’s house ended up riddled with bullets.

Eric’s tries to caress my injured arm, but I step out of his reach.

“I don’t suppose either of you knows why I’ve been getting packages in Switzerland with an old-fashioned alarm clock and various versions of time is running out , do you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, my father gives Eric an annoyed glance.

“Not a clue,” Eric says in a breezy voice as he pours himself another drink. “But doesn’t seem like a legitimate worry.”

He used that voice whenever I asked about the women I was sure he was fucking while we were engaged. He uses the same attitude in the office with people he believes are being irrational and stupid. Just before Kim went to Boston, he tried his patronizing tone with her. She threatened to shoot him. I should have let her.

“I realize you’re lying.” I point at him and then wander toward the windows.

I need space from the two of them before I strangle them both. They’ve cooked up a scheme, and it’ll be me who pays the price. “I’ve got other, more pressing things to worry about right now. Who the fuck is dealing with the PLA behind my back?”

Another uncomfortable silence materializes, settling between us. As I approach the corner of the room furthest from them, I glimpse a duffel bag under the armchair closest to the armoire. Familiar, but I can’t place why. Then the realization hits. The bag is from my house in Switzerland; it’s the one I gave to Finn.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My heart rate skyrockets. He could be hiding somewhere in the suite, which wouldn’t be like him. Or he’s out with Jay searching for me. He might return at any point. If my father or Eric see him, they’ll turn him into the authorities, or they’ll alert the Irish mob. They’ve both made it clear they don’t agree with me fishing him out of the FBI’s net.

“Well.” I spin on my heel. “Is someone going to answer my question? ’Cause if not, both of you can get the hell out of my hotel room.”

“Carys,” Eric says in that tone I hate. “It seems obvious to me Valeriya was the person screwing you over. She came here to meet with the PLA, and now she’s dead.”

“Doesn’t explain where our products have gone from the warehouse.” Valeriya’s involvement doesn’t explain the paper trail the CIA claims they have or the two-year timeframe. Outright theft is a first, but if the PLA are using goods linked to me, then someone’s been stirring the pot, maybe for years.

I spot my purse on the bed and stalk over to it, yanking it open and grabbing my phone. Did Finn put it here? Jay? Ignoring the panicked texts on my home screen, I type a message to Jay.

Finn. Where is Finn? A surge of panic hovers below the surface.

When I glance up, Eric and my father are exchanging uneasy looks. I’m missing something; there’s an undercurrent between them.

A message pings. The blood rushes out of my body.

Finn’s in the hotel somewhere. He has to be. He isn’t with Jay.

“Look.” I drop my phone into my purse, willing my heart to calm the fuck down. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. You’re lying to me about something—both of you. But I’m too exhausted to care. Go to your rooms, wherever they are, and when I see you tomorrow, you need to have answers. Ones that make sense.” I don’t bother asking for the truth because, at this point, I’m convinced they won’t give it to me.

Eric pours himself another drink and nods to my father. “I’ll see you in the morning, Charles.”

“Oh, no.” I cross my arms. “You’re not staying here. I’m done with lies and half-truths and so much bullshit your eyes are even browner than normal. No. Leave. Go. Get out.” I point to the door.

“Carys,” Eric cajoles.

“No.” I grab his duffel bag off the floor by the bed. When I get to the door, I open it and toss it into the hallway. “I hope my father got a room with two double beds. Otherwise, you’ll be both literally and figurately in bed with each other. Won’t that be nice?”

Finn might be somewhere in this hotel room. If he is, if he’s heard them, it’s a goddamned miracle my father and Eric are still alive. I can only imagine the things they said before I arrived. About him. About me. About who knows what else.

My father steps out the door, into the hallway. “Room 561,” he says to Eric over his shoulder.

He stoops to pick up his bag and stares at me. “This is really what you want? I could help you relax after such a stressful day.”

“Could you?” I meet his gaze. “I doubt it.”

He flushes with annoyance. “Someday you’ll understand.”

I laugh. “Oh, I think I understand enough already. Goodnight, Eric.”

With a last frustrated huff, he heads down the hall toward the elevators. I shut the door and flip the lock into place. For a moment I focus on the fake wooden surface, gathering my strength for the next round.

Turning, I’m about to call Finn’s name when I see him by the window, leaning his shoulder into the armoire, the gun loose at his side.

All I want to do is go to him, wrap my arms around him, lean into his chest, and let myself be safe for the first time today.

And then I remember what Kim told me.

And then I remember how much danger he’s putting himself in by being here, the danger I might be in.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t leave his place near the window. The panic and anger I’ve kept at bay surges in me. Everything is collapsing around me, and he couldn’t care less.

“Did you hear me?” I stride over to the minibar and pour myself a second drink. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The silence from him is oppressive as I take the shot of whiskey.

“Doesn’t matter if you’re angry at me for leaving you like that,” I say.

Except anger isn’t what is emanating from him, reaching out toward me. The emotion is one I can’t pinpoint. When I’ve gathered my outrage, I spin around. “You’re giving me the silent treatment?”

“Just waiting for you to get drunk enough to tell me the truth.”

“Fuck you.”

Finn’s empty hand ruffles his close-cropped hair and then clings to his neck. He slides the gun into the waistband of his pants near his spine. “It was the CIA?”

“Yes.”

“Were they after me?”

“Of course.”

“Did they say anything about Lorcan?”

I hesitate and stall by sliding my tumbler onto the table. In the car I wondered whether I should mention Kim to Jay or Finn. But I’m so tired of being lied to, lying to other people.

“Kim was there.”

He straightens, springing off the armoire in a burst of alertness. “What? Why?”

I cross my arms and lean my hip against the table. I will not be the first to bridge the distance between us. He isn’t raging against me leaving him in Russia. I’ll take this version of him, even if I don’t understand it.

“I asked for her,” I reply. “But I think they agreed with the hope she’d get under my skin.”

“Kim’s like a sliver.”

“Gotta dig it out, or it’ll become infected.” I stare at him, pondering my next move. “She told me about the trafficking.”

Finn’s head nod is almost imperceptible. “Course she did.”

“It’s true?”

“You doubted her?”

I swallow and shrug. Did I? Maybe not. But I hoped Kim was trying to needle me, get me away from him. Tears prick behind my eyes. I turn my gaze to the ceiling and take a deep, shuddering breath. “Years ago—”

“I’m not that guy anymore.”

A tear falls. I wipe it away and then recross my arms. “Sometimes.” I shake my head. What I’m about to say isn’t smart, but the sentiment has been playing in my mind on repeat. “Sometimes, I wish we could go back. Have a redo.”

“What would you redo?”

“I don’t know.” Another tear escapes and trickles down my face. “I don’t know.” But I do. I had too much time to think when I was trapped with the CIA. Lately it feels like the night I was stabbed was a turning point. Not everything that came after has been shit, but nothing in my life has ever felt as good as it was before.

“Did you know?” Finn’s gruff voice hauls me right into the present.

“Know what?”

“The night you were stabbed, did you know you were pregnant with my baby? Had you already decided I wasn’t fatherhood material?”

“Oh, my God.” My knees buckle, and I reach out blindly to brace my hand on the table. “Who told you?”