“Blackmail materials,” Bailey said, revolted. She moved her gaze off the lewd images on the screen. “There’s a scary amount of influential people on this list. Do you think all the files are as dirty as these?”
“Oh yeah.” Sean opened another folder, and a second later they were staring at a well-known European drug activist smoking crack.
Every file was just as damaging—the data was explosive, to say the least. Career ending in almost every case, and at least half were enough to send someone to prison. The men and women in those files would probably do anything to keep the information from getting out.
“Think these are O’Hare’s files?” she asked.
“No. Rabbit doesn’t have this kind of reach,” Sean said grimly. “And his organization would’ve grown exponentially if he’d used any of this shit. He would’ve been able to expand his smuggling routes, increase his profits. He could’ve forced any of these politicians to throw their support into his cause.”
“Whose are they, then?”
Sean went back to the Amirault file and began scrolling through the photographs of the prime minister with the unnamed woman. He enlarged one of the pictures, a shot that showed Amirault entering a skinny town house with black shutters.
With a sigh, Sean ran his finger over the house’s narrow front door. “That’s one of Ronan Flannery’s brothels.”
Ronan Flannery. Bailey had been around long enough to have heard that name before. Hard not to, considering the man ran one of the most profitable criminal empires in Europe and the UK. According to her sources, drug smuggling was Flannery’s bread and butter, but he also dabbled in prostitution, loan sharking, and other shady activities similar to the rackets Eamon O’Hare ran. Except while O’Hare’s power was isolated to Ireland, Flannery’s was a global empire.
She wrinkled her nose as she stared at the town house in the photo. “How do you know that’s Flannery’s brothel?”
“Because I’ve been there.”
She couldn’t stop the bite in her tone. “A frequent visitor to whorehouses, are you?”
“It was for business purposes only.” He twisted his head to smirk at her. “Would you be jealous if it was for nonbusiness reasons?”
“Nope.”
One dark blond eyebrow cocked up. “You sure about that?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She broke the eye contact, refusing to let him see that he had, in fact, rattled her.
Sean closed the drive and popped it out of its slot, then placed it next to the computer keyboard. “Well, it makes sense why Rabbit would want to get his hands on this,” he remarked, right back to business. “What do you know about Rabbit’s history with Flannery?”
“Nothing,” Bailey admitted. “Paige is supposed to send me a file on Rabbit, though, so I’m sure it will have all the gory details. Why? Is there bad blood between them?”
“Understatement of the year, luv.” Sean leaned back in his chair and propped his hands behind his head, drawing her attention to his defined biceps and heavy forearms.
He still wore khakis and a sweatshirt, but the baggy garments couldn’t hide the absolutely cut body beneath them. Sean Reilly was all muscle, big and broad and deliciously masculine.
No, not deliciously. Infuriatingly. She hated that she was admiring that ripped bod of his. That the sight of it was still capable of making her pulse race and her mouth go dry.
“The two of them are bitter rivals,” Sean went on. “They’ve wanted each other dead for years.”
Bailey perched on the edge of the desk. “Why haven’t they killed each other, then?”
“It’s a long story. Very long,” he said with a tired breath. “Flannery was married to Rabbit’s sister, Maureen, and he and Rabbit were tight during their IRA days. But they always had very different ideologies. Rabbit was all about his nation, uniting Ireland, getting rid of the evil British, yada yada yada.”
“And Flannery?” she prompted.
“He wanted money. Power. He was just using the cause as a springboard for his own ambitions.”
“Is that what started the feud?”
“No, that happened when Rabbit’s sister, aka Flannery’s wife, was killed in a car bomb meant for Flannery.”
Bailey chewed her bottom lip. “Well, I guess it makes sense that Rabbit would hate him.”
“Hate doesn’t even begin to cover it. Rabbit blamed Flannery for Maureen’s death, accused him of being too obsessed with his own selfish interests to protect his own wife.” Sean shrugged. “And Flannery decided that Rabbit’s IRA fanaticism was what killed her, and there you go—blood feud. They went their separate ways after Maureen died and built their own empires.”
“Again—why didn’t they kill each other?”
“According to my father? Honor. They’re still family, whether they like it or not, and you don’t kill family.”
“So why would Rabbit want Flannery’s blackmail files?”
Sean chuckled. “I said they won’t kill each other—doesn’t mean they can’t destroy each other. Flannery’s been fucking with Rabbit’s network for years. Stealing, sabotaging, all that fun stuff.”
Bailey pursed her lips. “Okay, so the mole Rabbit is so worried about now . . . is it possible he’s right and Flannery really did plant someone on Rabbit’s crew?”
“More than possible.”
She went quiet for a moment, running over the details Sean had given her and combining them with what she’d already known about Ronan Flannery. “Flannery doesn’t do much business in Ireland,” she said slowly.
“That’s Rabbit’s doing.”
Sean rose from his chair and ran a hand through his hair. It was short again—Bailey remembered it being longer when she’d seen him in Paris. Tousled and scruffy, curling under his ears. Now it was close cropped . . . the way it’d been last year, when they’d . . .
She shoved the memory out of her head.
“And Flannery’s own doing, to some extent,” Sean added, oblivious to where her thoughts had drifted. “Rabbit always stayed true to his roots, and that earned him respect and loyalty from his fellow Irishmen. Flannery? The bastard clawed his way up the ladder by screwing anyone who got in his way.” Sean gestured to the dark computer screen. “And, apparently, by using blackmail and extortion. It makes sense now, the way he soared so high, so fast. But the one thing he hasn’t been able to get is an alliance with the Irish.”
“Why not?”
“The locals won’t deal with him because they know he’ll fuck them over if something better comes along, so he keeps hitting roadblocks whenever he wants to transport his merch through Ireland.”
Sean’s wealth of knowledge didn’t surprise her—the man made a living out of gathering information. “So then it also makes sense that Flannery might plant a mole in Rabbit’s crew. If he takes over Rabbit’s organization, it could open a lot of doors for him.” She paused. “But now Rabbit’s got his hands on Flannery’s dirty files. Do you think he’s planning to use them to take Flannery down?
“Maybe.” Sean’s expression turned deadly. “I don’t particularly care either way. Rabbit can have all the filthy sex videos he wants. I just want Ollie back.”
Bailey blinked in amazement. “You’re actually going to give him the files? What if he exposes all the people on this drive?”
Sean looked at her as if she’d asked him what two plus two was, as if the answer was a no-brainer. “I don’t give a bloody fuck about these people, Bailey. I won’t sacrifice Oliver to protect the secrets of a bunch of corrupt politicians.”
“So we’re making a trade?”
“I’m making a trade,” he corrected, blowing out an exasperated breath. “You don’t need to be here for this. Rabbit wants this disk, I want Ollie. Easy exchange.”
She crossed her arms. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere until I see that Oliver is safe.”
A flash of anger lit his eyes, but she didn’t give a damn if he was mad. He would just have
to suck it up and let her help him.
Rather than argue, Sean set his jaw and yanked open one of the desk drawers. Bailey snuck a peek and saw that the drawer was full of burner phones. Sean grabbed one, turned it on, and started typing.
“Are you contacting Rabbit?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Kept typing.
“What are you telling him?” she demanded.
Still no answer. Sean set the phone on the desk and marched across the loft.
“Stop trying to keep me in the dark!” she called after him. “I’m here whether you like it or not.”
He turned around to face her, rugged features creased with resignation. “I told him I made it out of the bank, I have what he needs, and I’m waiting for instructions about making a trade. Satisfied?”
“Did you explain that the death of his men wasn’t your fault?”
“No point,” he said tersely. “Rabbit doesn’t want to hear excuses. He just wants to see results.”
Bailey nodded slowly. “So what now?”
Sean turned his back on her again. “Now we wait.”
Chapter 6
Thwack. Thwack-thwack. Thwack.
Bailey tried to ignore the sounds reverberating on the other side of the loft, but it was a difficult task. Sean had been battering that punching bag for the past hour, fists slamming into leather as Bailey sat on the couch, her frustration growing by the second. Couch, bed, and punching bag. Somehow it made sense that those were the main pieces of furniture in Sean’s loft, because sleeping, fucking, and fighting were probably the only things Sean Reilly was interested in. That, and gathering information.
The last thought sent her gaze in the direction of the file cabinets. She really needed to figure out a way to break into them. What kind of dirt had Sean unearthed about her?
Thwack. Thwack-thwack.
And why wasn’t O’Hare calling back? It had been three hours since Sean had texted the man, and Bailey was beginning to get anxious. O’Hare had to have seen the news, must know by now that his men were dead. And he definitely knew that Sean was alive and in possession of the flash drive. So why wasn’t he making a move? The man had gone to a lot of trouble to secure that drive, which told Bailey he was eager to get his hands on it.
Her gaze traveled back to Sean, and her pulse skipped in the most aggravating way. He’d stripped off his shirt, which left him in those ill-fitting khakis that rode so low on his hips they were in danger of falling off.
Despite her better judgment, she focused on his chest. His very bare chest, which was . . . Fine, it was truly wonderful. Roped muscles and golden skin assaulted her vision. He didn’t have much body hair, save for a dusting between his heavy pecs and the dark line leading to his groin. He was built like a warrior. Tall, broad, and deadly.
Before Bailey could stop it¸ the memory of being underneath that powerful body flashed in her head, and she almost moaned out loud.
The sex had been good.
No, it had been more than good.
But so what? Sean had lied to her from the word go. He’d deceived her. And just because she’d known he was doing it didn’t excuse his behavior.
What kind of man pretended to be his twin to get a woman into bed?
She jerked when his gaze suddenly locked with hers. He’d caught her staring, but he didn’t comment. He simply released another one-two punch that made the black leather bag sway wildly. God, he looked . . . feral. Bloody knuckles, handsome face covered by a sheen of sweat, sleek muscles coiling from every deadly strike of his fists.
“Haven’t you had enough yet?” Bailey called out, not bothering to hide how frazzled she was.
He kept on swinging.
“Seriously. You’re going to fuck up your hands.”
Breathing hard, he let his arms fall to the sides. He slanted his head, watching her with an expression that made her skin break out in shivers. Feral, all right.
She rolled her eyes. “What, you’re in adrenaline overload? You need to hit something this bad? Because you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep it up.”
“What the hell do you care, luv?” But her words must have penetrated that thick skull of his, because he grabbed a towel from the workout bench behind him and used it to wipe his sweaty face.
Then he strolled toward her, slow, predatory. Red blotches stained the white towel in his hands as he wiped his knuckles on the terry cloth.
“You got me,” he told her. “It is adrenaline, and you know why? Because I robbed a bloody bank today, Bailey. And when I’m feeling this way, there’re only two activities that calm me down.” He shrugged. “Fighting’s one of them.”
“What’s the other?” she asked, then cursed herself for opening her stupid mouth.
Because his green eyes were gleaming now, smoldering with sin. “What do you think, luv?”
Several seconds ticked by as their gazes held.
“It’s fucking,” he drawled. “Pure, hard-core fucking.”
Her breath lodged in her lungs. Sean’s sultry gaze held her captive, making it impossible to turn away. The man radiated sexuality. He always had. It heated his eyes and rippled through his body, and whenever he directed all that sensual energy her way, her body responded.
“Would you like to help me out with that?” A mocking note entered his deep voice. “Because I’m more than happy to stop tearing up my hands and put them to better use.”
She hated him. Hated that her nipples puckered against the front of her tank top, hated that he could see her response. She’d left her long-sleeve shirt at the bank, and the camisole she wore was too skimpy to hide a thing. Her breasts ached and her core pulsed, so hard she had to clench her thighs to curb the hot throb of arousal.
“What do you say?” He dragged his tongue over his lower lip, a gesture that should have been lewd, but made her heart beat faster. “Wanna help me fuck all the tension away?”
She was too mesmerized by the seductive rasp of his voice, the raw desire glittering in his eyes.
“Or maybe you can just suck me,” he said silkily. “You know, just to take the edge off.”
The vulgar suggestion jolted her back to reality. “Fuck you,” she muttered.
“Yes, fuck me.” A defiant smile curved his lips. “Fuck me, Bailey.”
She stared at him.
“No?” The smile widened, taunting as hell. “Then I guess I’ll continue doing the next best thing.”
He tossed the towel away, bare feet padding back to the punching bag. Bailey’s frustration returned in full force as she watched him pound on the bag once more.
Thwack. Thwack.
God, he was such an ass. Why couldn’t her traitorous body see that?
She leaned her head back on the couch cushion, ignoring the arousal still coursing through her veins. Maybe she was just sex deprived. The last time she’d slept with someone had been nearly a year ago, a couple of months after her night with Sean. She’d been desperate to exorcise the man from her system, so she’d hooked up with a SEAL she’d met in the Middle East. The sex had been . . . decent.
But nowhere near as good as it had been with the arrogant asshole who was currently scraping his knuckles raw on a defenseless punching bag.
Damn it. Why had she come? Why was she still here?
For Oliver, a little voice reminded her.
Bailey took a deep breath, focusing on the twin who was actually in danger and not the one who was the danger. It would all be okay. O’Hare would make the trade, Oliver would be fine, and then she could walk away and leave Sean Reilly in her dust.
Until then, she just had to do a better job of steeling herself against him.
* * *
Sean didn’t want to give Bailey the satisfaction of telling her she was right, but hell, he’d definitely overdone it with the bag. By the time he finally called it quits, his knuckles were bruised and swollen, and both his hands ached when he flexed his fingers.
Rabbit was taking too long to respond.
Sean knew his old boss had received his text—the phone showed him whenever a message had been read—so why the radio silence? Rabbit had to know that Gallagher and the others were dead. Did he hold Sean responsible for their suicide by Garda? Fuck. If he did, then he might’ve already taken it out on Oliver.
Sean inhaled slowly. No. Ollie had to be alive. He had to trust that Rabbit wouldn’t hurt him, not when Sean still had the flash drive.
He grabbed his phone from the desk and checked the screen, but no new messages had come through.
“I’m taking a shower,” he announced.
From her spot on the couch, Bailey swung her head around, and the sight was so fucking beautiful it hurt to look at her. He knew he’d been a dick to her before, but he couldn’t help it. Being around her was torture. Knowing he could never have her, knowing the only way she’d ever view him with anything other than hostility was if he pretended to be another man . . . it was bloody torture.
“And you need to take that with you?” She gestured to the phone in his hand.
“Yup.”
“Wow. You really don’t trust me to monitor the phone in case Rabbit makes contact?”
“It’s not about trust,” he muttered.
Her nostrils flared. “Then what is it about?”
“Me. My job. Mine, Bailey, not yours. And when I set up this trade, I’ll find a way to leave you behind,” he said bluntly.
She smiled. “That’ll be hard to do, considering I’m not leaving your side.”
“’S’that so? Does that mean you’re joining me in the shower, then?” Arching a brow, he unsnapped the button of his khakis.
Her eyes widened, and there was no missing the tiny spark of heat that ignited in them.
“Come on, luv. If you wash my back, I promise to wash yours.”
Whatever desire he’d thought he’d glimpsed reverted right back to anger. “Sorry, not interested,” she said coolly.
“Sure you aren’t,” he mocked.
Sean marched into the loo and shut the door behind him, too tired and pissed to concentrate on anything other than dunking his head under the spray in the tiled shower stall. He closed his eyes and let the hot water wash away all the evidence of this day from hell. No, a week of hell. He’d felt powerless and on edge ever since he’d left Morgan’s team.