Page 17 of Sweet Deception (Irish Kings #4)

Chapter Fourteen

I’m back in the car, speeding off the property as fast as I can.

Jesus, this woman ruins my headspace.

Leaving to go for a high-speed, head-clearing drive usually works, but tonight… No matter how many miles of dark, empty roads I put between myself and my problem, my mind just won’t recalibrate.

Two whole towns away from the safe house, the noise of her banging on that bedroom door and shouting my name still hasn’t faded.

If I’m not thinking about that, I’m trying to decipher the clipped conversation I overheard between her and her alleged friend.

Finding Lucy? What was that about?

What does Las Vegas and stealing data off my phone have to do with her friend and a missing girl? The pieces don’t fit together at all.

I also really don’t like that she mentioned the Kings and Red Hill back-to-back. The idea that she’s conning both of us hovers, irritatingly, in the corner of my mind. I was there to get some answers, and maybe Troy was too.

What the fuck is she after?

Before, I wasn’t convinced that Troy’s presence at her apartment was about a meeting. Now, I can’t rule that out completely. She may not be working for him, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t crossed paths.

In my mind, I replay the night we met for the hundredth time, only during this iteration, everywhere I appear, Troy’s ugly face replaces mine.

Did she infiltrate a Red Hill event as well?

Cozy up to Troy and allow him to pound her all night so she could steal his phone and disappear with top-secret information?

The thought skyrockets my pulse, enraging me enough to nearly crack the steering wheel in two.

I’ve been observing her for hours, and all I’ve concluded about Veronika Kotova is that she’s a total conundrum. Her purposes, her ultimate goals remain completely opaque. And the sensation of time running out sits deep in my bones.

If I don’t break through her cool composure and find some answers soon, this entire matter will be out of my hands. Whether she’s tortured, raped, maimed, or left for dead will be up to someone else. It’s weird for me to care about that.

All the possible scenarios flit through my mind, and the visceral rage that erupts in my chest in response destabilizes me.

It’s your own fault, you know. For assuming any woman who comes up to you at a wedding wants to screw you.

Slamming my palm against the steering wheel, I accelerate until the number on the dash flies past one hundred.

This is why I left so abruptly.

Fled is more like it.

My usual M.O. generally involves destroying things that don’t cooperate, but I can’t destroy Veronika.

Not yet. I need information. Unfortunately, I can’t even focus on that at the moment because she won’t answer any of my questions, and the questions she asks infuriate me to the point of irrational arousal.

How am I supposed to unsee her stripping like that?

I could’ve taken her right then and there. All over again.

My cock is angry at my resistance.

Meanwhile, my mind is pissed that I’m so close to succumbing to temptation.

All I had to do was walk away at the wedding reception. Now that I know she wanted my phone all along, it’s obvious that I got myself into this mess.

I didn’t have to dance with her or touch her or hold her close or sink into her tight pussy. None of that was part of her plan.

Or was it?

Who am I kidding? She was just as composed and unyielding then as she was today. She’s like a Christmas tree to a cat, so beautiful and pristine that I just want to fuck her up. This woman is a cock-ache and a half.

Not to mention a problem the size of the Eastern Seaboard.

She played me. The only thoughts I have about her should involve violence, but instead…the mere idea of someone attacking her floods my head with fantasies of vehicular manslaughter. Is that wrong?

Instead of destroying her, I want to destroy anyone who might try.

Damn, I’m off tonight.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the revelation that I don’t want to hurt her despite everything she’s done. I find this realization deeply unsettling.

Definitely doesn’t help that her scent is all over my passenger seat. What the hell does she put on that lingers like this? Is that her shampoo or perfume? Body oil? What?

The smell is soaked in the leather. I might get drunk just on the thought of her.

I roll down all my windows so the autumn air can whip through the car and lift my hair off my forehead.

The wind roars when I’m doing over a hundred.

If not for the sensation of my phone buzzing against my thigh, I would’ve had no idea it was even ringing.

Rolling the windows back up, I slip the phone into my palm, expecting Shane or Finn. Instead, I find myself staring at my father’s name. What the hell does he want?

He only calls this late at night when he wants to drag me out to a club.

Up ahead on the left, a lonely two-pump gas station comes into view. Right on time. I filled up the tank this morning, but for obvious reasons, I’m about on E.

I tuck the phone against my ear. “Yes?”

“So…” he drawls when I answer, as though he’s been drinking. “Exterior cameras caught you sneaking a very attractive woman into the safe house. The same blond from the wedding? Tell me you’re finally having some fun, son.”

Annoyance cracks through me.

“I wasn’t sneaking. And it’s not like that.” I take the curve into the gas station too fast, scaring the shit out of the all-night attendant inside the glass box. “Got a situation I need to handle.”

“A situation.” My father’s amusement fades into something more serious. “The kind that needs cleaning up?”

“No. Maybe. Fuck.” I scrub my face, then cut the engine with the same hand. “I don’t know yet.”

A pause. “If you need me to cover your ass for a while, just say the word.”

The simple support eases something in my chest. “It’s fine. Thanks, Dad.”

I don’t call him that very often. Something about that term of endearment seems incompatible with the man I’ve become.

An agent of irrepressible chaos.

Remembering that I’m also somebody’s son humanizes me in an uncomfortable way. As if any part of me is still human.

I end the call and climb out to fill up on premium gas. Shane will receive the same report that I’m using the safe house. It’s only a matter of time before he calls me demanding answers.

The real question is… will I have the truth extracted from her by then?

Can’t exactly say I’m optimistic about that.

Back on the road, I press down on the accelerator as I cruise toward the house.

My mind returns to Veronika…not that it ever really left. What has she been doing on her own all this time?

When I’m forty-five minutes from the safe house, my phone shrills again. This time, I expect my father and see Finn’s number instead. I answer my cousin’s call and immediately learn that Shane’s on the line too.

Goody.

“Safe House Fourteen.” Finn’s voice is even gruffer than usual tonight. “Report out.”

My jaw tightens. I anticipated this call, but do we really have to do this right now?

I do everything within my power to remain calm. If there’s a single question I can’t answer, Finn could order me to bring Veronika back to the estate for questioning. And that would be the end.

All the time I get to spend with her would be over.

Why is that the biggest concern on my mind?

“An unknown operative infiltrated your wedding reception, targeted me, and cloned my phone.” Fucking hell, I hate the way this story comes across. “I tracked her down, found her address. But when I got to her apartment, Troy and his crew were on the ground.”

“She one of theirs?” The deep rumble of Shane’s voice shakes the line.

“I don’t think so.” Pouring strength into my voice, I add, “Troy had a full tactical team on her block. Not exactly the way to show up to an ally’s house.”

“Is she rogue Red Hill? Ex-mafia?” Finn always asks the hardest fucking questions. “Some kind of assassin?”

“Definitely not. She’s a work-from-home freelance tech minion.”

“Then how’d she get the better of you?”

I exhale forcefully and hope they don’t hear. “I misjudged her objective.”

“Which is?” Shane prompts.

“Still unclear.” I hate to admit this. “I’ve been interrogating her for the past few hours on the subject. All I’ve learned so far is that she’s not working with Red Hill, and she’s not an assassin, but she is looking for something. Someone .”

“You?” If Finn’s making a joke, I swear…

“A friend of hers has gone missing, and as far as I can tell, she thinks we may have something to do with it.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?” Shane’s brand of sarcasm could compact a car.

An unhinged grin comes to my face. “Wanted to see what she was after and why Troy wants it, or her, badly enough to send a team.”

When I describe the armored SUVs, the scout he had waiting on her block—that lurking asshole—the way Troy and his cronies shot at us…

Finn grunts. “Was it a hit or a capture operation?”

“Maybe both.” My tone gets grim, thinking of what might’ve happened if I hadn’t been there earlier tonight.

How did my vengeance crusade morph into a Veronika Kotova rescue mission?

“How is she connected to the Sullivans?” Shane’s not the only one wondering that. “I agree that it seems she isn’t working with them, per se. But are you sure she’s not working for them?”

I’m not. But that never sounds good.

“I very seriously doubt it, but I can’t confirm with one-hundred-percent certainty at this time.” Listen to me bending the truth for her. What’s the matter with me?

After a silent, unsatisfying second, Finn releases a loud, irritated breath. “Red Hill is obviously making moves.”

“I didn’t even know Troy had been restored to his place of honor.” I cut the wheel in a turn as I speak. A few months ago, we hauled Troy in for questioning after Finn beat his ass to a bloody pulp. We let him go eventually, but his family lost respect for him as a result, or so we thought.

Seems strange that he’s suddenly gone from persona non grata to leading tactical missions at the behest of the administration.

“Last I heard, he hasn’t been,” Finn grouses.

Shane’s hum cuts across the phone. “It’s possible he’s working alone. If he wants his family’s respect, he’ll need to carve out a name for himself. Whatever this… hacker woman is caught up in may be connected to that.”

“Let me pull Rory’s last chatter analysis log.” Finn taps on a keyboard. “All I see that might connect Troy to this is something about an upcoming summit.”

“What kind of summit?” Shane demands.

“No idea.” More typing. “I’ll have Rory get on it and find out what the hell’s going on.”

“In the meantime, keep her contained,” Shane orders. “Find out who hired her, what they’re after, and everything she knows about Troy’s operation.”

“And did you get the data back?” Finn growls. “Whatever she stole.”

“Yes, I confiscated it.” Her phone is sitting in my other pocket, quiet and guilty.

Shane ends our three-way call, and I’m back to the comfortable silence of solitude. Half an hour from the safe house, I pull into an all-night convenience store parking lot and stop in.

The stench of recycled mop water and lukewarm confections assault my nose as I peruse the aisles of this linoleum-floored hole in the wall.

A bored attendant at the counter with a full beard chews gum while college kids on a late-night adventure wander around, ranking their favorite microwaveable dinners.

I ignore how the other customers edge away from my manic energy.

Focused and moving quickly, I nip a few cans of gourmet cat food off a shelf.

Then I grab some assorted grocery items from the other end of the shop. Shockingly, there’s a selection of fruit and veggies.

This mundane errand does nothing to quiet my racing thoughts about Veronika…

How am I going to get the information I need without hurting her if she refuses to talk to me?

Is she in some kind of trouble?

What game is she playing?

Why is her scent still filling up my car?

Fuck. At least the kitten will eat well tonight.