Page 26 of Sweet Deception (Irish Kings #4)

Chapter Twenty-Three

When the fog of sleep clears the next morning, I’m all wrapped up in a warm, cozy cocoon. My eyes gradually blink open to find my body tucked beneath a blanket.

I cease breathing as dual shocks blast me.

The first jolt comes with the discovery that Darren covered me up in the middle of the night. I can’t believe I passed out in front of him like that and left myself completely vulnerable to a trained killer.

The second surprise revolves around the unfamiliar sensation of someone taking care of me.

No, not just someone. Darren. And it resulted in the best night of sleep I’ve had in ages.

Why? How? Why?

As last night’s memories swarm me, I cringe and tug the blanket over my face. My fingers touch my throat…right at the spot where the crown of Darren’s dick jabbed me repeatedly. His musky taste lingers in my mouth.

Bozhe moy … The man even speaks Russian!

My thoughts swirl in a whirlpool of confusion.

One minute I’m under lock and key, and the next we’re collaborating to find out everything we can about the summit / human trafficking auction. Then, we’re on this couch, going at it like wild animals.

Ever since I met this man, I’ve felt different. I’m doing things I don’t normally do. Saying things I don’t normally say. Wanting things—lots of things—that I would never tolerate in my regular life.

I keep letting him take care of me. Protect me from harm. Cook for me. I even allowed him to attend to Piro, who meows and repositions himself in a small circle near my feet.

The last—and only—person to ever cover me while I slept was my grandmother, who would hum old Russian lullabies as she nestled me into handstitched quilts.

Over the years, I worked hard to become strong and self-sufficient, helping other women while never requesting or accepting aid for myself. If a simple act of kindness affects me this much, maybe I worked a little too hard.

As I inhale the lingering scent of gunpowder and spice that seems to follow Darren everywhere, I admit, somewhere deep inside myself, that it’s nice to be noticed. Cared for.

Even by someone who may ultimately be my enemy.

Speaking of…where is he?

I shove back the blanket and rise to my feet to search. He’s not in the kitchen. No cooking soundtrack echoes through the hall, nor do I smell any culinary masterpieces in progress.

The kitchen windows reveal his Aston Martin still parked out front, so I know he didn’t leave me here alone.

After another quick scan to confirm he’s not on the first floor, I drift toward the staircase, pausing when faint huffs and grunts greet my ears.

I trace the noise to the back patio.

Similar to the front walkway, red brick paves the small square expanse. Fall flowers bloom in clay pots along a railing that frames the area, and just beyond the flowers, I spot workout benches, free weights, and iron bars. A gym buff’s wet dream.

Darren hangs from the iron bars, muscles flexing with each repetition as he completes pull-up after pull-up after glorious pull-up.

Early morning sunlight glints off the sweat beaded across his skin, highlighting old scars and burns on his arms.

Probably from all his pyrotechnic work. I’ve felt those scars but never actually studied them by the light of day. I’ve got the sudden urge to ask him about every single one.

I push through the door onto the patio and settle against the frame to conduct a more intensive analysis. His controlled movements and strength remind me of ballet.

He doesn’t glance over, but he knows I’m here.

He lifts his muscular yet lean body up a few more times before speaking. “See something interesting, princess?”

Heat creeps up my neck and dives into my lower belly.

Wow. Isn’t it a little early in the morning for my inner slut to be up and salivating for her next meal? Not that I blame her. The man’s body is pure art. “Just appreciating the technique. Your form’s not bad.”

“For a gangster, you mean?” Darkness lurks beneath his light tone.

I fold my arms over my chest. “For anyone.”

Watching Darren maintain the perfect machine that is his body awakens the same exact longing in me as ballet. Lately, I haven’t had much time to satisfy that urge, but all of a sudden, the craving strikes with a vengeance.

I want that excitement back. And I want it right now.

Heart drumming in my chest, I push off from the doorframe and flow into an arabesque .

Darren stops what he’s doing to observe me. He looks like he’s about one second away from dropping his jaw right onto the ground. The pleasure of his reaction jump-starts my muscles.

I continue through a fouetté turn, a few brushes, and one jump.

“Ballet dancers are all about control.” My heart’s bouncing with the type of joy that only dance can inspire. “Longer, leaner muscles. Most people don’t realize how much effort it takes.”

Darren’s heavy gaze crawls up my body to meet my eyes, shooting an entirely different kind of yearning through my body.

I love the way he looks at me. Wants me.

“Spend a lot of time controlling things?” His voice grows gruff. Maybe because it’s morning. Or maybe it’s something else.

That question, coupled with the intense eye contact, rattles me.

Once again, he throws me off-balance, within my own body and even my own mind.

Damn him.

I lower my foot. “It’s the only way I’ve survived.”

He lowers himself from the iron bars, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his neck and chest. “I survive by destroying things.”

Part of me is jealous of that towel. “Not everything.” I shake off my daze and propel myself into another leap. “You haven’t destroyed me.”

“Yet,” he growls.

To break the intensity of our connection, I head to the railing by the flowerpots, settle my hand on the metal, and begin working through a familiar routine of positions.

Darren watches with undisguised fascination.

“See something interesting?” I can’t help but tease.

He grunts in lieu of a reply.

“Want to try a plié ?” I glide toward him and demonstrate a demi.

“Only if you try a pull-up.” His grin holds both a challenge and the tiniest bit of vulnerability.

I can’t help but grin back.

“Deal.” I move to the iron bars and reach up, but Darren stops me, his hands circling my waist.

“Let me spot you, beautiful.” His voice has become rough and savage. “Wouldn’t want to break anything.”

A compliment from this man feels about as normal as a giant bear stalking out of the woods to bring me a rose. Startling and impossible to ignore. And for reasons I can’t explain, I find myself moved.

If he doesn’t cut this out, I might kiss him.

I turn in his warm grip ’til I’m facing his bare chest. “Some things are stronger than they look.”

I gently push him back with my foot, perform a single pull-up, and then hop down and put some space between us. “Your turn. Let’s see that plié , and I want perfect form.”

If I was hoping his ridiculous attempt would help kill the burgeoning warmth in my chest, I’m gravely disappointed. He bends his knees and turns his feet out in an admirable replication of my movement, with far more grace than is fair for his big body to contain.

One of his joints cracks when he rises, and his groan fills me with more than a little sadistic satisfaction. He shoots me a rueful glance. “That was harder than it looked.”

The wink that follows threatens to lower my defenses even more, and I can’t allow that.

I edge backwards and gesture over my shoulder with my thumb. “I’m going to grab a shower and after that, I need to get back to work. Sorry I disturbed you.”

Without waiting for a response, I bolt out the door, holding my breath until I’m back upstairs and safe in the bathroom with the door locked.

That was close.

To what, I’m not sure exactly.

After I’ve showered and done my best to get my head back on straight, the rest of the day progresses in much the same way as yesterday. Darren cracks a can of cat food for Piro and cooks while I continue searching for intel about the summit’s location.

I know Lucy will be there, and if I can get the venue for Darren and the Kings, they’re going to storm the place, do something … This’ll be my last chance to reach Lucy before these human trafficking dirtbags whisk her away, never to be seen or heard from again.

Seated on the couch in the den, I work for hours as Darren floats in and out of my periphery. By late afternoon, he’s ready to fully engage, and once again, he lowers himself onto the couch beside me.

I’m still singed from the white-hot fire of my own self-consciousness, so the proximity alone is messing with me.

He could ask me literally anything. I’ll either clam up and retreat like a coward or vomit a string of truth bombs, because he’s becoming…irresistible.

This is so stressful.

To add to everything, my trick ankle’s been aching all day. Damn show-off.

That’s what I get for doing ballet on brick without proper footwear or a warm-up.

I want to keep acting busy so Darren won’t ask questions that are too difficult to answer or that leave me too vulnerable. Unfortunately, the throbbing in my ankle distracts me enough that I need to set the laptop down on the coffee table and give it a good rub.

Darren watches me, and my heart picks up speed.

What if he asks me about it? What do I say? Tell him about the accident? Reveal how anyone who gets close to me will ultimately die? Confess how even my dream of ballet died because of my piss-poor luck? That dark cloud that follows me, or whatever the hell it is.

I release my foot and reach for the laptop again. Darren blocks me by stretching one of his long arms toward my trick ankle.

The moment his strong hand touches my skin, the atmosphere around us compresses, and a long pause unfolds between us. Before we can act on the tension, bombs start exploding in the form of his ringtone.

I’m starting to hate that noise.

He answers the call, but I’m so distracted by the way his hand lingers on my ankle that I can barely focus on the exchange. When he hangs up, he shifts back toward me.

“We’re going to meet with Finn tomorrow.” His eyes grow deadly serious. “He gets in from Vegas in the morning. Do you think we’ll know the location by then?”

“I hope so.” I breathe the words like a prayer. Might be another long night, but the sooner we find the auction’s venue, the better.

Again, the impulse to grab the laptop rolls through me, but I don’t move. I can’t reach it without moving his hand.

“I know a thing or two about injuries.” His voice has gotten so gentle. “Let me.”

Before I can protest, he starts to massage my ankle with all the skill of a physical therapist.

Every cell in my body freezes. He’s stroking me in the spot on my body that reminds me of everything I’ve lost. That’s something I’ve never allowed anyone to do.

Before now.