Another collar wound around my neck, another leash pulled taut. I want to cry. Yet I know I can’t. So instead of fighting, or crying, or pleading, I quietly obey. Just like I’ve done a thousand times before. “Very well, sir. I’ll accept the conditions of my assignment.”
Miles Fenske takes a moment to consider me. He’s not blind, he knows something is wrong. Thankfully, he releases me from his scrutiny and knocks on the door. “Declan, it’s Miles and Contessa. May we come in?”
“Ah, Miles. Yes, please come in,” Declan calls from behind the door.
I adjust my tiny black-framed glasses and take a breath before stepping forward. For all my nervousness, the heavens seem to part as the godlike Declan O’Brien greets me with a dashing smile. He and the hulking male sitting directly in front of him rise from their seats and—
No…not…No!
The police officer in full uniform turns his six-foot-plus frame my way, his light blue shirt tight against a dense mass of muscle, his blond hair shaved close to his scalp, and his light blue eyes staring straight at me. But it’s not his physique, those eyes, or even that humongous gun strapped to his hip that cements me where I stand. It’s his face.
The same face that had dipped between my spread legs all those years ago.
Holy. Shit.
“Hello, Contessa,” Declan says, keeping his smile. He was so busy greeting DA Fenske that he didn’t catch my stupefied response.
I jerk my head and pull the strands of my blond hair forward before nodding Declan’s way. “Hello, Assistant DA O’Brien.”
He chuckles. “I told you, just call me Declan.” He motions to the police officer. “This is my brother, Curran. He’ll be watching you.”
Brother? Cold sweat pours down my spine. Murder me, Jesus. I beg you.
My hands clutch my iPad, hard enough to crush my minute breasts. I bow my head, hoping to shadow my features. “Ma’am,” he says.
Declan motions us to sit and immediately begins discussing his progress on the Montenegro case with Miles. I open my iPad and type feverishly. Or at least, I try. Curran is looking at me. Right at me.
I adjust my position to angle away from him. Damnit. Why him? Why here? The one time I let loose—the one time I slept with a man I barely knew—the frat boy I avoided, the loudmouth I did my best to ignore—of all people, he’s assigned to guard me?
I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is the same man I tied to bed with my argyle socks!
I stare hard at my iPad, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks as I envision my future and reputation imploding around me.
“Montenegro’s second was arrested this afternoon,” Declan adds. “And we have a lead on his third.”
“Do you think either will talk?” Miles asks him.
Declan widens his grin. “They will once they know how much we have on them.”
Both men laugh. I shift my weight and steal a glimpse Curran’s way. The prosecutors may be talking mob bosses and arraignments, but his attention is all on me.
“Contessa, make a note that I’d like the records clerk to bring everything they have on Gus Mancini, starting from his first arrest.”
My fingers sweep across the screen. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
“Do I know you?” Curran asks, his deep voice cutting through the other men’s chatter and tensing every ridge in my spine.
My fingers pause their erratic typing. “No,” I answer quickly.
The old wooden chair creaks as he leans back. “I could swear I’ve seen you before. You hang out at Lou’s Barbecue or Romeo’s Pizzeria?”
“N-no, not at all.”
“What about Frank’s Bar? Or— I know, O’Malley’s Tavern?”
“No,” I mutter, doing my best to shield my face.
“Curran, do you mind?” Declan asks.
“Oh—sorry. I thought I knew Contessa here from one of my stomping grounds.”
“I assure you, I’ve never been to those places,” I stammer.
My nervousness and direct eye contact totally give me away.
Curran straightens as stunned recognition spreads along his features. “Argyles?” he asks.
Chapter 2
Curran