Page 8 of Dangerously
Declan speeds off, and I have no clue where we’re going or if the job was even done.
All I know is, when my strength returns, I’m going to fucking kill him.
* * *
Declan helps me to walk.
We make our way through an arched-over brick walkway into a courtyard fragrant with magnolias and a bubbling, three-tier fountain. It’s all so very turn-of-the-century New Orleans.
He basically carries me up the outside stairway to his hotel room. Mercenary lesson number one: find accommodations with their own private entrance. Easier to come and go and smuggle injured co-workers in and out. If we had to walk through a crowded lobby, red flags would have most definitely gone up.
Declan swipes his keycard, and we all but fall into the room. We stumble over to the bed and crash onto the mattress.
“Son of a bitch,” I hiss. Everything fucking hurts.
“Sit up. Let me look you over,” he orders in that sexy-as-fuck Irish accent.
I want to protest. I also just want to close my eyes and go to sleep, but I have a feeling that would be a bad idea considering I’m one-hundred percent positive I have a concussion.
He flicks on the bedside lamp, and the fluorescent glow feels like shards of glass trying to blind me.
“Ugh.”I shield my eyes. This fucking sucks.
Declan secures my chin in his hand and moves my face around, inspecting it thoroughly. I do the same to him, counting all the small slashes in his face from the shrapnel of the blast.
“You don’t look too bad, considering,” he comments.
“Considering you tried to blow us up?”
“Considering you went flying like an under-stuffed rag doll.”
“Is that your nice way of calling me skinny?”
“No, not really. It’s my way of calling you wimpy.”
“I’m not wimpy.” I smack his hand away.
Declan smiles, and I feel the sentiment deep in my gut.Shit.
I cannot be attracted to this guy. It’s dangerous.He’sdangerous.I’mdangerous. The whole situation is all-around dangerous.
“No, you’re definitely not wimpy.” He changes his tune. “You took on those guys like it was nothing. Picking them off like apples dangling from a tree.” He walks into the bathroom as he talks and returns with a wet washcloth. “You’re not a half-bad shot.”
“Are you actually giving me a compliment?” I could die of shock.
“Imagine that.” He places the washcloth on my arm where the bullet grazed me.
I inhale through clenched teeth. That’s fucking smarts. “You saved my Irish ass. It’s the least I could do.”
“You’re so considerate.” My sarcasm isn’t lost on either of us.
“I try.” He stands straight up and rests his hands on his hips.
I try not to let the holy-hot Irishman fluster me, but damn, he affects me in ways I haven’t felt in years. In ways I didn’t think I was capable of feeling ever again.
I need to pull my shit together and not lose my head. I can’t let my hormones rule.
“Did you get the cash?” I change the subject, if only for myself.
