Player - A Deadliest Lies Novel - Michele Mannon Page 0,69

laughed at my “fussing.” “One gander at you, colleen,” he teased, “and she’s going to know what a sexy fiend you are.”

I grin at him, sitting on the floor with pieces of table splayed out around him. His hair is ruffled, his shoulders relaxed. He’s in sweatpants and the same T-shirt he pulled on earlier to leave the room. He returned with construction glue, a carafe of coffee, and lust in his eyes. The coffee was lukewarm by the time we got around to it.

Play hard. Work hard. Right?

“Have you seen my cell phone?” I ask.

“On the nightstand next to the lamp.”

While Finn works, I eagerly continue to research information for my story. After a while, he interrupts.

“Something wrong?”

“Wrong?” I look up. Our eyes connect. His searching, as if he’s trying to read my mind.

“Just reading about the uranium trade regulations.”

“That all?” The tight line of his lips softens. “And what have you learned?”

I read a bit more before responding. “The United States and its European allies have placed strict controls on the manufacturing and distribution of nuclear componentry, including enriched uranium. There’s a fear that in a free market, the uranium trade could adopt similar characteristics as the oil, coal, and gas markets. Besides establishing a production and trade agreement with its allies, the United States has made a Trigger List of countries not part of the treaty. It’s encouraging countries like Pakistan to sign a similar treaty.”

“And in Ireland? The EU?”

I nod in agreement. Though a global story, the heart of the trade deal is in Europe. “The United Kingdom has formed the Export Control Organization, which says that a license is required when exporting controlled goods like enriched uranium. So, there will likely be screening and definitely a paper trail to follow.”

Finn snorts. “Tell that to O’Brien.”

I nod. “And Mrs. Ogdenhayer. They really are despicable people.”

Finn rolls to his feet and flips the table upright. “Right as rain now.”

“You’re good with your hands.”

“Is that an invitation?”

I laugh then quickly fall silent when he comes to sit next to me on the bed. Just his presence steals my breath away. He surprises me by throwing an arm around my shoulders and tugging me against him for a hug. “You have a beautiful heart, Clarissa Steele. Christiana would be proud of you.”

His compliment makes my heart sing.

The song . . . a love song.

I love you, Finn.

The way we connect, the energy between us, the way he makes me feel—falling in love with him was easy. I sink into his warmth, fully aware I’m in for the ride of a lifetime. A different kind of ride.

Full throttle.

Destination unknown.

31

Finn

Three pints in and I’m feeling like the world is my oyster.

I won three bouts in O’Brien’s favor but on my terms—meaning I took a few solid punches and one massive breath-stealing kick to the kidney. The South African won his bouts, as expected. We can’t be disappointing Mrs. Ogdenhayer quite yet, now can we?

And the minx? My lucky wan can’t keep her hands off me.

Not that I’m any better—worse. Truth be told, I’ve been contemplating all night hauling her pretty self into the jacks and riding her until she sings hallelujah backward. The slightest glimpse of her pretty face causes my mind to numb and my cock to harden. Never in me life have I wanted someone the way I want Clarissa. And we make a good team. No, a bleedin’ brilliant team.

I study her from across the room. She’s working her magic with Fiona. Probably questioning her mate about what work I’ll be getting my hands dirty doing. Or more likely, putting a contingency plan in place for when I’ll feck things up with Johnny and bring a wee bit more excitement to the job than anyone expects. In a short time, she’s gotten to know me well. Better than anyone, really. She’s under my skin, she is.

“Another pint,” I call out to the bartender, guilt becoming the relentless companion constantly keeping me in check. Because what in God’s teeth am I doing dreaming of what can never be? I make a “cut-thee-ol’-head-off” motion to the bartender then call out, “Hold off on the pint. A shot of Jamie will do.”

It doesn’t take long for the liquor to hit the spot and for me going back to feeling like the gobshite I am. A light tap on me arm draws me out of my mind-feck. Turning, I find the church wafer-sized lad I was scheduled to fight earlier . .