For the last two hours, I’ve been booted from our room while the stylists I hired to do Keira’s hair and makeup work their magic. I saw to it that she ate, slept some more, and was ready and appeared relatively human when they arrived.

I’m in the hotel bar when I get a call from J on my secure line.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“What?” I reach for my wallet, tossing some cash on the bar before making my way to one of the soundproof booths available for calls.

“Cartel is asking around about the disappearance of their lieutenant.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” I locate a free booth close to the door behind me.

“No, and they’re getting insistent about it.”

I think back to that night and the several witnesses in the room. The crooked city councilman, the hypocritical megachurch preacher skimming from the donations, and the oil baron with an ego bigger than mine.

All of whom I have information on, and all of whom would love for the cartel to take me out in hopes that their secrets would die with me.

“Everyone knows the consequences if they talk. Feel free to send reminders on my behalf.”

J knows that by reminders, I mean a team of enforcers.

“I think the preacher is the weak link. He’s a pussy,” J says.

“No. He’s the least of our worries. He doesn’t want to give up his Gulfstream or his mistress. We’ve got the least amount of leverage on the oilman. Watch him. If the cartel goes to question him, make sure he’s temporarily unavailable.”

“How temporarily?”

“Let him know that it’d be in his best interest to take his family on an extended vacation to their villa in Italy.”

“And if he balks?”

“Just fucking do it, J. You want to prove you can handle more? Handle this shit.”

J’s tone changes. “It’s under control. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

“You run into problems, call me. No surprises.”

“Got it, boss.”

I hang up, annoyed that this escape of a vacation has been interrupted by cartel bullshit.

J knows as well as I do that the cartel will never find the body, and without a body, they can’t prove it was me. And without proof, they wouldn’t dare make a move.

But the witnesses. They could be a problem.

They won’t be.

I’ve waded through deeper shit than this and come out clean, and I expect this won’t be any different.

I push open the door of the booth and check the time on my phone. The gala should already be under way, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting Keira miss the awards.

She doesn’t know it, but I made certain that Seven Sinners was entered in multiple categories on a last-minute basis. I have zero control over the judging, but her product speaks for itself.

I also didn’t tell her because if she doesn’t win, there’s the added bonus of not knowing she was in the running to begin with.

I’m not sure at what point I decided I needed to protect her from more than just physical threats, but also from what I know would be a crushing disappointment. This week has changed a lot of things.

I reach the suite and close the door behind me, listening for sounds of the stylists, but all is quiet. “Keira?”

“One second!” she calls from the vicinity of the bedroom. “I’m almost ready.” She sounds much better than she did when I left.

I wait in the living room area and contemplate pouring myself another drink as my mind goes over J’s call again, but decide against it.

Instead, I stare out the window I fucked Keira against days ago. One more thing I wish I could repeat.

Fuck, I wish I could have this whole week again. But tonight, we go back to reality. The jet will be waiting on the tarmac for us as soon as the gala is finished.

“So, what do you think?”

I turn toward her voice as she steps into the bedroom doorway, and freeze.

Her dress, a brilliant green that matches her eyes, hugs every curve and yet conceals enough to be the epitome of class. Her hair is in some elaborate style with strands falling around her face.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Is that a good Jesus Christ or a bad one?” she asks, stepping into the living room. The slit up one side of the dress flashes a toned leg and fuck-me shoes.

“That’s a ‘Jesus Christ, I hope you’re not still hungover, because I don’t know if I want to let you leave this room tonight.’”

Her lips curve into a smile. “Actually, I feel fine now. Must be the Irish in me.” She gives me a once-over, her gaze stopping on my crotch. “You always look good in a suit, but you seem to have a minor problem.”

“Don’t ever refer to my dick as minor.”

She laughs, and the sound reminds me of how freely she let it loose last night.

Fuck. I have to stop thinking about it.

She crosses the room, flashing a glimpse of leg with every step, a mischievous glint in her eyes.