e husband owns the bar and would gut anyone who put a hand on her. I went looking for you last night – you kept guard outside the gate. So if you lied about that, you’re probably lying about other things.”
For the first time in a long while he felt stupid. He had enough sense not to bother with an unnecessary lie, and yet he’d given her one, a clumsy, easily disproved one. He shrugged. “I just thought it would set your mind at ease.”
“Why?”
“So you wouldn’t be afraid I’d jump your bones. You’re the first gringa I’ve been around, and I . . .”
“I don’t think you give a damn whether I’m a gringa or not,” she interrupted him. “And I don’t see why you have to keep telling me that you aren’t going to touch me. I believe you. Maybe you were slightly tempted by the first female you’d seen in years, but you’ve come to your senses and now you wouldn’t touch me with a ten foot pole. I get it. I just wanted . . .”
He didn’t wait to see what she wanted. Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d pulled her into his arms, against his body, slid his hands beneath the thick cloth of the wimple and put his mouth on hers.
The moment their lips touched the two of them froze. And then he moved, tilting her head back, pushing her mouth open, sliding his tongue inside and kissing her so fucking hard that he could feel his cock stiffen painfully in his jeans. It didn’t matter. He lifted his head, glaring down at her, into her dazed eyes.
“Kiss me back, damn you,” he said, and ducked his head again.
This time she did. And damned if she didn’t kiss like a nun. She wasn’t used to using her tongue, wasn’t used to giving up everything with a kiss, and he had to show her. Stupid as it was, he was more than happy to do so, letting his tongue tease hers, lead her, seduce her, so that she was shaking in his arms and making soft little noises that drove him crazy. He wanted to fumble under the cassock and shift his cock so the damned thing wouldn’t be crushed, and for half a moment he considered diving under her skirts and taking her then and there. He could seduce her into letting him, but with his luck, some good Catholic would come up the stairs to see a priest shagging a nun, and that would blow their cover big-time.
He pushed his erection against her, just in case she missed the point, rubbing for an endless, blissful moment as she panted into his mouth, and he knew that beneath all those layers of heavy cloth her nipples would be hard and sweet like cherries.
And then he pulled back, quickly, while he still could. “Get back in the room before everyone finds out I’m not your everyday priest,” he said hoarsely. “You can see why I’m going to take a little time on my way back. I’m so fucking horny I’d shag a pig.”
“Lovely,” she said caustically. Her mouth was swollen from his, and he realized he’d just called her a pig. She shoved him away, hard. “We’ll wait until noon tomorrow. If you’re not back by then we’re going to set off by ourselves.”
No one had given him an ultimatum in twenty years. They wouldn’t dare. He stared down at her in shock.
“You heard me,” she snapped. “Now go find yourself another pig.”
The door slammed behind her.
He didn’t tend to let other people get the last word. He was Irish, after all, and while his father had been a murdering, grandiose whoreson and drunkard, he also had the soul of a poet. He’d been able to draw people to him, to convince his wife to stay with him after all the drunken beatings, including the one that had killed his unborn baby sister.
No, he was his father’s son. A right bastard, ready to ruin a woman for his own needs and nothing more. He glanced at the tightly shut door. He wished he dared lock them in, but that could cause more trouble than it was worth. He had complete faith in Beth’s ability to keep Dylan under control, faith in her solid judgment. She wouldn’t take off at noon tomorrow unless she had good reason to believe he was done. No fool, his Beth.
She wasn’t his Beth, he reminded himself, wiping the taste of her from his mouth. She was a meal ticket, nothing more.
He shoved his overlong hair behind him, wondering what the hotel clerk had thought of a priest with hair past his shoulders. But no, he’d been more interest in soccer than in paying customers. He probably wouldn’t even be able to tell anyone a thing about them, if anyone should come asking.
He looked at the door one last time. He could drag Dylan out, tie him up and leave him in the toilet while he finished what he and Sister Beth had started. He wasn’t going to do that. He was going to go off, take care of business, and get royally fucked.
Hopefully not at the same time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Tell Peter to watch his back.” The message was loud and clear.
“You need me to come there?” Bastien had offered.
“The day I can’t handle a hothead like MacGowan will be the day I deserve to get a knife between the shoulders,” he’d replied.
“I doubt Genny would feel the same way.”
It wasn’t going to happen. Peter pushed away from the computer to limp over the window. MacGowan wasn’t the backstabbing kind – if he had a problem with you the knife would go straight into your heart with him looking you in the eye. Nothing sneaky about Finn MacGowan.
And he wouldn’t make a move without being certain who had failed him. The damnable thing was, Peter had failed him.
It didn’t matter how many dead ends and false trails Thomason had set up. It didn’t matter that the Committee was in freefall, that Isobel had disappeared, and half their operatives had been murdered. He should have made certain. He should have gone to Callivera himself, except that he’d promised Genevieve, and he couldn’t afford to leave with no one to take over.
And they were so short-staffed there was no one else to send.