He ran a hand over his short dark hair. “I can see that.”
Thank God, because she was doing everything in her power to hold it together. She lifted her chin. “Shall we?”
Liam jumped to it, ushering her to the car. Only when he put it in drive did she finally lean back against the seat and give in to the shakes. She’d been in shitty positions before, but this seemed so much worse. Maybe it was because of her circumstances. It didn’t really matter. All that did matter was scrubbing away the memory of his hands on her body and his tongue in her mouth as quickly as humanly possible.
Before she could think too much into it, she reached for her phone. It barely rang once when James answered. “Did you miss me, lovely?”
She knew she should play coy and keep the minuscule distance between them from shrinking any further, but she just didn’t have it in her tonight. “I need you.”
James had thought he’d imagined the fear in Carrigan’s voice when she called. If she was in actual trouble, she sure as hell wasn’t going to call him—no matter how much he liked the idea of being the one to swoop in and save her from her problems. He liked the idea too much.
But then she walked into the quiet little pub where he was waiting, and he realized he hadn’t been wrong the first time. There were faint bruises beneath her eyes, like she’d been sleeping even less than he had, and she held herself like a woman who’d been beaten for the first time. He was on his feet before he made a conscious decision to move. “Who hurt you?”
“No one.”
“Don’t play that martyr bullshit with me, Carrigan. Who the fuck put that look on your face?” She’d gone through hell and back because of him and it hadn’t put that haunted expression in her green eyes. He clenched his fists, trying and failing to get control of his temper. She wasn’t his to protect. Hell, even if she was, he had a pretty shitty track record of keeping people in his care safe. There was no reason why she’d be any different.
Except that he wanted her to be different.
She brushed past him, drawing his attention to her clothing. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Carrigan spun and glared. “I don’t need your shit right now.”
“You called me, lovely, so my shit is exactly what you’re going to get.” She looked like an angel—one that had had its wings clipped. He wasn’t sure what gave him that impression, but the long white dress was opposite of everything he’d found the woman to be in the short time they’d known each other. She was wild and impulsive and free. She wasn’t…this virginal almost-bride. He didn’t like the change. He didn’t like it one bit. “Sit your ass down. I’ll get us drinks, and then you’re telling me what the fuck is going on.”
“Hold your breath on that.”
He wouldn’t have to. She might be prickly as all get-out, but she wanted to talk. She wouldn’t have called him otherwise. The bartender met him halfway, a nervous little mouse of a guy. James made an effort to speak softly because the man looked half a second from pissing himself. “Whiskey for me. Dirty martini for the lady.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
He’d known there was a decent chance he’d be recognized here on the outskirts of Halloran territory, but short of dragging Carrigan out of Boston, there weren’t many options. So James slipped the guy a few hundred bucks. “For your discretion.” He let a little threat into his voice.
“Of course.”
Satisfied that the bartender wouldn’t go telling tales, he made his way back to where Carrigan had picked a booth. Ignoring the empty side, he slid in next to her. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t look up. “What makes you think something’s going on?”
“How about because you won’t meet my eyes for the first time since we met? Or this…I don’t even know what to call this getup.” He tugged on the white fabric pooled on the booth seat between them.
Her green eyes flashed, a welcome show of anger. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I dress.”
“You’re right. This isn’t you. This is some scared virgin who’s looking for her white knight. If I’ve learned anything from our time together, it’s that you’d have no problem slaying dragons on your own.”
Her mouth formed a little O of surprise, but she recovered quickly enough. “You don’t know me.”
“Not nearly as well as I want to, no. But you don’t grow up the way we did without learning to read a person.” The bartender appeared with their drinks, and James waited for him to scurry away before he spoke again. “Talk to me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”