PROLOGUE
Duncan
Almost nine years ago
Undercover work was like playing a game of chess. It took time and a great deal of strategy to capture the elusive king. In this case, the king was fifty-seven-year-old Erik Murray. The world saw him as an upstanding millionaire with a philanthropic heart, but I knew better. He was the lowest of the low, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. While Solace, his nonprofit organization, provided aid to poor and war-stricken nations, Murray was trafficking and selling illegal weapons hand over fist to the highest bidder. We also suspected—though we had nothing tangible—he was knee-deep in something even more heinous, the sale of women.
He first popped up on the FBI’s radar six months ago. Our investigation was just starting to ramp up when he fled the U.S. to Ireland, where he held dual citizenship. A short while later, my boss’s boss, Deputy Director Roger Ashland, pulled me into his office for a special assignment, one whichhad me on a plane bound for the land of leprechauns within a matter of hours.
The FBI often joined forces with the Garda Síochána, Ireland’s national police service. In this case, I collaborated with Niall McGee from the National Drugs and Organized Crime Bureau, or NDOC. He was the one who gave me my orders and the one who kept my ass from getting killed. My handler, in other words.
Growing up in the system, I had no family to speak of. No one would miss me or ask damning questions if things went sideways. For all intents and purposes, I was a nobody, which made me the ideal agent for this particular op. It also didn’t hurt that I had the uncanny ability to slip in and out of various situations virtually unseen, earning me the nickname Ghost during my time at Quantico.
I’d been in Ireland for five weeks without dick to show for my efforts. Trying to maneuver your way into the depths of a criminal organization was no easy feat, especially when they hid inside their expensive high-rise buildings. My break finally came in the form of a text from a local informant. Murray was scheduled for a lunch meeting. A very public lunch meeting. Thoughts immediately began to swirl in my head. The plan was simple, really. I needed to earn his trust. What better way than to save his rotten life?
There was only one problem. I didn’t expecther.
She was sitting in the corner booth at Shamrock’s, a little pub in the heart of Dublin, with her back to the door. Something about her called to me like a homing beacon. I should’ve walked away—found a different vantage point to keep an eye on my target—but like the asshole I was, I ignored the annoying voice in my head.
Sliding onto the bench opposite her, my breath stilled in my lungs. I was greeted with a scowl and an attitude, whichdid nothing to mar her beauty. The opposite, in fact. My cock instantly sprang to life.
“What if I said this seat was already taken?” the brunette replied.
“Then I’d say whoever left you sitting here alone was a fool, and he deserved to lose it.”
“What makes you so certain it was a he?” She lifted one perfectly shaped brow.
“Point taken.”
Raising my hand, I flagged down a nearby waiter, who rushed to our side. After an intense stare-down with me, my feisty companion reluctantly gave in, grumbling her order of fish and chips. I told the server to make it two, with the addition of a tall Guiness. He dipped his chin, then hustled away, leaving me to face the consequences of my selfish actions.
“What are you doing?” She leaned forward, crossing her arms on top of the table. The move lifted her breasts, giving me a hint of the swells hidden beneath her pale-pink, V-neck blouse.
“Having lunch with a beautiful woman.”
“Listen, buddy?—”
“Rogan.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Rogan.”
“All right, Rogan?—”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m not in the habit of giving out my personal information to strangers.”
I smiled, something I rarely did. Her blue eyes—which were a few shades darker than my own—narrowed into slits. Luscious chestnut hair kissed the tops of her shoulders, falling in soft waves around her slim face. The urge to reachout and run my fingers through the strands to see if they were as soft as they looked was strong. She was a natural beauty, a goddess, if you will. Even the pout forming on her raspberry-tinted lips was adorable, and I didn’t find anything adorable.
“We stopped being strangers the second you threw sass my way. In some places, what we’ve started here is tantamount to foreplay.”
She rolled her eyes and my cock twitched a-fucking-gain. I should’ve known then I was playing with fire. Fortunately, I’d never been afraid of a little heat.
“Fine.” A puff of air left her mouth. “My name is Sloane.”
“It fits you.”