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“Where are we going?”
“To a club.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t get into a club. I’m only eighteen.”
I suppressed a laugh. “Eighteen is the legal age in Ireland, lass. You can get into a club, go to a bar, buy alcohol. Whatever you want.”
She gave me a slow-eyed blink like she couldn’t believe what I’d just said was true. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Are you ready?” I eyed her sweater. “You got anything under that?”
Her eyes narrowed on my face. “What?”
“We’re going to a nightclub, lass,” I repeated. “It’s going to be hot, sweaty, and dark.”
She raised her chin a little and said, “I’m going to get changed.”
When she emerged twenty minutes later, I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. She was in the black, long-sleeved halter dress I’d bought on a fucking whim because I wanted to see her in it but never thought she’d wear it. I’d been watching Sloane for too fucking long. That was the reason Finnan had asked me to fill her wardrobe—because I’d been surveilling her in Detroit on and off for the past six months.
I knew she was a jeans and sneakers kind of woman, but also one who enjoyed getting dressed up for dinners and going to the theater.
The dress she was wearing was skin-tight through the hips, the fabric clinging to her slight curves. The top part of the dress was two panels that crossed over near the top of her throat, revealing a tantalizing keyhole of her breasts. Sheer black sleeves covered her arms, leaving her back exposed.
On her feet were the pair of black patent calfskin leather shoes with a fifteen-centimeter heel. The Louboutin’s had cost more money than most people made in a week over here, but seeing them on her, was totally worth it. The red lining on the sole flashed with every step she took, and I knew that her calves would look amazing as she walked in front of me.
“Fuck me.” This woman was getting to me.
She glanced down at herself. “Isn’t this more fitting for a club?”
It was, but keeping other men away from her was going to be a fucking issue. I must’ve taken too long to answer because she turned and called over her shoulder, “Why are you stroking your gun?”
I glanced down to find that I was indeed stroking it. “Just thinking about all the men who’ll be trying to get close to you.”
She frowned like she couldn’t quite understand what I’d said. “I’ll get changed.”
“No. Don’t.”Fuck.“You look…”Amazing. Edible. Fuckable.“Fine. You look fine.”
One of her pale brows winged up. “Fine?”
“Yeah.”
Her mouth compressed into a thin line. “Fine,” she muttered. She threw her shoulders back and walked to the door. I let her go because I wanted to see if I was right about her calves.
And I fucking was.
She stepped out into the hallway, her head turning from one side of the door to the other as she saw the two men guarding her apartment. She gave each of them a slight, confident nod and walked toward the elevator bank. As I stepped from the apartment, both sentinels straightened their spines and rolled their shoulders back.
In Gaelic, I told them, “Don’t leave her apartment unattended. We’ll be back in a few hours.”
When I turned back around, Sloane was staring at me. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to argue, then shut it. Keeping the smirk off my face, I reached around her and punched at the down button on the panel. She stiffened at my proximity, and this close, I could smell her natural vanilla scent underneath the scent of the shampoo she’d used.
Against all my better judgment, I lingered there for a moment longer before straightening and folding my hands in front of my body. Sloane turned her head slightly as if she wanted to keep me in her periphery while we waited.
The elevator car arrived, sending the doors open with a softwhoosh. Stepping inside, I scanned every corner—more out of habit rather than any real danger—motioning for Sloane to follow me. I pushed the button for the basement level, then rested against the metal wall.
Sloane heaved a sigh but didn’t relax one bit. “Where are we going tonight?”
“A club called Foundry.”
