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“You can let go of my hand now,” she said softly.
I tore my gaze from the window. “What?”
She gestured to where her hand was on the seat between us, to where my fingers were threaded with hers. I jerked away, flexing my fingers.
“Sorry. I didn’t…”
“Realize,” she finished for me. “I know. You gripped my hand at the same time as you realized all the guards were staring.”
Turning to face her fully, I asked, “You were aware.”
“Of course I was. I’ve been stared at my whole life.”
“Somehow, that thought doesn’t make me feel any better,” I grumbled.
“People have recognized who I was since before I was a pre-teen. People stare. I’m Aidan Kavanaugh’s only daughter. I’m the mafia princess of Detroit.”
“I don’t think you need a prince to rescue you.”
“I don’t.”
Torin had gotten into the driver’s seat and started the engine. It went from a loud roar to a purring prowl as he accelerated out of the parking garage and into the rain-drenched streets of Galway. It was barely even eight o’clock in the evening—too early to be heading to a club—but I wanted to make sure Sloane ate a decent meal since Finnan had to cancel.
When we pulled up in front of a restaurant on Fairgreen Road, she turned to me and asked, “This is the nightclub?”
“No. This is a Michelin Star restaurant.”
“You have a reservation?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“Sloane, your father was known by sight in Detroit, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m known by sight here in Galway.”
I thought she was going to start arguing with me, but she simply bit her lip and looked down. “I’m over-dressed.”
“You’re perfect.”
Her head jerked up like it was on strings, and she stared at me. I stared right back, taking in every inch of her beauty. She’d gone heavier on her eye makeup, making her pale gray irises pop. Her lips were done in a nude color, her skin perfect and unblemished.
Sloane snapped out of the moment when Torin opened the door with an umbrella held over the opening and stepped to the side. He’d reached into his jacket to touch his Glock, ready to draw if someone so much as sneezed on her. I got out the other side, my gaze sweeping the street as I buttoned up my jacket and moved to the other side of the car. Torin was standing in front of Sloane now, his head moving as his eyes watched.
I reached for Sloane’s hand, then hesitated. Touching her could become addictive. I could sense that, but I still wanted to feel her soft skin against my palm. In the end, I flexed my hand into a fist and opened the door of the restaurant, letting Torin lead her in.
“Be back here at nine-thirty,” I told him in Gaelic, then turned my attention to the hostess station. A woman in her mid-thirties greeted us.
“Welcome, Mr. Kent. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Your table is ready.”
She led the way through the restaurant, which was decorated in natural timber with warm yellow lights overhead. Our table was secluded and quiet—far enough away from other diners, some of which had stared openly at the beautiful woman I was leading through the restaurant.
The thought that Finnan would soon see this reaction made me want to stab something.
I pulled out Sloane’s chair for her, waiting until she was settled in before sliding it forward. She turned her head slightly, so her warm breath feathered across my hand as I held onto the chair back.
