Mafia King (Young Irish Rebels #2) - Vi Carter Page 0,13
the screw, but that’s the smell I remember as the bullets tore through the steel of the Range Rover.
How had we survived it? Small things at the moment that I had missed continue to roam across my mind. Like hearing Liam curse. The shift of the vehicle was more severe than I had fully taken in at that moment.
Had Liam returned fire? I think he had. The bangs of the gun would explain the loudness of the shots that weren’t at us but from us. The air that brushed my face after we left the tunnel was cold, but I could taste it, the distant taste of silage that I was accustomed to. So, close to where Liam took me, there must be a farm.
My mind continues to drift even further until I’m focused on lush pink lips that hide behind a dark brown beard that’s completely untamed. When he removed his jacket, I couldn’t look away from his white t-shirt that stretched across broad shoulders. He was like something out of a magazine. I could imagine him in front of a waterfall, water cascading down his bare chest, that was tanned. From the flashes of skin I had already seen, I knew he was tanned. My mind continues to drift even lower when I’m rattled out of my fantasy as movement outside the wardrobe doors has me sitting up. Light streams in between the crack and continues to grow as the doors open. I can’t stop the blush that consumes me. It’s like fire racing through my body.
It’s him, and there is a look of surprise in his dark eyes as he scans me from my flat black patent shoes all the way to the top of my head. I can’t even imagine how I must appear. One hand grips the top of the door, allowing me to see his muscular forearm. Today he’s wearing a black t-shirt, and it looks better than the white. His other large hand reaches in for me to take. So we are playing a game, that he’s a gentleman, after locking me in here.
I glare at his hand like it might strike me before I try to shuffle out of the wardrobe with as much dignity as I can muster. Once my feet touch the ground, I move past him. He releases the wardrobe door. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen,” are his departing words as I fight not to stare at his broad back. What was wrong with me? He just locked me in a wardrobe for the whole night and didn’t even come once to make sure I was okay.
Northerner. They had no compassion. All they thought of was the kill and their land. But like Breda used to say. You can’t eat grass.
The morning light filters into the room from two large bay windows. I try to walk off the pins and needles that consume my body. I’m aware of him moving around downstairs, and in the light of day, it hits me. This is my life for the next four weeks.
It’s overwhelmingly different from what I thought this would be, how I had pictured being here with Jack O’Reagan. I’d never met him, but I knew what Liam looked like, and a son of Liam would make any woman swoon.
The room grows smaller, the space inside me grows bigger, and I leave the bedroom, not wanting it to consume me. I follow the noise like a starving person following the smell of food. I halt at the kitchen door. He’s there, drinking from a mug. His dark eyes are focused on me, and I slow my steps as I walk into the new kitchen. It has that feel, the new smell, even the new look. It hasn’t been used. Some appliances still have plastic coverings on them.
It’s a pity because it’s a beautiful kitchen, with its gray and white undertones. It has the softness of a farm kitchen, but the modern twist makes it stylish. It won’t be used; I remind myself when I purposely bring back Noel’s promise to the forefront of my mind. He said he would stop the wedding. He promised I wouldn’t have to go through with this sham.
“A coffee or maybe a juice?”
I sense humor in his voice, but I don’t see any in his eyes as he walks over to the breakfast bar and opens a newspaper.
I don’t answer him as I slowly walk to the coffee pot. I open