Player - A Deadliest Lies Novel - Michele Mannon Page 0,32

share of embarrassment for the night.”

Oh, no.

In a half a blink, Eugene charges. He throws his whole body into a punch aimed at Finn’s smug face. I brace myself, wondering how swollen his eyes are going to look by night’s end.

Finn swats his punch away like it’s an annoying nuisance.

Someone tugs my arm. “You might want to step back for this.”

“My mot shouldn’t see this,” Finn loudly declares.

Eugene turns to me. “Close yer feckin’ eyes, Yank.”

I stiffen. Sure, I’ve been called a lot of names in my lifetime. Yank is as harmless as they come. But his nasty tone leaves something to be desired, and I’m two steps shy of jumping into the fray with Finn.

Our newfound friends come to my defense.

“A few pints and Gennie-boy is always bruising for a fight.”

“Leave his miss alone.”

“The pretty one doesn’t deserve a tongue lashing.”

Their shifting loyalties infuriate him even further. “This Northern wanker strolls into town and you lads fall in feckin’ love? He takes the piss out of me and you think it’s comical?”

“Here we go,” someone warns.

Finn chuckles.

I shake my head at him. Are you insane?

My answer comes quickly. Finn gives the entire pub a striptease show by ever so slowly working his new jersey over his head. Once removed, everyone waits while it takes him a full minute to fold it.

He hands it off to me. “Make sure no blood gets on it.”

“What?” I gasp.

Finn moves with lightning speed, thrusting his body forward and hurling his fist toward Eugene’s surprised face. He pulls his punch, so his fist lightly connects with the man’s chin as opposed to knocking Eugene back on his ass. Teasing the man.

“I’m not looking to fight you,” Finn murmurs. “But I don’t appreciate how you addressed my mot.”

I gasp as Finn hurls himself at Eugene. He body slams him and forces him to stagger backward.

Men scurry out of the way.

The barman gathers the glassware from the bar.

Eugene loses his mind. Arms swinging, he charges Finn.

Finn’s ready, and easily sidesteps one punch and then another. He’s light on his feet. Skilled . . . like he’s done this before.

“Money’s on the Northerner.”

“Mine, too. Hand it over to his missus for safekeeping.” Finn’s shirt is plucked from my hands and replaced with euros. It takes a few minutes to collect their bets.

And as soon as I’ve done so, the fight’s over.

Men curse, as the crowd parts.

I gasp.

Eugene is standing over Finn, a triumphant look on his face. My attention drops to Finn, there on the floor. His lip profusely bleeding.

“I want me money back. He did that on purpose.”

“He let Eugene hit him.”

“Feck off, you gobshites.” Eugene stalks over to me. “Maybe another night, eh, Yank?” Eugene takes the euros from my shaking hands. “Come and get your winnings, lads.”

No one steps forward.

“You wankers,” he hollers, stuffing the entire winnings into his pant pocket as he thunders off.

Finn stands on wobbly legs.

Every eye is on him, and I fear for his life.

“Pull that shite at the underground and they’ll be carting you out of there in a casket, you feck.”

Finn grabs his shirt, takes my hand, and hurries us outside. I catch his smile in the moonlight but for the life of me can’t imagine why he’d pull a stunt like that. Those men, they saw what I did.

They bet on a winner.

“Why?” I murmur.

“Everyone loves an underdog with potential. So I gave them one.”

13

Clarissa

I awake to the sound of whistling. Prying my eyes open, I find Finn at the foot of my bed.

“Up and at ’em, sunshine.”

“What time is it?” is all I can manage. My head is heavy, and my thoughts are groggy, the effects of four pints of Guinness claiming their price. I can’t remember the last time I was this hungover.

And how long has it been since I had that much fun?

After throwing the fight and escaping the angry mob, Finn pulled me into a different pub closer to our hotel. We relaxed, drinking and joking and teasing each other. It’s a comfortable pattern we’ve fallen into.

Finn’s great company. He’s wickedly smart. Easy on the eyes. Infuriating.

I see why a respected agency like the CIA would recruit him.

“You’ll feel better after a good run,” he informs me.

I groan, then struggle to sit up. “Are you for real?”

He winks. “As real as it gets, colleen.”

“Come on. Shake it off. I want three kilometers under my belt before daybreak.” He gestures to the nightstand, and I turn my head to find a tray with a