Page 13 of Mine
‘Semantics.’ He shrugs, leaning against the car door, closing it with his back. The passenger window sinks down. Owen’s head pops out. ‘What next?’
‘Find Aoife’s father. His name is…’ His onyx eyes drift to mine.
‘Tommy O’Shea,’ I direct my answer to Owen.
‘He was at Rory’s wedding.’ Amusement taints his tone. ‘I mean, Rory’s almost wedding. Find him a safe house outside the city until we locate his passport. Text me when you have him. And don’t mention a word about our engagement to a soul,’ he growls again.
Owen nods and the window zips up.
The BMW zooms down the driveway, leaving me utterly alone with Dominic Kincaid. I’m at the mercy of a man who apparently doesn’t have any.
6
AOIFE
He carries me towards the entrance like I’m weightless, cradling me against his chest like I’m the most precious possession he owns.
Maybe I am, given how badly his rival wanted me.
‘I’ll get security to set up your fingerprint recognition ASAP,’ he promises, pressing a thumb to a keypad to the right of the glass doors, and they slide open. ‘That way you can come and go around the house and gardens. Don’t leave the grounds without me, or security, yet. Our unionwillstart a war. It’s imperative that you don’t become collateral.’ Dark, thunderous storm clouds roll through his eyes.
Inside, glass ceilings soar overhead, rising into double-height atriums. Sunlight pours down through steel-framed skylights and transparent roof panels, scattering across pale stone floors and soft timber walls. Trailing plants spill from suspended planters and upper walkways, softening the clean architectural lines until the entire place feels alive.
This isn’t a criminal’s lair.
It’s an oasis—his oasis.
My eyes drift over the décor, then back to my saviour—the biggest sinner in the city. He strides through to a large, bright, open-plan kitchen and places me on the white marble kitchen counter. My legs dangle against the cabinets. I need to get this fucking dress off, but it’s not like I even have anything to put on. I have nothing but the clothes on my body. My purse is in the suite at the Shelbourne, and I’m under no illusion about being reunited with it anytime soon. I am completely and utterly dependent on the man in front of me. The man who is staring at me with an intensity that sucks the air clean out of my lungs.
I meet his gaze.
‘You hungry?’ he asks.
I think about it for a second. I’m not actually hungry but given everything that’s happened today, if I don’t eat, I might pass out, so I nod.
‘Sandwich?’ He turns his back to me, long strong legs eating up the distance to hover in front of an American-style fridge. He opens it, grabs a plate, then saunters back to me again. Thick cut sandwiches are stacked up in a pile: ham, tuna, cheese, and chicken, all on various types of bread.
‘Did you make these?’ My eyebrows wing up as he pulls back the cling film and holds them out to me. I take one tentatively.
He places the plate down on the counter beside me. ‘No, my housekeeper did.’
Housekeeper. Of course. A man like Dominic Kincaid wouldn’t cook or clean. He’s too busy terrorising the city and flooding the streets with drugs.
‘Speaking of which,’ he plucks his phone from his pocket. ‘I need to make a couple of calls.’ He strides back out to the hallway and my treacherous eyes are drawn to his ass in those suit pants. I’m only human. And he is absolutelydevastating to look at. Deadly, but utterly devastating. I’d do well to remember it.
What the hell am I doing here?
I suck in a breath.
Panic threatens to rise behind my ribcage again.
Surviving.
That’s what you’re doing.
I hop off the counter, wincing as my cut feet tentatively pad the spacious kitchen. At least they’re not bleeding now.
Huge windows overlook the vast lawns. Double doors at the far end of the room lead out onto a pale paved terrace complete with a twenty foot swimming pool and plush white sun loungers with thick, luxurious looking mattresses. Crime clearly pays. I pace the floor slowly, soaking it all in.
