After his initial shock, he laughed, then tossed her a grin. Even figuring his brother had been tagged for the job, he offered, “If you don’t have anyone else by then, I’ll marry you.” Where the hell had that come from and why didn’t it scare him? “Friends do it all the time.”
Her nervous laugh left him wondering whether he’d said the right thing or not. Surely, she had to know it was a joke. Although…. No, he wouldn’t think of something so far out there. When he found the right woman, he’d marry. But Moira was a friend he wanted to make happy. Oh, and have twisting-in-the-sheets sex with.
Picking up the knife and slicing, she took a moment before she spoke. “Thanks, but I won’t marry just for the money. I made a really good living in Ireland painting and can do the same when I return.”
She’d leave. Panic took hold of him and walloped his heart into beating overtime. A thought occurred to him. “If this isn’t over by then”—she looked at him sharply, but he wouldn’t stop pushing— “and you’re married, how can you collect the money without alerting anyone?”
She waved her hand with the knife—which he kept his eye on—as if his question was inconsequential, then seemed to think about it. “I hadn’t thought about that. Since I’ll be supposedly dead, Declan’s my beneficiary, so I guess he has the money. Well, he’ll be dead too.” She bit her outer lip, and Danny wanted to climb over the counter and help her. After thinking it over, she shrugged and returned to her task. “Declan will work it out when the time comes.”
He added to his list to ask Joe or Devon how secure the accounts were she was using. He couldn’t let something so simple bite them in the ass. Maybe they should transfer the money to a new account in her fake name and do it while routing and bouncing it enough to hide every converted dollar. How does that work with the general inheritance if both of them are dead?
His DEA knowledge on moving money wasn’t enough to answer those questions. According to Jesse—who was also a former FBI agent—and Devon Hamilton—former CIA and computer guru—and Boss, it’d been that DEA background that had made him so valuable to HIS. Yet, they hadn’t needed him often enough to make him feel useful.
“Moira, I’m leaving you money to spend. Don’t touch the account your brother established until I do some research.”
She stilled. “Why?”
He exhaled loudly. “Nothing. I just want everything to be safe. I want to speak with someone who is well-versed in accounts. Until then, we should proceed with caution on anything tying you to Ireland.”
Watching him and appearing to consider what he’d said, she finally nodded. “Okay. I wish this situation was done and over with.”
He agreed with that. While her situation involved threats from overseas, his hands were tied. However, since it was Boyle who was involved, he’d find out if he knew the agent stationed in Ireland and use him or her for information. Shaking his head to wonder about that later, he leaned over the bar and sniffed.
Moira laughed. “I’m still cutting it up.”
Since she’d arrived, they’d taken turns cooking, but her way was by far the best. “The smell of the bread is making my stomach growl.”
She glanced at the oven. “Potato and cheddar rolls. I enjoy it so much more than soda bread, but I love that too,” she rushed to add.
“And, what’re you making?” He pointed to the pot she’d dumped cubes of meat into.
“A simple stew. I haven’t cooked it for you yet.”
He rubbed his belly but decided he wanted to have some fun with her since he hadn’t heard a little Irish rant in a few days. “Hm. Is it as good as your mom’s? Because she made the best Irish stew I’ve ever eaten.” He shook his head, watching the pink creep up her face. “No, I can’t believe anyone could cook it that well.”
For a moment, he wondered if he’d gone too far and insulted her, without her realizing he was joking. Before he could make that point clear, she turned the spoon on him and began to rant. Mostly in English, but some Irish and Gaelic slipped in.
His grin spread across his face, and his heart lightened. She was magnificent in beauty and spirit. He drank in everything about her.
She spoke rapidly, and he couldn’t keep up. He translated some of her Gaelic, although he wished he hadn’t been able to. “Ungrateful.” “Rat’s ass.” He hoped that meant she didn’t give a rat’s ass versus calling him that. “Poison.” That one made him a little nervous. He had to put an end to her tirade, but when he raised his hand to stop her, she just spoke faster, and her accent thickened, ending his ability to understand her words.
Ignoring her verbal assault, that he’d thought would’ve been joking back and forth, he stood, took the few steps to the refrigerator, and opened it. Like nothing was amiss, he asked, “Want something while I’m pouring?”
She stopped speaking as if just realizing he’d left the seat. When she didn’t answer immediately, he looked at her beyond the open refrigerator door and quirked an eyebrow in question. She glared at him with her hand on one hip and the spoon still pointing at him. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? You, you—”
“Rat’s ass?” he finished for her and laughed until he saw her fighting a smile.
Her embarrassment was even more attractive than her raging.
He chuckled and winked at her. “I’m having sweet tea. Want some?”
Controlled, she turned back to the stove and stirred the meat. “Is that all they drink where you grew up in Georgia?”
“Hell, yeah,” he replied without a thought. “Want some?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’d like a glass of wine.”
“Red or white?”
Her incredulous look made him want to laugh also. As he thought about it, since
