Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Sloan finished her drink, the alcohol buoying her and making her feel ten feet tall. As tall as Jude. She wandered over to lock the back door, but hesitated. She might not be good at the flirting game, but she wasn’t stupid. He wanted her. He might be holding back for unknown reasons, but he was interested.

The question remained…Was she?

She laughed softly. The man was so overwhelming, she wouldn’t know what to do with him even if she was interested—and she was. He was just so big, and that hair should have been ridiculous, but it gave him the air of a wild thing that could never be tamed. In truth, they couldn’t be more opposite.

Not to mention she didn’t know a single thing about him.

He’d charged in here, taken control of the situation, made her a delicious drink, and charged back out into the night. She rested her forehead against the cool wood of the door. If she were braver, she’d follow him home. She’d flirt. She’d issue an invitation that couldn’t be misinterpreted…

And he’d say no just like he did to the initial offer for drinks.

Sloan opened her eyes and straightened. “The only reason he came over was because he pitied me.” Call her crazy, but she didn’t want her first time with a man to be because he felt sorry for her.

So she turned the deadbolt, and then did her normal circuit of the house to ensure everything was closed and locked. Satisfied and feeling a little silly—what were the odds that someone would choose this house to break into?—Sloan shook her head. She knew better. She might have left the past and the dangers of Boston behind, but that didn’t mean she should be careless.

Someone would be coming for her. It was only a matter of time. She just hoped that Teague had hidden her well enough, and that she could keep under the radar on her end as well.

She needed to stay out of trouble, and Jude had trouble written all over him.

Stripping, she allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, what it would have been like if he’d stayed. He’d take control in the bedroom the same way he had over drinks. There was no doubt about that. Sloan closed her eyes and ran her hands down her body, imagining it was his touch. Her fingers stopped just north of the band of her panties.

I shouldn’t.

But she wanted to.

She slipped beneath the covers and took off her underwear. She never slept naked, and it felt downright decadent to have the silky sheets rubbing against her nipples with every breath. Would he kiss her there? Or even between her legs?

She closed her eyes again, refusing to feel self-conscious as she ran her hand down her stomach to stroke herself between her thighs. She might be thinking of him, but no one had to know. It was her private little fantasy, something that would never happen in the real world.

Her body was already primed, and she spread her wetness up and over her clit, nearly gasping with the shock of pleasure the move brought. She’d masturbated before, but there was something just naughty about doing it while visualizing the man who lived next door. If she concentrated, she could almost feel his whiskers against her inner thigh, his tongue following the path her finger traced. Her body tightened, the pleasure so acute, it almost hurt. Sloan arched her back, a moan slipping free despite herself. Her orgasm stole her breath, but she managed to whisper Jude’s name as she came.

What in God’s name was I thinking?

She opened her eyes, feeling so incredibly foolish. “It doesn’t matter, because it’s just pretend. It won’t ever happen.” Something like disappointment banged inside her, but she ignored it. She had a life here, a life that she’d chosen for herself. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She smiled to herself and rolled over, pulling the covers up to her neck. Tomorrow would come soon enough. She’d get up with the sun and attend yoga, and then she’d go to her shift at the diner. After? Well, maybe she’d give cooking another shot.

Things were finally looking up.

*  *  *

Jude’s grip on the railing was so tight, he’d have slivers for sure. It didn’t fucking matter. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the window into the spare bedroom. The bedroom where Sloan had just coaxed herself into orgasm and moaned his name upon release. He tightened his grip, the pain reminding him that he could not go into her room, pull the tease of sheets off her body, and show her what a real orgasm looked like.

It took every ounce of control he had to let go of the railing and walk down the stairs to the beach. And just keep walking.

She hadn’t invited him into her bed. Maybe she would have if he’d stuck around, but the girl was a lightweight if he’d ever seen one, and Jude wasn’t a fan of the idea of taking advantage of her being more than a little tipsy. Another line he refused to cross, even after he’d left so many in the rearview. He didn’t take contracts for kids, or for anyone without a track record to rival his.

And he didn’t take advantage of innocents.

He snorted and picked up his pace until he was jogging. The wet sand clung to his boots, but he relished the effort each step took. Anything to distract him from imagining what Sloan might taste like. She gave the impression of someone with little experience, and a primal part of him raged to the forefront at the thought of being the one to show her how much pleasure she’d been missing.

Hold on, asshole. You’re acting like it’s a sure thing. You’re the one who put on the brakes.

Yeah, he had.

But as far as he was concerned, she’d issued an open invitation when she’d touched herself while fantasizing about him. It didn’t matter if she didn’t realize what she’d done. It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

He wouldn’t force her. He wouldn’t have to.

She just needed permission to take what she wanted…to allow him to take what he wanted.

He circled back to their houses, heading for his. As tempting as it was to appear at her bedside like some sort of incubus, he doubted she’d respond well to it. So he went back to the drawing board—his go-to time consumer.

Jude pulled out the gun he’d taped beneath the cupboard just inside the back door—one of many secreted throughout the house—and checked to make sure it was loaded and hadn’t been tampered with. Satisfied everything was as it should be, he cleared the house, one room after another. It was unlikely that anyone had broken in, but he couldn’t afford to be careless.

Not when he was so close to his goal.

Sorcha was the only Sheridan who’d left Boston, and it had made tracking her down a hellish job. But just because she was out of Boston didn’t mean she was completely out of the family business. Jude’s sources had come back with info that he couldn’t ignore—about Sorcha and her nephew, Ronan. It didn’t strain Jude’s skills too much to make it look like Ronan had an unfortunate accident. But finding Sorcha had proven much tougher.

He moved to the room at the back of the house. It had originally been a guest room, but he’d converted it into a place to lay out his research. He unlocked both the door and the deadbolt and let himself in. Just like in the rest of the house, nothing here was tampered with.

The map spread across most of one wall, little blue pegs marking the various homes Sorcha owned across the world, courtesy of her late second husband. She never stayed too long in one place, never moved about with any pattern that could be tracked.

If he was going to be perfectly honest with himself, he’d hesitated at first. After all, Sorcha and Ronan had almost done him a favor. Once he’d finished with Sorcha, he fully intended to send Colm the information he’d compiled—information confirming how the man’s beloved son and sister had fully intended a coup that would leave half the Sheridan force dead. That old saying about the apple not falling too far from the tree applied to Ronan Sheridan—with interest.

It took a sick son of a bitch to kill his own father in a quest for power.

And what better way to hurt Colm than to first take his scheming son away, and then to pour salt on the wound by using the truth as a weapon?

But first—Sorcha.

The only reason he had some assurance that she would come to Callaway Rock was that a contact of his had heard that Callista Sheridan had recently spoken with Sorcha for the first time in her adult life. No one knew why—though it sure as fuck wasn’t because Callie had found out that her aunt fully intended to murder her just one year before—but the contact had heard Callaway Rock mentioned.

That was it.

It wasn’t much as leads went, but it was more than he’d had.

And now Sloan was occupying the O’Connor house.

He’d have to be an idiot to ignore the possible connection. There were too many facts adding up to a mystery he had no answers to. Sloan, with her delicate personality, who flinched like she’d been someone’s punching bag. Callista, contacting her aunt for the first time in her life. Sorcha, coming to a predetermined location despite all evidence pointing to her never once doing that. It all boiled down to one fact.

Sloan was the reason Callista had called Sorcha.

While that might seem like something profound, it didn’t mean a damn thing when push came to shove. Sloan wasn’t a Sheridan. He knew every single one of them inside and out. And she wasn’t on the list.

A part of him was profoundly grateful for that fact.

He could seduce her, could pump her for information, but he wouldn’t have to put an end to her. She’d been in town a grand total of a week and he’d actually seen her finding her feet as day after day went by. He’d hate himself a little if he had to put an end to that—to her. He’d compromised damn near every line he’d ever had in the pursuit of vengeance. He refused to kill an innocent, no matter her apparent connection to his enemies.

But she wasn’t a Sheridan, so it wasn’t an issue.

Jude stopped in front of the photograph that had started all this. The one his mother had kept with her always, right up until sorrow finally won and she took that last step into permanent sleep. She’d managed to stay alive until he was grown, which was astounding when held against the truth that a vital part of her had died with her husband and other sons. If she hadn’t been pregnant with Jude—her late-in-life miracle baby—she would have finished what Colm Sheridan started the same day that she buried her boys.

He touched the photograph, the faces familiar because of how often she’d pointed to them, telling him stories about how Neal had been a little hell-raiser, even from infancy, and how Carey had been quiet and solemn and watched everything around him with wide green eyes. About how they’d grown up big and strong and become a threat Colm couldn’t ignore.

About how he’d butchered them in one fell swoop, he and his men attacking in the wee hours of the morning and killing every single man the MacNamaras had to call their own, whether family or hired help.

It had been a slaughter.

He turned the photograph facedown, unable to stand the happy faces staring back at him. It was for his mother he’d gotten into the killing business, honing his already considerable skills. She’d prepared him as best she could and when she couldn’t do any more, she’d slipped away to be with her lost loved ones. Her death had been the final push he needed to move forward and take that first contract.

He couldn’t blame her. What did one son compare to the two who were lost? To the beloved husband who she’d never stopped mourning?

It didn’t make him miss her less, though.

Almost there. I’m so close to bringing justice to the Sheridans once and for all. The rest of Boston can rot for all I care.

What would he do after he’d avenged his family?

Jude turned, facing the direction of the O’Connor house despite the fact he couldn’t see it from his position. There was no future for him—not the kind that included a woman or a family of his own or any sort of stability. He’d seen too many things, had done too many things. There was no coming back from that, even if he wanted to. He’d never even stayed in one place for more than a few months, and he didn’t imagine he was going to start now.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use his time waiting for Sorcha O’Connor in Callaway Rock well.