Chapter 9

Laine

"Let go of me." I elbow Tag as hard as I can to make him let go of my arm, but his grip is like an iron vice. The breathy grunt he lets off is at least some consolation, but it doesn't bring me any freedom.

In a running crouch with his arm over my shoulder and his hand gripping the back of my neck, he pulls me past the men with guns in the staff corridor and toward the back exit. "I'm sorry, luv. This isn't how I intended for our night to go."

Yeah, me either.

My mind is spinning in a semi-daze and though I want to protest with everything I've got, I also want to put as much distance between me and the echo of gunshots as I can.

Twice in two days? Seriously?

Thankfully, I'm wearing sensible shoes for racing from a killing spree, but that won't save me from twisting an ankle and falling on my face if I can't straighten up and regain my freedom.

My heart pounds in my chest, echoing the rhythm of my rapid footsteps, but once he slams the push bar on the back door and the mist of the night air hits me, my cognitive train gets back on its rails.

"Seriously, Tag. Let go of me." I make another attempt to break away from him and get nowhere.

He runs us out the back door, scanning the area and rooflines as he navigates us through a small back lot and past a stinking dumpster.

I gag, the reek of grease and rotting meat catches in my throat and churns the half-digested boxty and Merlot sloshing around in my belly.

At the end of the alley, we are blocked by a chain-link fence about six feet high.

Dead end.

I spin to look back the way we came, terrified I'll find Irish goons racing after us.

Thankfully, there are none.

"Up and over, luv." Tag's voice is quiet and controlled, yet laced with so much menace it sends a chill up my spine. "Now would be good."

I peg him with a look. "You're insane."

"Feckin' hell! I left my men to get you away from the trigger-happy, blood-thirsty arseholes that will come for us, and you're fighting me? It's not me that's gone screwy."

My fight-or-flight response is raging inside me, and fighting is getting me nowhere. I push down the terror in my guts and switch tactics. "Fine, but you'll have to let go of me so I can climb."

I try not to make it obvious that getting free from him is currently higher on my list than avoiding the blood-thirsty arseholes he mentioned.

His gaze narrows on me but then he spins me to face the fence, grabs me by my hips, and dead lifts me two feet into the air. From there, all I have to do is grab the top rail and, with a few quick toes in the chain link, I've got my leg thrown over and I'm dropping on the other side.

He's only getting started his climb, so I have a split-second to decide…

There's no decision to make.

The moment my rubber soles hit the asphalt, I'm gone. I sprint away from the dead-end alley with my survival instincts and adrenaline fueling every step forward.

The darkened streets loom ahead like a labyrinth of shadows and uncertainty.

Which way is the Gilford?

I have to get away from this and find a cop or someone who can help me.

There's no time to pause, to catch my breath, or to get my bearings. In the middle of the city, I can't tell east from west and though I turned right at the church to come down to the pub?—

Wait! The church!

Finding the spires in the distance, I run into the street and race back toward my hotel. I run as fast and as far as I can, sticking to the shadows at the side of the road until a stitch grips my side and I need to slow down.

A quick glance over my shoulder gives me hope.

Did I lose him?

With men actively gunning him down, he's got bigger worries than me. I swipe at the hair sticking to my face with sweat and rain and slip into a shadowed doorway to catch my breath before running the rest of the way to my hotel.

If I survive this, I'm definitely going to hit the treadmill more often.

I've barely sucked in a breath of damp night air when he's on me like a stupidly sexy stalker. I lurch to break free, but he expects my reaction and forces me into the dark confines of the doorway.

I twist and fight, but he's fit and unbelievably strong. In two quick moves, I'm pinned, with both of my arms secured at my shoulders and his chest pressed against mine.

"Ah…luv, don't be like that."

"Get off me!" I shout.

I bring up my knee to go for gold, but he shifts to avoid the hit. I connect with the solid muscle of his thigh and though it doesn't faze him, I get one hand free. His reflexes are crazy fast, and he fends off my blows without effort.

When he's recaptured both my wrists, he squeezes with enough force to make me suck in a breath. His glare is fierce, and when he leans close, the heat of his body radiates against the cold chill of mine. "I swear I'll give you space if you feckin' stop!"

His command claps in the air, and I fall still.

"Laine, luv, I'm not here to harm you. It's quite the opposite. If you'll just calm the fuck down, I'll let you go. I swear it."

I'm not sure that I believe him, but it's worth a shot. Besides, pinned up against the wall like this is confusing as hell.

He almost got me killed. He said I was just a pussy to fill on a Friday night. I hate him.

I ignore the way being close to him makes goosebumps prickle all over my body and how the deep cadence of his voice vibrates straight to my core.

I hate him.

It's just a normal biological reaction—purely physical.

I swallow and exhale a deep breath. "Fine. I'm calm."

When he releases me, I step deeper into the shadows and my back bumps the door of the closed meat pie shop.

He holds up his hands, blocking my escape, and sucks in a deep breath, as if to contain his temper. "I realize you have no reason to trust me, but right now, I'm your best chance to stay alive. You need to stop runnin' from me."

I bark a laugh. "It's because of you that men were trying to kill me. Ad hominem, baby. When someone is guilty of a crime by knowing or having some involvement with someone else, not by direct evidence found against them.

He blinks. "Aye, guilty by association. I'm familiar with the concept."

"Well, the way I see it, getting away from you is my best chance at self-preservation."

The corner of his mouth tugs up with an arrogant smile. "Are you talkin' about the men with guns now or what happened right before?"

I arch a brow. "Just another pussy on a Friday night, right?"

"Och, the blasphemy of those words. You're too smart to believe I meant it. You have to know I only said it to take their attention off you. You understand that, don't you?"

His gaze softens as he searches my expression, and I sigh. "Fine. Yes. I know why you said it, but it doesn't change the fact that we just met. We mean nothing to one another in the grand scheme of things. Beyond one earth-shattering orgasm, there's nothing between us."

"Nothin' between us? Och, Miss Laine. If you knew the dark and dirty things I want to do, you wouldn't be hellbent on gettin' away from me."

How can this man be real?

"You're not good for me, Tag. I just got out of?—"

I clamp my mouth shut and cut off my words. No. I can't believe I almost told him about the shit back home.

He seems to sense my turmoil because he releases me from the intensity of his gaze and steps back. "Now is not the time, and this is certainly not the place."

I swallow, irritated by how one velvet-voiced comment or possessive touch from this man has me dazzled.

"How about I take you somewhere safe and neutral, so we can get out of the rain?"

He extends his hand toward me and I slap it away. "Help!" I search the street for anyone who might come to my aid. "Help!"

I try to push past his body and freeze when the stiff cock filling out the front of his fancy suit pants brushes against my belly.

I blink up at him, equally fascinated and appalled. "Are you seriously getting off on this?"

His gaze narrows. "If you're askin' if I'm sportin' a lead pipe, the answer is obvious. You rubbed over my cock and felt it. If you're askin' if I'm hard because I like to chase women down in the street and manhandle them, the answer is no, I don't."

He sounds sincere. In fact, he sounds pissed.

"Then don't chase me down and manhandle me. Let me go back to my hotel."

"I can't. If I do, the McGuire brothers will find you and either kidnap you or kill you within the hour."

"Why? They don't even know me."

He sighs. "No, but they aren't the brightest bulbs and if they think I've got a lady friend, they'll use her to get to me…"

I stop fighting and sigh. "Fine, then let's go to the police."

He arches an ebony brow. "I am the police in this city, luv. You're safer with me than you would be anywhere else…at least until I figure out what Mattie McGuire is up to and can shut this down."

Resigning myself to the situation for the moment, I let out a long breath. Fine. I know how this works.

Sadly, this ain't my first rodeo.

"All right, so who are you, anyway? IRA, INLA, Irish Mob?"

He tilts his head from side to side, his ebony hair brushing the color of his dress shirt. "I prefer Irish businessman."

"Uh-huh. So mafia."

"From an American perspective, I suppose that is close enough to the truth of it."

Just fucking great.

It's like I'm a living magnet for trouble.

Some of the tension in his shoulders eases as he studies my reaction. "You don't seem as freaked out as most."

I'm not about to admit that as a defense attorney in Chicago, I've been around organized crime more than I care to admit.

If I did that, he could discover my real identity.

Then he'd dig into the circumstances of my departure and my chance of starting over as Lainey O'Neill would be lost.

I shrug. "I grew up in the lower class and have a strong survival instinct. For tonight, I'll play it your way, but come morning, Mom and I?—"

I gasp and look down at myself. My hands are empty. "Where's Mom?!"

I turn back the way we came, and he grips my shoulders. "We can't go back, but as soon as we get off the street, I'll call Aiden and have him secure your mam's urn."

Hot, fat tears run down my cheeks as I work to breathe past the tightness in my throat.

I can't believe I lost my mother.

"Her dying wish was for me to come here and give her a peaceful end and I lost her in a shootout because I was horny and desperate. Hell, I don't even know your full name."

"Quinn's my family name. I'm Tag Quinn."

Tag Quinn.

I think back to the case files I worked on and the conversations I'd been both privy to and overheard.

I don't remember the Quinn family specifically, but I wasn't that involved. The law firm had clients in the Chicago mob that supplied guns to the players in Ireland, but I don't think Quinn was the name.

Tag is studying me and the yearning, edgy energy deep in my belly tries to make a comeback.

What the hell is wrong with me?

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.

The thought of those thugs brings a rush of anxiety washing over me. Tag might be a mafia boss—and I'm sure he's violent and ruthless when behind closed doors—but those brothers didn't even think twice about shooting up a pub full of people.

How many died in that pub tonight?

I could've been one of them.

With three quick steps, I sit on the cover of the toilet and curl over my knees. The adrenaline of the night has worn off and I've started to shake.

It's either terror, shock, or maybe being wet to the bone. Any way I slice it, nothing is more appealing than the thought of standing under a stream of hot water as I wash this entire night away.