Page 26 of Reckless Seduction
“Oh.”
Is that all I can say? Nan must think my brain is addled. Not that I care much.
Okay, maybe I care a little.
When the doors to the elevator open, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and bacon assaults my senses. My mouth waters, and my stomach rumbles. Shit, I haven’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday.
My gaze takes in every detail of the floor, searching and cataloging everything I can. It is an open concept, with windows spanning from floor to ceiling along the farthest outside wall that overlooks the main street below. Wooden columns dot the space that is softly decorated. The walls are red brick, unpainted, left in their natural state. It is homey as much as it is luxurious. Leather sofas in hues of burnt orange sit facing an overly large flat screen that hangs on the wall. Bookcases crammed with books litter the space, which smells of pine and tobacco.
Voices drift from the dining room as we approach. They aren’t bothering to modulate their tone, and it becomes increasingly clear as we approach who they are talking about.
Me.
“Maybe because the arranged marriage he set up is about to come crumbling down.” That is Seamus. He sounds somewhat smug when he says it, his accent dipping slightly. It is one way Ican tell him apart from his brother. That and the shiner Kiernan now has is a dead giveaway.
“How would you know that?” That isn’t an Irish accent.
“Because I refuse to marry a cheating pig,” I interrupt as I step into the massive dining room. My eyes widen slightly, taking it all in. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this isn’t it.
The table is long and sturdy. A rich, handcrafted acacia wood table with a river of blue resin winding through it. Several dishes stuffed with an assortment of foods, from crisps to mouthwatering bacon to a light fruit salad, are spread across the surface. I stop just inside the doorway. All eyes are immediately on me. Suddenly, I am regretting my outburst.
A sea of emerald stares back at me, plus the stormy eyes of one man every knows about, but few barely glimpse.
Matthias Dashkov.
That is the accent I heard before.
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Jameson.” The man at the head of the table pulls my attention. His smile is tight, not quite reaching his eyes. He’s older, but his red hair graying slightly along the edges is his only sign of aging.
He looks like a king sitting at the head of the table, his well-trimmed beard and muscles visible beneath the button-down shirt he wears that stretches tightly over his chest. It is a glimpse into the future—a replica of what the twins would one day grow to become.
One word. Yummy.
Yummier, anyway.
They are already mouthwateringly delicious.
Where the fuck do I come up with this shit?
“I wasn’t aware it was a choice.” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “But thanks for the invite. I’m starving.” Kiernan smirks as I make my way toward him. The empty seat betweenhim and the gaping Seamus has obviously been left empty for me.
“Close your mouth, Seamus,” I chide playfully as I take my seat. “You are not a codfish.”
The woman seated across from him at the table giggles while Dashkov, who sits closely to her right, chuckles lowly. Not every day you see a mafia boss chuckling at a reporter. That is one for the win column.
The man I easily infer to be Liam Kavanaugh, head of the Irish mob and the twins’ father, smirks in amusement, his green eyes lighting up.
“There is always a choice, Miss Jameson,” he tells me. “You could have said no and gone hungry.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I mutter under my breath, absently looking down at my bare plate. There aren’t many memories of my mother left for my mind to cling to, but the ones that stand out the most were the days I’d gone hungry. Left without food or care. She’d do that. Leave me without a care in the world while she sought her high in the back of some dealer’s car or in a back alley.
Shaking off the depressive thoughts, I smile up at the feared Irish leader. “Call me Bailey. If your sons are going to hold me captive and feed me, you might as well drop the formalities.”
The redheaded woman snorts her drink at my words, which leads the burly Russian mafia leader to pat her on the back as she struggles to cough up the fluid that has undoubtedly found its way down the wrong tube.
Oops. Apparently, I have more comedic prowess than I realize.
I stare at the coughing woman for a moment as she struggles to breathe properly again. She could almost be the twins’ triplet. Her red hair is wild and untamed, slightly darker in color, the curls falling well past her shoulders. Her green eyes are thesame luminous emerald as the rest of the Kavanaughs’. There are faint traces of bruising along her face and scrapes across her knuckles.
