Chapter 6

Cillian’s POV

“Sit down, Miss Gallagher,” Desmond Fitzgerald said. “You look cold.”

I stood in the dark behind a rack of kayaks with my heart in my throat.

The Fitzgerald boathouse sat at the bottom of the lawn, a low stone building with a slate roof and a wide black window that looked out over Lake Michigan. One lamp burned on a table. Beside it, a decanter of whiskey and two glasses. Desmond was already pouring. Snow had started again, soft and steady, ticking against the glass.

Malachy had called me at a quarter past eleven. Your fiancée just left her apartment. She’s heading north. I’d taken a cab, then run the last half mile in shoes that were not built for it. Now I was crouched in a room that smelled of cedar and lake water, listening to the woman I’d slept with meet the man who wanted me ruined.

Nell didn’t sit. She stood in the doorway in her winter coat, arms crossed, chin up.

“I’ll stand.”

“As you like.” He held out a glass. She didn’t take it. He shrugged and drank it himself. “You’re a smart girl. I like that. Let’s not waste time.”

“Please don’t.”

“Your fiancé isn’t a bartender.” He took a photograph out of his jacket and laid it on the table. “His name is Cillian Doyle. He owns the Hotel Doyle Grand, and eleven others like it. He’s been lying to you since the day you met.”

I held my breath.

Nell glanced at the photograph. She didn’t pick it up. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t even blink.

“I know,” she said.

Desmond’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth.

“I’m sorry?”

“I know who he is. I’ve known since Thursday.” She stepped further into the light. Her voice was very calm. “You’re late, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

I stopped breathing.

She’d known.

The whole time. At the funeral toast. In the car. In her hall, with her hands on my shirt. Every soft, stupid moment I’d taken for a gift, she’d been holding a card I didn’t know she had.

A sound went through me. Not a word. Lower than that.

Desmond recovered fast. “Well. Then we understand each other.”

“I don’t think we do.”

“You’re sleeping with the man who owns your business’s lifeline. He’s the only one in this city who can make or break you. And he thinks you’re a stray he picked up in a hall.” His voice softened. “I’m offering you a way out. All I need is the file on his desk. Friday night. There’s a plan in it. A signed one. He’ll have it in his private office.”

“What plan?”

“That’s not for you to know.”

“Then I won’t do it.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“No.”

“Four hundred.”

“Mr. Fitzgerald.” She said it very quietly. “You already have somebody inside his building.”

Desmond went still.

“Every time I walked into that hotel this week, somebody had already sent my floor plans to a Fitzgerald address. Before I sent them to the hotel.” She tilted her head. “The events director. Bronagh. She asked me for copies twice. She said it was for convenience. It wasn’t.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Careful.”

“You don’t need me for anything but access. You need me to get past a door your friend can’t open.”

“Nuala.”

“Nell.”

“Nell.” He lowered his voice to a silky whisper. “Let me tell you what happens if you refuse. Fitzgerald Properties owns your lease. I can have an eviction notice on your door by nine in the morning.”

“Then serve it.”

“Your business will be over.”

“Then it’s over.”

“You’d throw it all away? For a man who’s using you?”

She looked at him for a long moment. In the lamplight, her eyes were very bright.

“I’d rather lose it clean,” she said, “than keep it dirty.”

He stared. Then he laughed, short and ugly. “Your mother must be proud.”

“She would be.”

She turned and walked out. The door clicked behind her.

Desmond swore softly. He picked up the photograph, tore it in half, and dropped it in the fire.

I didn’t move until his footsteps had crunched away up the lawn.

~

She was waiting on the dock.

I didn’t know how she’d known. She sat on a bench at the end of the pier with her coat pulled tight, snow in her hair, staring out over the black water. She didn’t turn when my shoes hit the boards.

“You took your time,” she said.

“You knew I was there.”

“I saw your reflection in the window when I came in.” She still didn’t look at me. “You have very nice shoes for a bartender.”

“Nell.”

“Don’t.”

“I need to explain.”

“You need to say your name.”

I stopped.

The wind moved over the lake, cold and clean. Her shoulders were rigid. I could see her breath.

“Cillian Doyle,” I said.

“Again.”

“Cillian Doyle.”

“Slower.”

“Cillian.” My voice cracked. “My name is Cillian Doyle. Cal Dunne was my grandfather. I’ve never been a bartender. I’ve never been for hire. I own the Hotel Doyle Grand, and I came to your meeting on Monday because someone is selling my company’s secrets to that man, and I thought the wedding was the way in.”

“And me?”

“I didn’t plan you.”

“But you used me.”

“Yes.”

“You lied to me for six days.”

“Yes.”

She finally turned. Her cheeks were wet. She was furious and shaking and beautiful, and it hurt to look at her.

“You knew about my lease,” she said. “Didn’t you?”

“My security team told me on Monday.”

“So you knew I’d need the money.”

“I knew you were in trouble.”

“And you thought I might sell you out.”

“For about ten minutes.”

“That’s not much of an apology.”

“I’m not apologizing for that. I’m apologizing for the rest.” I sat down on the bench beside her, leaving a foot of cold wood between us. “You could have told me. You knew since Thursday. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I wanted to see.”

“See what?”

“What you’d do.”

“And what did I do?”

She laughed, wet and cracked. “You gave a toast. You defended a stranger you’d known for three days. You made me a bad cup of coffee.” She wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand. “And then you kissed my forehead like it counted. And I’m so angry at you I can’t see straight.”

“Nell.”

“I’m not done.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t get to lie about your name. I got dumped by a man who lied about being in love. I’ve had eight months to practice the shape of a lie. I know them when they walk in.” Her voice broke. “I just didn’t think the one who walked in would make me laugh.”

The lake slapped at the pilings.

I did not touch her. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.

“I hate cilantro,” I said, very low. “That was true.”

“I know.”

“And I’ve never said what I said to you at that dinner about anyone. Not once in my life.”

She was silent for a long time.

“Bronagh Finnegan,” she said finally.

“What?”

“Your events director. She’s your leak. Or one of them.” She wiped her face again, took a breath, and turned to me. Her eyes had changed. All the hurt was still there, but there was steel in it now. “I told you. I notice things. It’s my whole job.”

“You could be wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.” She stood. “I’ll tell you what I want. The wedding is in six days. We finish this. You stay my fiancé. I’ll walk you through that hotel, and we catch her and whoever’s paying her. And when it’s done, I want a real apology, Cillian. On paper. Signed.”

“Done.”

“And after that, you leave me alone.”

The words went into my chest like a knife. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” She said it too fast.

Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. In the blue light her face went very white.

“Nell?”

“It’s Roisin.” She swallowed. “Fitzgerald Properties just emailed. Emergency eviction hearing. Tomorrow morning at nine.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He just did.”

She looked at me. Snow melted on her lashes.

“Six days,” she whispered. “And I have twelve hours to save my business.”