Page 9 of Her Mercenary
His Irish accent was almost undetectable. While Kieran had intentionally suppressed his accent after moving to the States and joining the CIA, I’d clutched onto mine with bloody fingernails. It was who I was, and I feared losing that part of me would derail my focus.
Kieran picked up his highball and sipped, then swallowed. His brows arched as he eyed the amber liquid. “Nice.”
“The senator brought it over for you.”
“I’ll bet he did.” Kieran smirked and leaned his elbows on the table.
Although it had been two years since I’d last seen him, the forty-something looked the exact same. Short auburn hair combed to the side, and a perfectly trimmed beard, colored to match.
Kieran Healy was the only man to ever beat me at arm wrestling—something he still reminds me of to this day. We’d met shortly after I began working for Astor Stone, a paramilitary contracting firm operating under the guise of a private investigation firm. Both being Irish immigrants, we’d bonded quickly, forming a strong working relationship, and the closest thing to a friendship I had.
Allowed for, anyway.
“Too bad he didn’t bring over one of his women too,” Kieran said.
“I thought you learned your lesson with the last one.”
“I learned to lock up my wallet before the clothes come off.” He shrugged. “Fun night, though. Worth every damn second.”
“Not many people would consider getting mugged a good night.”
“Not many people can bend the way she could.” He smirked. “Speaking of—you got a woman yet?”
“One that won’t steal my money? No.”
“Think about it. You’re not getting any younger. One day, you’ll regret dying alone.”
“I’ll be dying. I won’t care.”
“Alone. Alone is the point. You’ll be dying alone.”
I grabbed a napkin that I didn’t need and wiped at a spot on the table that wasn’t there.
Kieran grinned. “So, what time did you get in?”
“About four hours ago.”
“How long have you been in Mexico?”
“Less than two weeks.”
“Puerto Vallarta?”
I nodded.
“Find anything yet?”
“Not a fucking thing. I’m heading back in a few hours—have a meeting tomorrow with an undercover agent with the Mexican government. Now, what do you have for me?” I asked, getting to the point. I despised small talk almost as much as Mexican caviar.
“I have ten minutes to catch up with an old friend and drink some stolen whiskey.”
“Come on—”
“Dude, you know I could get fired, maybe even killed, for meeting you under the radar like this.”
“And I know you’re fucking the daughter of the Mexican ambassador to the US. So, unless you want this information to run in the morning paper ...”
“God, you’re a dick.”