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Sure, he’s tall, powerful, and self-assured—all of my turn-ons—but he’s bad news and because I gave in to my desires, I’m temporarily on the run.
Does it still count as kidnapping if I understand why he won’t let me leave?
Whether it’s jet lag or nearly getting killed again, my mind and body are so mixed up I’m not sure what’s happening. “Let’s just get somewhere so I can sit down.”
He slides his hand around my back and grips my hip. “Aye, that’s a sound idea.”
His legs are long, and his strides cover too much ground for me to keep up without jogging a little. His determination to hang onto me was terrifying only moments ago, but now, with the situation sucking me in—and with the loss of my mother—I can’t bring myself to care.
We weave through narrow alleys and sidestep forgotten cardboard boxes, and in the distance, echoes of sirens reverberate through the air.
He’ll call the bar. Mom is probably fine. Her urn is sealed and likely just fell to the floor when he pulled the table to shield us from bullets.
I go over the chaos in my mind, fighting to remember if I saw what happened to the pretty copper urn with the shamrocks.
“I can’t believe I lost Mom,” I say, emotion thick in my throat.
His fingers tighten on my hip, and he shrugs me closer. “We’ll find her, luv. You have my word. I’ll comb every bit of damage and debris if I must, but I’ll reunite you with your mam the first chance we get.”
And for some reason…I believe him.
The cityscape transforms into a blur of flickering streetlights and muffled voices. Six or maybe seven blocks over from the church, we step off the slick, wet streets of Dublin and Tag opens a metal gate, ushering me into the front yard of an old row house.
On the front porch of the house, Tag knocks on the dark purple door, and then steps back to scan the street behind us.
When a silver-haired woman in her late sixties opens up, she meets my gaze, looking confused. “What is it, lass?”
“It’s been a feckin’ nightmare of a night, Rose.” Tag strides back from his surveilling. “We need to come in out of the rain.”
The moment Tag speaks, she steps back and ushers us inside. “Get yourselves dried off before you catch the death. I’ll put on the kettle, and we’ll warm up with a cuppa.”
She doesn’t seem the least bit alarmed about Tag knocking on her door this late at night or concerned about why he’s dragging a strange woman into her home. Is this something he does? And who is she to him? Does she know how dangerous he is?
I feel awful for intruding on the woman and for bringing the shadow of danger to her doorstep, but it seems it’s a moot point because here we are.
With the late hour and the storm kicking up outside, the interior of Rose’s house is dimly lit. Straight back from the door, down a dark hall, the flickering glow of a few candles casts a golden hue at the back of the house.
But that isn’t the way Tag takes me.
After bending to untie the laces of his boots, he sets them on the mat beside the door and waits while I toe off my sneakers. Once I’ve set my shoes beside his, he gestures for me to lead the way up a dark staircase on the left.
“You’re safe here.” He leans into one room and flicks on the light. It’s the bathroom. “Get out of your wet clothes and I’ll bring you something dry to put on. Do you fancy a hot shower or a bath to take off the chill?”
Wow. A girl could get whiplash following this guy’s moods. How does he change gears from being a flirt to an autocratic mob boss to an attentive host in the span of a couple of hours?
He snaps his fingers in the air between us. “Hello? Laine? Are you still with me?”
I blink and give my head a shake. “Uh…yeah, a hot shower sounds wonderful. Will she mind?”
“Not at all. Take your time. I’ll set some clothes outside the door here and wait for you downstairs.”
With both of his palms up to me in surrender, he takes a step back. He’s offering me space and I’m not about to argue.
Rushing inside the bathroom, I spin and lock the door behind me. Not that a push-button lock would keep a man like Tag Quinn from busting in here if he wanted to, but it makes me feel like I have at least a little control.
The bathroom is elegant and obviously decorated by a woman with expensive taste. There’s a tiny window up by the ceiling that I’ll never be able to use for an escape, so that’s off the table.
Maybe Tag’s right and I don’t really want to escape and be out there on my own with the McGuire brothers looking for me.
