Page 13 of The Captive
"Must be O'Malley shit," I murmured, tracing the edge of a monitor.
I retreated to the shadows, positioning myself to observe the entrance unseen. Someone would surely show up at some point to check in on their doings. If they'd established this detailed an operation on my territory, I wanted to be here for it.
I thought it would never happen. When I was starting to wonder if I had lost my mind, my stomach rumbling a detailed tune, my patience was finally rewarded. It was a couple hours after nightfall and I couldn't see properly, but the side door opened and a slender figure slipped inside.
Even in dim light, the woman's auburn hair was unmistakable, a shade given fleeting prominence by the flashlight she carried as she moved—rich as blood against pale skin. Aoife O'Malley. Connor's supposedly sheltered daughter moved with practiced stealth. Swiss finishing schools, art history at the Sorbonne, charity galas… and a heated encounter that was over far too soon. Nothing we'd found in our intelligence suggested she could handle surveillance tech with such expertise, or that she'd be the one to show up in person. But after meeting her years ago, I knew better. Aoife was in a league of her own.
I cautiously crept to a side window, careful to be as quiet as possible. In the darkness, it was no small feat. Slowly, I angled my head so I could look inside. Thanks to her lighting, I could see her enough that my cock stirred. Clad in dark fitted clothing that outlined her graceful form, she sidled to the workstation. She plugged in what looked like a small portable hard drive, then her fingers danced over the keyboard, sharp focus outlined on her features.
I could have confronted her then. Instead, I was rooted to the spot, not least for professional curiosity. For something as crucial as this, I would bide my time.
Tonight, I'd let her be. She slipped her device into her jacket pocket and slipped out as silently and swiftly as she'd come.
For six days, I returned each evening. She always came alone, downloaded data, and left. Why did she not send someone to do her dirty work? Wasn't there anyone she could trust?
Interesting.
On the seventh day, she arrived earlier than usual, visibly agitated. She paced, checked equipment repeatedly, waited. After an hour, she slammed her palm against the desk.
"Damn it!" she ground out, her voice carrying.
This was it. Stepping from the shadows, I opened the door and entered, letting my footfalls echo on the concrete.
She whirled, hand reaching for her waist, body instantly coiled for attack.
"Quite an operation you've established here, Miss O'Malley," I said conversationally. "On my property." Flanagan property, but I was responsible for it.
She'd switched on a battery-operated lantern today. Getting bold…
Green eyes—shifting between ice and emerald depending on the light—assessed me with cold calculation, and of course, recognition. I remembered every line of her classically beautiful face. High cheekbones carved with aristocratic precision. Lips full enough to soften her severity. Skin pale as porcelain, with nearly invisible freckles across her nose.
"Your property?" Her tone held that particular inflection of privilege, tempered with stark clarity. "This warehouse sits on the boundary. My father's maps show it as neutral territory."
"Your father's maps are outdated, and you know it, don't you?" I stepped closer, watching her shift to the balls of her feet. "The deed was transferred to the Flanagans twenty years ago."
"The Flanagans," she echoed, a slight curl to her lip. "So now the housekeeper's son speaks of his family property. How cute."
The barb slid off me. I'd heard worse.
"Quite sophisticated equipment for an art history major," I said, gesturing to the workstation. "Unless the Sorbonne has changed its curriculum. Though I suppose you've always been full of surprises."
Something flashed in those green eyes—a yearning perhaps. Or maybe not. She recovered instantly.
"What do you want, Mr. Moore?" She edged toward the door, keeping an appropriate distance between us.
"Currently? I'm assessing your threat level." I kept my tone professional, though I couldn't help admiring the strategic mind evident behind her careful movements. And more… "The data you've collected—shipments, security rotations, personnel files—amounts to a declaration of intent."
"Intent to level the playing field," she countered, chin lifting slightly. "Your employer killed my father, destroyed my home, scattered my family. Information seems a small recompense."
"Ronan doesn't employ me. We're partners." The correction came automatically, betraying a sensitivity I rarely displayed.
Her smile was swift and cutting. "Semantics. You're still his attack dog."
I closed the distance between us by another step. "You have a skill for baiting, I see. Perhaps useful with most men. Unfortunately for you, I'm not most men."
"No," she agreed, gaze flicking over me with unexpected heat that contradicted her icy demeanour. "You're not." Her eyes locked with mine. "I've studied you, Alexander Moore."
The way she said my name—like she was savouring each syllable—sent an unwelcome current down my spine, straight to my cock.
