Devil: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 6

  Not with him.

  Not now.

  “I love pie.”

  We walk around the orchard for a while, mostly in silence. I break off on my own for a bit, needing some space. When the sun starts to get low in the sky, he finds me, seemingly appearing out of thin air.

  “We should head back before it gets dark,” he says.

  I’m proud of myself for not startling. “Yeah. Totally. Let’s head back.”

  We cement our plans for the next day during our walk through the woods. I’ll watch the police station in the morning and see if I can “bump” into an officer and start a conversation. Then we’ll go for a tour of the brewery in the early afternoon. Sniff out what we can and go from there.

  When we emerge from the woods, the sun has begun to set.

  “I don’t know about you,” Ronan says, “But I’m starving.” He shoots me a devilish look.

  “Oh my god. I bet you ate a bunch of apples, too, didn’t you?”

  “Only five.”

  “I’m not going back to that restaurant tonight, Doyle. Let’s pick up some food from the grocery store instead.”

  He looks dubious, as if nothing from there could stand up to his appetite. He may be right, but I really don’t want to go back to Clyde’s.

  And I don’t know if I can face down a repeat of his lunch time takedown.

  “Go across the street to the general store and get us some alcohol. We’ll need it. I’ll find something for us to eat.”

  He’s unconvinced, but he leaves anyway.

  Good.

  The grocery store is small but has a great selection of fresh food. I grab a handbasket and wander around, picking up a baguette, cheese, nuts, local honey, and prosciutto. We can do nice charcuterie, but then I remember who I’m dealing with and grab a box of Honey Nut Cheerios and some milk.

  Better get one of the local apple pies they sell, too.

  A loaf of whole grain bread, chips, and some deli meat couldn’t hurt, either. I pick up some produce to go with it, toss in some aioli for good measure, and wish I’d gotten a cart instead.

  The mini fridge in our room is going to earn its keep.

  While the cashier scans my groceries, I notice a pint glass that says “Prescott: Home of the Bad Apples,” with a cartoon apple on it that has very angry eyebrows and little fists raised in a boxer’s stance. The cashier sees me pick it up.

  “That’s our sports team,” she says. “The Bad Apples.”

  “I didn’t even see a school,” I say, laughing and handing her the glass.

  “Oh, we don’t have one. The kids all go to the regional school two towns over. That’s the joke.” She scans the glass and packs it in one of my bags. Ronan will get a kick out of it. Consider it a thank you for not pushing me earlier.

  I pay for my groceries, thank the cashier, and head to the exit. Ronan is about to come in as I’m leaving and he scrambles to get the bags from me. They’re heavy as fuck, and mostly have food for him, so I let him take them. I keep the one with the glass, though.

  You can say a lot of things about Murphy Doyle, but he did teach his sons good manners.

  He has a bag too but seems not to notice the weight of it at all. We chat amiably back to the B&B. Toby isn’t there. Hopefully I’ll see him again tomorrow. The front door is unlocked, though, and we carry our supplies up to the second floor.

  Ronan let me hold on to the key, and he leans against the wall as I fish it out of my purse and unlock the door.

  He’s unpacking the bags, making little comments of approval as he pops the perishables into the mini fridge.

  “Do you want to eat outside?” I ask. “We could sit on the back porch. It looks like it’s going to be a nice night.”

  “Sure but I’m not sharing with Toby.”

  “Of course not,” I say, holding a hand up. “Okay, Doyle. I’ll put together a charcuterie, and you make yourself as big a sandwich as possible.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  9

  Ronan

  “I borrowed flatware from Amelia,” Ruby says, popping back upstairs.

  She’s piling meat, cheese, and other delectables on a wood cutting board just as I finish bringing the world’s tallest sandwich into existence. She’d managed to choose all my favorites, down to the spicy mustard and pickles.

  It’s neither the first nor the last time Ruby will impress me, I’m sure.

  She’s pulling the wine I picked up out of the bag.

  “Wait,” I say, “I got you something.”

  She steps back, and I fish out a wineglass that has a ridiculously angry apple emblazoned on it with the slogan “Prescott: Home of the Bad Apples.”

  I present it to her with a flourish, and she doesn’t even laugh.

  Damn.

  I thought it’d make her laugh.

  Normally I’m not a man that thinks twice about giving gifts.

  I like surprising people with things they’ll enjoy.

  But maybe I’ve gone a bit too far over some line I didn’t realize was there?

  Instead, she wanders over to where she’d left one of her grocery bags and pulls out a box of cereal (nice), a pie (nicer), and a pint glass.

  Shit.

  “I got this for you,” she says, quietly.

  I trace the same angry apple with my fingertip.

  The moment hangs between us.

  “Ruby.”

  It feels heavy suddenly, and I don’t want that.

  Not tonight.

  “I have something to tell you. Something important,” I continue the deepest, most serious tone I can must.

  She looks terrified.

  I hate that, too.

  What does she think I’m going to say?

  “We both have shit taste in glassware.”

  Pure relief floods her face and she laughs.

  “He just looks so angry,” she says, picking up the wineglass. “That apple is ready to fucking destroy its enemies.”

  “Very apropos of our plans, then.”

  She grins and it’s almost feral.

  Fuck.

  She’s so fucking hot.

  I distract myself with the food, and we’ve got a decent picnic packed. It’s eerily quiet. The summer tourists are long gone, and the leaf peepers won’t be here for another few weeks.

  The locals are either at Clyde’s or at home, so Ruby and I have the whole back porch to ourselves. We set up our spread on a low table, eating, drinking, and talking.

  It strikes me how domestic the scene is. Anyone would believe we were a couple on vacation, and not two enemies teaming up to take down a bigger, badder enemy.

  Ruby laughs at another of my jokes, something that feels better than I want to admit, and it hits me how I don’t want her to think of me as an enemy. I don’t want to be another disappointing source of rot to her. I take a swig of beer from the pint glass she’s given me.

  And here’s the hardest part of all, the hardest part of everything about my life as the soon-to-be-head of the Doyle clan.

  What she thinks about me can’t matter.

  What I want can’t matter.

  What feels good to me, as a man, can’t matter.

  Can’t decide my decisions.

  There’s a purpose to this trip; I came here to take care of a problem. As easy as it is to forget with the way my body reacts to her, the easy way her laughter seems to melt the stress that’s molded every facet of my life, it’s not real.

  When Ruby finds out what I’ve done she’ll be back to threatening to shoot me again.

  Or worse, she won’t be, and it’ll be her colleagues out for my blood.

  Then not even whatever this undercurrent that’s flowing between us will save me.

  Getting rid of Michael O’Dooley my way is worth it. It has to be.

  But as I look at her, with her wide dark eyes and those curves and those fucking gorgeous lips, I’m not entirely sure.

  And it’s a sensation that shak
es me to the core, because I might be big, brutal, impulsive, and even violent. Confident in my ability to figure things out even when I can’t see one inch in front of my face. But the one thing that never wavers?

  That deep sense of sureness I’m doing the right thing.

  Could this woman have me so off-center?

  It’s a good thing this is just one weekend, one brief reprieve, so there’s no chance of me losing my senses.

  Ruby sucks some honey off her fingers. “Everything’s so sticky,” she says. She’s had a few glasses of wine, and she’s a little drunk. It’s dark out now, and the stars are easily visible.

  Not like in Boston, where light pollution drowns them out.

  I’d love to live in a place like this someday.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks, leaning toward me.

  “Just about how I’d like to move somewhere quieter someday. Away from the hustle.”

  “Can you?” she asks. “I mean, with your family business?”

  Her words are a heavy, lead hammer to the dream.

  There it is again.

  That reality.

  That weight.

  Cops and mafia. Daughters of corrupt cops and sons of sometimes corrupt men fighting for their place in the world.

  Completely different.

  And yet completely the same.

  No. I can’t ever leave Boston. The Carneys would take advantage of my absence immediately, and I can’t leave my brothers to fend for themselves. My life is bound up in other people’s needs and expectations, and in promises I made to my father that I’d look out for them. Look out for the family’s interests.

  I just hadn’t realized how much it would cost.

  Even something as simple as the illusion of living somewhere that I could eat dinner with a beautiful woman under the stars.

  “Not all the time,” I sigh.

  “You deserve something of your own, Ronan. It can’t just be about family all the time. It can be about you.”

  She doesn’t understand, but it’s not her fault.

  How could she? Ruby is lightness. I almost envy her clear sense of right and wrong. That clarity. She’s struggled. She’d never admit it, but I know that business with her father was hard.

  But she knew she was doing the right thing.

  Black and white.

  Operating in the shadows is a lot harder.

  Shades of gray leaves too much at risk.

  The katydids are singing, but lethargically. Ruby shivers and I smile ruefully at her. She’s hugging herself. Enough of me trying to escape my own life, draw out some conversation with her.

  “You’re cold,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

  Her face is a pale blur in the darkness. Our eyes have adjusted as best they can but the darkness is winning, and we need to pack up before we can’t see at all.

  “Ronan,” she says, grabbing one of my hands. “I mean it. You deserve to be happy, too.”

  Her hand is like ice, and I hold it between mine, blowing on it to warm her up.

  “I am happy,” I say. “I’m happy here with you right now. That’s enough.”

  And I’m surprised to realize I mean it.

  She lets out a small breath, which hangs like a ghost in front of her mouth before dissipating. She moves slowly toward me, and before I know what’s happening she’s pressing her lips against mine.

  It’s a fucking lightening strike.

  I crush her against me, kissing her feverishly.

  She matches my pace, her mouth wet and yielding as I caress her tongue with mine. She moans, a desperate, needy sound, and my cock is at attention. I taste the wine on her lips, traces of the sweet honey, and suddenly I realize she’s drunk, and she’ll regret this tomorrow.

  But that taste of honey?

  That I’ll never forget.

  I pull away from her reluctantly and smooth her hair behind her ear.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” I say.

  She’s hesitant, thinking I mean something different. Kissing on the porch is one thing, even tipsy, but going upstairs is quite another.

  “We have a big day tomorrow,” I continue. “We can watch some shit TV and get some sleep.”

  She licks her lips and nods, fumbling to pack up.

  “I’ve got this,” I say. “Why don’t you head in and warm up?”

  “See you upstairs.”

  I pack up everything bring them into the kitchen. There isn’t any food left over. I took care of that already, but we do have a third of the wine left. I put the cork back in, then wash and dry the dishes and return them to their places in the cabinets, grateful for the glass doors so I know where to stash them.

  The wine and our fighting apples come back upstairs.

  Not wanting to startle Ruby, I knock softly on the door before opening it slowly. She’s in the bathroom, so I enter, locking the door behind me. After finding a spot for the glasses and wine, I change into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

  The TV is on—Dirty Dancing. One of Kieran’s all-time favorites, not that he’d admit it. Just something I as his big brother know and hold over his head whenever I deem it necessary. There’s a trunk at the end of the big bed, and if my hunch is right I’ll find blankets inside.

  Blankets and a pillow. Amelia doesn’t mess around. I set up a makeshift cot on the floor, and lean on the dresser, waiting for my turn in the bathroom. Ruby comes out a few minutes later. Her hair is piled up on her head, and she looks fresh-faced and sleepy.

  She has a pair of satin pajamas on—pink with flowers.

  It takes a tremendous amount of self-control to school my reaction to her.

  Those pajamas are sexier than any lingerie I’ve ever seen on a woman, despite the fact she’s nearly completely covered. The buttons at the top strain slightly against her full breasts, and I pull my gaze away before she catches me staring.

  I’ll reserve the right to image the way the silk molds to her curves for eternity though.

  That much I’ll keep.

  I move into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind me.

  I take my time brushing my teeth and washing my face. I contemplate a cold shower, but those never work anyway.

  Cold hard dick is still hard dick.

  Don’t be a chickenshit, Doyle.

  The TV is off and Ruby is on her side, the blankets pulled up to her shoulder.

  “Ronan,” she says, her voice whisper soft.

  Lord help me.

  “Ronan, you can share the bed with me. You’ll just hurt your back if you sleep on the floor. It wasn’t too long ago you were saving old ladies from burning buildings.”

  “And their cat,” I say, my voice husky with lust. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll take the floor.”

  Honey, like she’d licked off those pretty fingers earlier.

  Like I tasted on her lips.

  Like I’d love to taste between her legs.

  “I know you’ll be a gentleman. You were earlier.”

  She blushes and it goes right to my cock. I’m standing right by that inviting tangle of blankets of woman, and I know she can see my hard-on. Maybe honesty is the best policy here.

  If Ruby says yes, I’ll fuck her into next year.

  I’m unashamedly dominant in bed, but I need a partner who is there all the way with me. Best to let her know that about me now, so she’ll understand the danger. Sex would get in the way of what we’re here to do, as much as I’d love to bury myself inside her.

  The strength of that desire surprises even me.

  I peel the covers away from her, leaving them bunched at her hips. I rake my gaze over her body and sit next to her, tracing a finger down her throat.

  “Honey,” I rasp, licking my lips as I move my finger and thumb to the top button on her top, popping it open. “If I climb in next to you.”

  I pop the next button. Those beautiful breasts are heaving, and her nipples are hardening against the satin. I graze them with my fingers and she ga
sps.

  “If I climb in here, next to you, next to your hot fucking body…”

  Leaning over here, I grab her arms, pressing her back into the mattress. I draw her arms up above her head and capture her wrists in one hand, pinning them and leaving her helpless. The way she’s melting into my touch speaks volumes of how desperate she is to let go, and some primal part of me wants to be the man that takes her there more than I care to admit.

  Man.

  Woman.

  Power.

  Pleasure.

  Dominate.

  Submit.

  I explore the flat planes of her stomach with my other hand, my fingertips grazing the undersides of her breasts.

  A level playing field, clear rules of engagement, and the easy flow of power between two people.

  Just the promise of that with Ruby is enough to send me over an edge.

  I press my lips to her ear. “I’m not going to be a gentleman.”

  Easing back, I look down at her. I expect some resistance, that look of defiance I’m used to, hell, maybe even a hint of fear. But to my surprise her eyes are dark with lust and she’s arching her back to me as if offering her sweet fucking body up.

  Fuck.

  I ran in a straight line when I should’ve doubled back.

  I kiss her, and she whimpers. It’s not enough, but it has to be.

  This is too loaded.

  Too close to too many edges.

  I let her go.

  Not as much for me. I’d jump over the cliff and not look back.

  But for her.

  I’d never want to do anything that she’d regret.

  And as much as I want her, I want to protect her.

  Even if that’s protecting her from making bad decisions with me.

  “Goddamn,” I say, taking in her disheveled form. “Going to be hard to get any sleep as it is.”

  I shut off the lamp and lay on the floor.

  “Goodnight, Ruby. Sweet dreams.”

  She doesn’t respond. Probably pissed off, and rightfully so, but if I let myself go she wouldn’t be walking tomorrow.

  Or maybe leaving this room.

  And we have work to do.

  Time passes, and I’m just drifting off when I hear Ruby’s breathing change. It’s too dark to see what’s happening, and I immediately feel a protective urge crash over me, like I could punch away her bad dreams.