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I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Well, hell, what do I do now?
CHAPTER SIX
Tag
Feckin hell, I need to get a grip. I’m decades past being a teenager, but one brush of our hands and I’m hard as stone and everything wild and dangerous within me is raging.
Women often capture my attention, but never has one sparked an interest at this level before.
When she first wandered in out of the rain, I knew she wasn’t from around here. I know all the locals, if not by name, then by their faces or their kin. Dublin is my city and I pride myself on knowing my people.
This lovely lady with eyes that hold so much sorrow and anger is new here. I’m sure of it. But she’s not a tourist. She doesn’t have that light about her.
She’s something…other.
Meeting her gaze is like getting caught in a storm.
A storm I’m very willing to weather.
It occurs to me I’ve been staring longer than is natural and I get out of my head and back to the moment. “Come. Let me give you the tour.”
She’s got a bit of a ‘deer in the headlights’ look in her eyes, but if I need to be a little dominant to get her somewhere quieter, then so be it.
Making sure not to touch her skin, I press my hand to the small of her back and lead her away from the bar.
We’re passing the dance floor when she sends me a sideways glance. “Wait. Are you Jimmy Frances? Do you own this place?”
How adorable is that?
I rarely speak to anyone who isn’t aware of who I am—and where’s the fun in that? People around here are either too polite because they’re afraid of me or too bold because they’re trying to impress.
It makes for boring conversation.
But being mistaken for Jimmy is new. He’ll get a kick out of it later when I tell him, too.
“Och, no. Jimmy is the burly gent behind the bar. He’s the namesake, but we run the bar together.”
“I see. And what is your name?”
“You first,” I counter, leading her up six steps and into the staff only area. “I confess I tried to read your credit card, but you snatched it back too quickly. What is your name, Miss…?”
She blinks up at me with wide brown eyes and seems to consider. Either she’s more gone with drink than she looks or she’s considering whether or not she wants to tell me. I’d guess the latter.
Smart woman.
“Laine O’Neill,” she says, “But I go by Laine or Lainey.”
The way she says that sparks all kinds of questions, but I push them to the back of my mind for now. There will be time to ask all my questions, I’ll make sure of it.
“And yours, Mr…”
“My given name is Teague and is mispronounced by most English folks, so I mostly go by Tag. It’s close enough.” My hand over the ID scanner releases the lock on the door, and I open the way into my office. “Make yourself at home.”
She steps inside the door and her eyes go wide. Her gaze scans over the leather couch and chair of my seating area, to my massive desk, to the mahogany pool table at the far end of the room. “Wow. This is…not what I expected.”
I gesture toward the leather sofa that looks out the one-way glass to the dance floor below. “Would you like to sit? Here, set your things on the table.”
