I’m not my father. Clint Brophy is nothing I’ll ever be. ‘I prefer to settle my debts up front.’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘You’re in here what, three times a week, and you’re carrying at least two grand in your wallet. I think you’re good for it.’
I lift a brow at these two facts she drops at my feet. Small details that she’s noticed—she’s attentive. Observant.
‘Settle up later,’ she murmurs and then shifts sideways down the bar. I watch her for a moment, a frown scored on my face, and then I pick up my drinks, leaving the hundred euro note where it was.
I choose a table at the edge of the room. Along with St Michan’s, these are the only catacombs in Ireland. Dug deep into the ground, they once housed human remains, but these were cleared out in the early nineteenth century and a private investor in the first half of the twentieth century bought the ancient network of tunnels and converted this section into a bar. Despite the lack of windows and the morbid associations, I like it here. Or maybe I like it because of those associations rather than in spite of them.
I am tempted to throw the Scotch back, to drink it fast and feel that burn of warmth and spice all the way down, but I don’t—my thirst is something I will control, always. I touch the glass to my lips, breathing it in first and then pouring just a hint into my mouth. I close my eyes and savour the taste. Strong and peppery.
My phone buzzes and I lift it from the pocket of my suit jacket. It’s Digbey, one of our firm’s investigators.
Witness bought ticket to London. Met in pursuit.
My scowl is reflexive. For fuck’s sake. I knew it was a wildcard but I thought I’d sold him on testifying.
An untrustworthy witness is already less than ideal, let alone when the witness is reluctant. I’ll have to paint this to the jury somehow. Explain it away.
Slowly, I drink the Scotch, watching the activity of the bar spin around me.
But I’m not left to my own devices for long.
Ten or so minutes after I’ve sat down, she moves to the table. The blonde. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her out from behind the bar and I take a moment to look at her properly. Black jeans with one knee fashionably ripped and the white T-shirt that is part of the O’Leary’s uniform, with an apron that comes only halfway down her thighs.
‘You forgot this.’ She places a stainless steel plate with eighty euros on it down on the table.
‘Thanks.’
‘Did you want anything to eat?’
She’s been here a while. A couple of months, I guess. And we’ve barely spoken. Why do I get the feeling that she’s trying to talk to me tonight? That she needs to talk to me?
‘No, thanks.’
She nods but stays where she’s standing, her teeth digging into her lip. It’s like she’s on the edge of a cliff, words locked inside her. I’ve done enough interviews to know when someone’s sitting on something.
‘What’s your name?’
The question unsettles her more than it should. Her gaze slips back to the bar and then she breathes out, as if she’s forcing herself to inflate and deflate her lungs. She’s nervous.
I do have that effect on people—not intentionally but, more often than not, my reputation precedes me. I’m known for being ruthless, determined, cold-hearted, cynical, power-hungry. All adjectives that do describe me but they make me laugh for the image they create, like I’m some kind of dragon. Still, I rarely disabuse anyone of that idea, because it serves me well to have people intimidated by me.
‘Camille Davis,’ she says softly, the pretty name catching in her throat. ‘But everyone calls me Millie.’
Both names suit her. She is elegant and gracious—Camille. But youthful and kind of sweet-seeming, with a constellation of freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose—Millie.
‘Well, Millie, why don’t you join me for a drink?’
Her eyes flare wide and her pulse begins to hammer hard in her throat. I can see it, the rapid beating beneath her fragile skin.
‘I—’ Her tongue darts out, tracing the line of her lower lip. ‘I’m working.’ The words are practically mumbled and then she hastens away, leaving me with a brooding frown and a sense of confusion at what just happened.
I have a standing reservation at Petit Pois, but I’m in no rush to leave the bar. I sit back in the chair and tell myself my reluctance has nothing to do with the pretty Australian, and everything to do with the sharp left turn my case has just taken.
* * *
Most of the after-work crowd has cleared, though there are enough people to keep us busy. I continue serving, pretending I’m ignoring him. But Michael Brophy sits with his back to me and I find I can’t stop watching him.
Am I really going to proposition a man I don’t know for sex?
This whole trip is supposed to be about adventure. New experiences. The last promise I made to my mother was that I would live a little before settling down. We plotted this together, planning where I’d go, what I’d see.
Don’t make my mistakes, Millie. There’s so much more to life than work—go. See it for yourself. Have fun. Be careless. Be silly. Then come home and do the sensible thing.
Between my medical degree and caring for a terminally ill mother, I really hadn’t made a conscious decision to be sensible. I’d simply put my head down and done what needed to be done. But, within months of graduating, my mother had died and I was left with that promise I’d made her and enough of an inheritance to make her dreams for me come true.
So here I am in Dublin, the first stop in what I’ve loosely planned to be a two-year adventure. And after six years of study, five of those simultaneously nursing Mum, I’ve woken up and realised that I am actually a woman. With normal impulses and needs, and suddenly they’re blaring inside me, demanding indulgence.
Before I can second-guess myself, I move out from behind the bar, heading to his table, fuelled only by instinct and adrenalin.
His lips curve into a half-smile when I approach.
‘Millie,’ he says slowly, his voice throaty and my name like magic in his mouth.
‘Would you like anything else?’
He lifts his eyes to mine and the very air between us seems to spark. A frisson dances down my spine. He holds the tumbler in the palm of his hand, cradling it, and his manner is contemplative. Thoughtful.
‘I’ll have another, if you’ll join me.’
‘I’m...still working,’ I say softly.
He shifts in his seat, looking over his shoulder, then turns back to me. ‘It’s not busy. Take a break.’
Such command! Such confidence. My first instinct, that I didn’t
