Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Yes, she did. But this wasn’t harmless flirting. Nothing about Teague was harmless. He saw too much. He was an O’Malley. And, perhaps most importantly, he was going to be her husband in a very short time.
He seemed to realize her mind was going a million miles a second, because he sat back, breaking the moment. “Now I have a question for you.”
“Yes?” She put as much nonchalance into her tone as she possibly could. The candlelight played along his cheekbones and jaw, the shadows dancing over his skin, following a path her fingers itched to trace. What was wrong with her? She should be focusing on what their next move was, not on how intimate it was to sit this close to him.
“Would you have actually married Brendan if someone hadn’t done you the favor of offing him?”
She looked into his dark eyes and couldn’t lie. “No.” That man was a monster. She might regret the events that had brought her to that horrible club and put a gun into her hands, but once she knew the truth about him, she never could have signed her life away to him. And if it took her all of a week to find out what kind of man he was, Papa should have known a long time ago. She shifted, the realization sitting like a block of concrete in her stomach. Had he known and gone forward with the engagement anyway?
He must have. There was no other explanation.
“Which begs the question—are you planning on marrying me?”
It shouldn’t be different—Teague was just as much a stranger as Brendan had been. But it was different. Even knowing him such a short time, she couldn’t shake the belief that he’d never raise a hand against her. That didn’t mean she could trust him, though, unexpectedly revealing information or not. He was loyal to his family first and foremost, the same way she was.
She wanted Teague, and a part of her that didn’t have a lick of sense thought she could trust him. That, more than anything else, made him a potential threat in a way that Brendan never could have been.
“That’s quite the proposal, Teague O’Malley.”
He grinned, completely unrepentant. “I plan on making up for the lack of originality in other ways.”
It was all too easy to imagine exactly the sort of thing his tone suggested. It took her back to that alley, to that kiss, to her desire for more. Callie reached across the table and snagged his whiskey, lifting it to her lips with a shaking hand. “Yes, Teague. I’ll marry you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Teague couldn’t decide if he was the luckiest son of a bitch in existence, or if fate was dangling Callista in front of him, waiting to kick him in the teeth as soon as he relaxed. Judging from his history, it was far more likely to be the latter, but he couldn’t help reaching over and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “If you could see the way you’re looking at me right now.”
She immediately dropped her eyes, but only for a heartbeat. “How am I looking at you?”
The waiter appeared to replace her empty wineglass, buying Teague some time to think better of his answer. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference, though. As soon as they were alone again, he answered her. “Like there are a thousand thoughts rushing behind those beautiful blue eyes and every single one of them involves us, naked and sweaty.” It was bold to say, probably too bold, but there was something about this woman that had him speaking freely—something he’d thought twenty-seven years in the O’Malley home had cured him of. He leaned forward, until their shoulders brushed and it would have been the most natural thing in the world to close the minuscule distance between them and kiss her. He wanted to. Christ almighty, he wanted to.
“We should be focusing on other things.” Then she touched him. It was just the brushing of her fingers over his knuckles, innocent as such things went, but he felt it like a bolt of lightning.
“Most definitely.” His gaze fell to the lightweight black scarf around her neck, and the reminder of the violence done to her was enough to have him sitting back. “Callista—”
“Not tonight. Please.” She picked up her glass of wine, and he’d have to be blind not to notice the way her hands shook. He stayed silent, watching her put herself together. He’d seen his older sister do it enough to recognize the signs—the deep breath, the slow sip of wine, the way she closed her eyes for a three-count before opening them and turning back to him, her armor firmly in place. It was a survival skill, one he hated that Carrigan had been forced to learn. He found he hated it all the more in Callista. She set the glass back on the table. “And, please, call me Callie.”