Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 105065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
“If I’m the butterfly,” I say sweetly. “What does that make you?”
“That depends.” He leans a little closer, inky darkness eclipsing the gray of his eyes. “What do you think I am?”
“How about we just call a spade a spade?” I flash him a smile. “Or in this case, a Crow a Crow.”
The threat in his gaze turns to something else entirely as he presses his hands against the bar and boxes me in with his arms. “How do ye know that name?”
“Oh, puh-lease. Everybody in Boston knows the notorious Crows. This little club you’re running is a hot bed of criminal activity. For the… what’s it called?” I tap my finger against my lips. “Oh yeah, that’s right… the MacKenna Syndicate.”
Before I can even really enjoy the effect my taunting has had on him, he’s grabbed me by the arm and yanked me off the stool. I’m dragged down a dark hallway and into an office before I’m roughly shoved against the wall.
Without pretense, he starts groping around my body for a wire. His hands aren’t at all gentle, and I flush unexpectedly when his palms move over my breasts. Scorching heat ripples along every inch of me he brazenly roams. I definitely don’t like it, but I’m responding nonetheless. Until he yanks up my skirt and kicks my legs apart, cupping me through my thong.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You aren’t going to find one in there if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His attention dips to the pulse that’s now jumping in my throat and his jaw sets as his eyes flick to mine. He’s searching for something entirely different here, trying to pry my secrets out of me. My breaths are coming too quick, and he notices that too. He still hasn’t released me. His palm is between my legs, the heat beneath it only growing with every passing moment. The most vulnerable part of me that no man has ever touched, and yet he feels the right to. It isn’t sexual to him. His eyes are clouded with suspicion and anger and he’s waiting for me to tell him to stop. To get off of me. That’s what he wants, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Who the feck’re you?” he finally pulls away, and I take a deep breath. His accent definitely gets thicker when he’s pissy, and it makes me smile for some odd reason.
“You already know,” I drawl in a sugary voice. “Mack Wilder. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crow. Officially.”
He takes a step back and eyes me off like he isn’t quite sure what to make of me. I’ve thrown him for a loop, and I like it. I use the opportunity to do the same. He’s looking sharp tonight in his black leather jacket and low-slung jeans. Everything about him is dark, powerful, mysterious. His aura exudes an armor that I doubt many can penetrate. It almost makes me feel strangely attracted to his dangerous persona. Almost.
I’m not completely insane.
“Ye’ve got exactly five seconds to tell me what the hell ye’re doing in my club,” he deadpans. “Before you’ll wish ye never set foot in here.”
Again, I smile at him. I have no doubt he’s packing heat and even less doubt he’d hesitate to ditch me in a dumpster somewhere. In fact, he’s looking at me right now like it’s exactly what he’s considering. But I have nothing to lose anymore, and I want to see how far I can push him. So what do I do?
I brazenly use four of those five seconds to take a seat in one of his nice leather chairs and cross my legs. My skirt hitches up my thigh, and his eyes don’t even move from mine.
Huh. Well that doesn’t inspire confidence. Still, I forge on anyway.
“I want a job,” I tell him. “I heard you had an opening for a dancer.”
What happens next shocks the hell out of me. He actually laughs. A real, full on, thunderous belly laugh. For a guy who wanted to kill me two seconds ago, he’s switching gears faster than I can keep up.
“Ah Jaysus, sweetheart…” His eyes are watering he’s laughing so hard now. “Ye’re kind of cute. Dead gorgeous in fact. But ye already know I’m not going to give you a job.”
I cross my arms and glare. “And why the hell not?”
“Ah, I don’t know.” The amusement drains from his face as he leans down and looks me dead in the eyes. “Maybe because I don’t fecking trust you.”
“And how much do you need to trust me to watch me shake my ass on stage every night?” I argue.
“A lot more than ye might expect.”
My eyes roam over his unrelenting expression, and a little piece of my hope shatters. Shit. He’s one hundred percent serious. This guy is a lot harder to crack than I anticipated. Why did it have to be him that saw me tonight? Why couldn’t it be one of the idiots that couldn’t stop staring at my tits last week?
“Just let me audition,” I press. “Then you can decide.”
I’m certain he’s going to shut it down right away, but then an oddly familiar tune blasts over the speakers, interrupting us. It’s incredibly loud in this part of the building, and incredibly Irish.
“What the hell is that?” I cover my ears.
“Watch your mouth,” he says. “That’s me national anthem. Means the bar is closing down.”
“Hey, I’m Irish too,” I protest.
He cocks his head to the side and dismisses it entirely. “Ye’re about as Irish as a plastic paddy.”
That sets off the hot head in me, and I stand up and poke a finger into his chest. “Hey buddy, you watch your fuckin’ mouth. My dad was Jack Wilder, the son of Joseph Wilder. Two of the greatest boxing legends in their time. It doesn’t get any more friggin’ Irish than that.”
“Ye’re kind of a feisty wee thing.” He grabs my arms and pins me in place. “Aren’t ya?”
For the briefest of seconds, something odd flashes in his eyes. Something that looks like hunger, but whatever it is, it’s fleeting. The shutters come back down and his eyes go dim. His palm slides down around my wrist and engulfs me as if to demonstrate how easily he could break me. But instead, his thumb skates over my pulse. I blink up at him when I realize he’s either giving me a human lie detector test, or trying to see if I’m affected by him.