Midnight Captive (19 page)

She took him all the way to the back of her throat and his violent curse triggered her muffled laughter against his cock.

His hand fisted her hair, pulling to the point of pain as he yanked her head up. “You think I shut you out? Well, take a good look at
yourself
, Bailey. You’d rather blow a man you don’t like than offer one measly detail about yourself. Let me
in
, damn it.”

Bailey took off her T-shirt and pajama pants and straddled his hard thighs. “You want me to let you in? Fine. Here you go.”

She impaled herself on his cock and he moaned so loudly she had to laugh again, but the humor died the second he thrust upward and filled her to the hilt. God, she couldn’t think straight when he was inside her. He was the addiction she desperately wanted to cure herself of.

Sean’s movements stilled as he brought a hand to her face, gently stroking the fading bruise beneath her right eye. “I hate seeing this.”

“I’ve had worse.”

His thumb moved in a soft caress. “I hate hearing that even more.”

Damn it, the tenderness was too much. She liked him
better when he was rough. Crass. Made it easier to remember that this was only sex.

She distracted him again by leaning forward and bringing her breasts to his mouth. And it worked—his tongue darted out for a taste, flicking one distended nipple before he sucked it deep in his mouth. Each time she lowered herself on his cock, that thick shaft stroked her inner channel, and her clit rubbed against his pelvis, until the pleasure grew too intense, sending her sagging onto his hard chest.

Bailey ground herself against his lower body, frantically, mindlessly, her body aching for relief.

“That’s it, luv.” His hands stroked her back, his raspy voice coaxing her to the brink. “Come all over my cock.”

She exploded in a fiery rush, gasping for air as the orgasm blew through her body. Everything stopped working. Her brain, her lungs, her limbs. And her pussy spasmed harder when she felt the wet warmth of Sean’s release flood her channel. His cock pulsed in time to his rapid heartbeat, which vibrated in her breasts and matched the fast pace of her own.

Strong arms held her against him. He was still inside her, hard as a rock, the heat of him burning her from the inside out.

The lips that brushed her ear were soft and warm, but his words sent a chill up her spine. “You’re going to let me in, Bailey. I won’t stop pushing you until you do.”

“That’s not what this is about,” she whispered.

“Yes, it is.”

Caveman Sean was back, but when she tried to disentangle from his arms, his grip tightened.

“You still don’t understand, do you? We’re good together, baby. We
fit
,” he said fiercely. “I won’t go away until I know everything about you. I won’t go away even when I
do
know. I’ll always be here, and you
will
let me in.”

Terror shot through her at the thought that he might be right.

But no. It wouldn’t happen. Not if she kept him at a distance, where he belonged.

“Tell me what you’re so afraid of,” he said thickly. “Just tell me, and we’ll talk through it. We’ll work past it.”

He slid his fingers through her hair and tugged her head up. The raw, naked emotion in his eyes made her heart race in panic. Breathing hard, she wrenched his arms off her and stumbled off the bed.

“Running away isn’t going to change what this is. You can hide from me, but we both know it won’t work, Bailey. Because I’m with you even when you’re alone.”

Her hands trembled as she grabbed her clothes.

“Stay,” he pleaded in a hoarse voice. “Stay and let me in, damn it.”

His sorrowful sigh was the last thing she heard before she hurried out the door.

“It’s done.” O’Neill was downright gloating as he strode into the pub.

Sean glanced up from the table he was sharing with Quinn and Doherty, trying not to flinch at the cat-killed-the-bloody-canary grin on O’Neill’s face. The man had been tasked with driving the explosives-filled car and parking it in front of Trinity Pub, and Sean was disappointed that O’Neill had followed through. A part of him had hoped O’Neill would chicken out or screw up.

Because whether or not the damn thing went off, Sean didn’t feel right knowing there was a bomb in an area teeming with civilians and college kids.

From the corner booth where she sat with her laptop, Bailey lifted her head and met his eyes, and he saw the same unhappiness he was feeling reflected on her face. Then she scowled and turned back to the computer screen, the rigid set of her shoulders revealing that she was as unhappy with
him
as she was about the car bomb.

She’d barely said five words to him all morning. She’d just fiddled around on her laptop in silence, pretending to do the graphic design work she was using as her occupation cover. Or maybe not pretending—Sean had
stolen a few peeks at her screen earlier, and the fake advertisement she’d created had looked pretty damn good. Not that he was surprised. The woman was good at everything.

Well, except for talking about anything important.

He’d pushed her too hard last night. He knew that. But he wasn’t going to back off either. He’d spent five years playing it cool and subtle, and where had that gotten him? Absolutely nowhere. The bulldozer approach came with a greater risk of losing her, but it had already produced more results than any of the other strategies he’d tried in the past.

“Where’s Rabbit?” O’Neill asked as he shrugged out of his coat.

Good fucking question. Since Sean’s return to the Dagger, Rabbit had been AWOL more often than not.

“He had an errand to take care of,” Quinn replied. “Should be back soon.”

An errand? Or something more sinister?

But fuck, who cared? At least Rabbit wasn’t with Cillian, who was currently holed up in the back room. Smacking a woman’s ass raw, no doubt.

Every time Sean turned around, Kelly was whispering in Rabbit’s ear like Iago in an Irish production of
Othello
. He didn’t trust the twisted bastard, and not just because Cillian worked for Flannery.

“I’ll be right back,” he said abruptly. “Wanna check on my girl.”

He left Quinn and O’Neill to their own devices and approached Bailey. She was frowning at her phone but tucked it away before Sean could sneak a peek at it.

“Should I be jealous?” he mocked, raising his brow.

“Aren’t you always?”

He slid onto the bench seat across from her. “Who was that text from?”

“No one you need to worry about.” Her gaze lowered to the laptop screen.

“Who was it from?” he repeated sternly.

There was a pause, then, “My old handler.”

No one he needed to worry about, his ass.

A deep frown puckered his brow. “Isaac Daniels, you mean.”

If Bailey was surprised that he knew the man’s name, she didn’t show it. “Yes.” She glanced at Rabbit’s men, then lowered her voice. “I went through Flannery’s files last night and found three CIA agents who could’ve leaked my file. Daniels just confirmed which one of them it was. He wanted to thank me for the heads-up.”

“I’m sure he did.” Sean ignored the burst of jealousy that streaked up his spine. “Guess he’s gonna be doing some firing today.”

She gave a wry smile. “People don’t get fired from the CIA. They get executed.”

“I was being facetious.”

“Oooh, look at you and your big fancy words.”

“I’m a bloody wordsmith, baby. A genius, actually—I even graduated from high school.”

A laugh popped out of her mouth, and then her eyes darkened, as if she was annoyed with herself for showing amusement. “Shouldn’t you be sitting with your best buds and discussing your next terrorist attack?” she grumbled.

“Nah, I’d much rather sit here with you and discuss your ex-lover.”

Her jaw twitched.

“What, luv, you thought I didn’t know? Flannery’s not the only one with
files
, remember?”

She leveled him with a scathing look. “Congratulations, you know I fucked my boss. Gold star for Sean.”

“You didn’t just fuck him. You lived with him for four
years.” Sean slanted his head. “I tailed him a few years back, you know. Got a lot of pretty pics, too. He’s . . . hell, he’s prehistoric. How old was he when you first hooked up? Ninety?”

“Forty-eight,” she said stiffly.

“Jesus Christ, Bailey. You were eighteen years old.”

“Twenty, actually.”

“Still makes him a dirty old man.”

Sean wanted to ask what the hell she’d seen in the wrinkled perv, but Rabbit chose that moment to return from his mysterious errand.

“Reilly,” he called. “A word.”

Though he was reluctant to leave her, Sean slid out of the booth and walked over to Rabbit, who led him out of earshot of the others.

“Kelly tells me we’re all set.”

“That’s what I hear,” Sean said indifferently.

“You don’t like this.”

He met Rabbit’s gaze head-on. “No, I don’t. I don’t fuck with innocents, Eamon.”

“No?” The older man smirked in Bailey’s direction. “Seems like you fuck innocents just fine.”

“Yeah, but she’s not sitting in Trinity Pub at the moment, now, is she?”

Rabbit’s eyes stayed focused on Bailey. “She means a lot to you.”

“I wouldn’t be here right now if she didn’t.”

“I see . . . But, well, I hope she’s not the
only
reason you’re here.” Rabbit’s voice went oddly gruff. “I’m glad you’re back, Seansy. Every time I look at you I see your father. You’re so much like Colin, y’know that? Not just the resemblance either. You have his strength. His loyalty.” Rabbit paused. “I miss him.”

“Yeah,” Sean said hoarsely. “Me too.”

His childhood hadn’t been flowers and sunshine—
that was impossible when your father was tangled up with the IRA—but that didn’t mean Sean lacked good memories of his old man. He did miss him. A helluva lot.

But he had no interest in commiserating about it with Eamon O’Hare.

“Don’t you have a call to make soon?” Sean deliberately tapped his tactical watch.

An unreadable look crossed Rabbit’s expression before he nodded. “You’re right. I do. I’d better get on that.”

*   *   *

“I don’t like this.” Sullivan voiced the uneasy admission into the comm as he monitored his surroundings.

As usual, he was the one out in the open, sipping a coffee on the street-facing patio of Trinity Pub, while Liam and D worked their sniper magic on rooftops across the thoroughfare. D was back on surveillance duty because Oliver Reilly had effectively fired him, claiming that the sullen-faced merc was so intimidating that he scared the shit out of any source they tried talking to. Ash was apparently suited for the job, though, because Oliver had kept the rookie.

With Isabel watching O’Hare’s, Sullivan was left playing foot soldier alone. Normally he didn’t mind being the eyes on the street, but today, the back of his neck was tingling and he couldn’t fight the rattled feeling that something was amiss.

“Not sure I blame you,” Liam murmured back. “I wouldn’t want to be sitting ten feet from an IED either.”

Sully’s gaze shifted to the blue sedan parked directly in front of the patio. There were five spaces along the curb; three were occupied. The sedan was sandwiched between an SUV and a hatchback.

It was half past eleven. The lunch crowd would start pouring in around noon, but half a dozen patrons
already loitered on the patio. Sullivan was amazed by the number of morning drinkers in this bloody country.

He kept his eye on the sedan, half expecting the thing to blow up at any second and rip him to pieces. One of O’Hare’s men had parked the vehicle more than an hour ago. He’d fed the meter and disappeared around the corner, leaving a ticking time bomb behind him. Literally.

Sean insisted that the Dagger always tipped off the cops, but . . .

Sullivan’s entire body continued to hum forebodingly.

“When’s the call supposed to come in?” The fancy-pants Bluetooth lodged in his ear gave the impression that he was on the phone, but he still spoke in a low voice.

“Twenty to,” Liam answered. “Just stay put. It’ll all be over soon.”

Liam’s voice was reassuring, easing Sully’s nerves. Slightly. His neck was still prickling like a motherfucker.

People began approaching the pub. Students mostly, with the odd older patron here and there.

For the first time in days it wasn’t pouring out. Fuckin’ Ireland. It was October—it should have been cold and rainy, for Christ’s sake. But no, today just
had
to be dry and cloudless. And warm, damn it. Warm enough that folks were taking advantage of the nice weather and filling up the patio.

“I’m not seeing any Dagger members,” D reported brusquely. “Boston?”

“None. Wasn’t expecting any, though. They’ve got no reason to stick around.” Liam paused. “The area will be crawling with Garda soon.”

It’d better be. Reilly had said the bomb was set on a timer scheduled to go off at noon. Or rather,
not
go off at noon. Bloody terrorists and their scare tactics.

Sullivan checked his watch: 11:34. Six more minutes and the call would go through.

He absently rubbed his right forearm. Beneath his sleeve was the tattoo that spanned from his wrist to the inside of his elbow, one line of black script that spelled out the name that always brought him comfort.

Liam’s knowing chuckle filled his ear. “I see what you’re doing, dude. Jeez, you can’t go even a second without thinking about that damn boat?”

An uncharacteristic snort came from D. “You kidding me? He’d fuck that thing if he could.”

Sullivan ignored their soft laughter and flattened his palms on the tabletop. His teammates thought he was a pansy-ass for having the name of his sailboat inked on his flesh, but they had no bloody clue. Evangeline the woman had come long before
Evangeline
the boat. And
she
was the one from whom he drew comfort.

The feed went quiet. Sullivan pretended to text on his phone. As the minutes ticked down, his agitation doubled, then quadrupled when a guy in a baseball cap approached with a golden retriever and proceeded to tie the dog’s leash around the lamppost two feet from the blue sedan.

As the kid ducked into the pub, Sully let out a soft groan. “Bloody hell. He left the dog out here.”

“Take a breath, Aussie,” came Liam’s quiet reply. “There’s time.”

Sully inhaled deeply. “Is Reilly at O’Hare’s?”

“Affirmative. Bailey’s with him.”

“Get him on the line. Find out what’s going on over there.”

Another glance at his watch revealed it was 11:40. The Dagger would be calling law enforcement now.
Should
be calling now. And the nearest Garda station was four minutes away by car—Sullivan had checked. Which meant that four minutes from now, sirens would wail, civilians would be evacuated, and a bomb squad unit would speed in to save the day.

“Sean says the call went through,” Liam reported.

The pressure in his chest dissipated. Some of it anyway. No police sirens sounded, but he heard them in his own head, damn it.

Shit. His internal warning system had been triggered. That wasn’t good.

The seconds continued to tick by.

“Something’s wrong,” he hissed. “Call Sean again.”

“There’s still time,” Liam assured him.

His watch read 11:44.

There wasn’t a Garda vehicle in sight.

“You’re wrong, Boston.” He couldn’t fight the urgency in his tone. “
This
is wrong.”

“Fuck. Your Spidey senses are tingling?”

“Big-time.”

“Maintain your position. Calling Sean.”

Sullivan exhaled in a slow rush, appreciating that Liam hadn’t put up an argument. But Liam knew as well as he did that a soldier’s instincts were too critical to ignore. If one of your teammates had a bad hunch, you bloody listened to it.

Liam’s perplexed voice rippled through the comm a few moments later. “Reilly insists the call was made.”

“Did he make it himself?” Sullivan demanded.

“No, but—”

“Then the fucking call wasn’t made.”

Eleven forty-nine. His frantic gaze flew to the blue sedan. Bloody
hell
.

“The Garda isn’t coming, Liam. We need to clear the area.
Now
.” Sullivan inhaled a calming breath. “D, you copy?”

“Loud and clear,” was the grim reply.

“Put in an anonymous call to the Garda. Tell them to send a bomb unit.”

“Roger that.”

“Liam, get your ass down here. ASAP.”

“On my way.”

It was 11:51 now. Nine minutes until the timer reached zero. Nine minutes to clear the street. Or maybe the civilians would be safer inside? Sully’s brain raced a million miles a second as he struggled to find the best way to handle this.

He had no clue how big the bomb was—five hundred pounds of explosives? A thousand? The blast radius would be . . . fuck, it could be anything. Required at least a two-thousand-foot outdoor evacuation distance. No one could be anywhere near the pub—hell, the entire stretch of street—when that bomb went off. But people might have a better chance of survival inside. Easier to avoid injury from flying shrapnel and debris. And how close was the bomb to the fuel tank? The explosion could be ten times worse if the gasoline ignited and released a fucking wall of fire.

Shit. Motherfucking
shit
.

“Bomb threat’s been called,” D said briskly.

Eight minutes.

Sullivan shot to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process and drawing several confused stares. He couldn’t create a panic. Couldn’t shout, “There’s a bomb!” and watch folks stampede one another to death. It had to be done quietly—but
fast
.

He grabbed the arm of the passing waitress and brought his head close to her ear. “We need to evacuate this patio, love.”

Her eyes widened. “W-what? Why?”