Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

A PROTECTOR AND HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL

TARA

"To be honest, I wasn't expecting it," I said, breaking the suffocating silence that hung in the room. "Though, I did manage to shoot one of you this time."

My eyes flicked to the poor eejit slumped against the wall, clutching his stomach as blood seeped through his fingers. His pallor was already turning ghostly, his breaths ragged and shallow. The poor bastard wasn't getting out of this alive, that much was obvious.

"I'm sorry," I cringed as another gush of blood spilled from his wound. He stared at me blankly, his expression devoid of anything resembling forgiveness. "Jesus Christ, I already said sorry! I'd give you a hug, but—" I wiggled my hands behind me, the handcuffs clinking against the chair. "I can't. So, my 'I'm sorry' will have to suffice."

One of the henchmen—bulky, grim-faced, and likely missing a few brain cells—turned to the man I presumed was in charge.

"Boss," he said, his eyes scanning me with an expression—was that contempt? Fuck no. "are we sure it's her?"

"Who the fuck are you gawking at like that, dickface?" I snapped, narrowing my eyes at him. "Show a bit of respect, would ya? Or is it because I'm a woman?"

"It is her," Boss confirmed, his deep voice carrying an English accent that immediately caught my attention.
Hot.
What?
I had a thing for accents.

Jonathan's thick Dublin lilt was fucking sexy, especially when he whispered in bed.

God only knew how much I adored that man's mouth.
Focus, Tara.

You've been kidnapped.
Right.

Not the time to get fucking horny.

All thoughts of maintaining focus went straight out the window when I got a proper look at who'd orchestrated my kidnapping.

"Okay, Daddy," I blurted, unable to suppress a grin. Jaysus, did the Chad Michael Murray take a break from One Tree Hill to join the mafia and kidnap me? If Aoife were here, she'd either faint on the spot or start screeching like a banshee. I made a mental note to tell her all about this once I got out of this mess.

The English Chad Michael Murray doppelgänger dragged a chair across the room, the legs scraping against the concrete with an ear-piercing screech. He sat down across from me, his suit impeccable, his posture relaxed. Someone throw a bucket of cold water on me—or fan me—because the air in here had just gotten thicker.

"Hey, Tara," he greeted with a dazzling smile that could've landed him on the cover of GQ. "Can I call you Tara?"

"You can call me whatever you want," I winked. "This afternoon just got a whole lot more interesting."

"I'm glad," he chuckled, the sound deep and cultured. He had the laugh of a man who owned yachts and casually closed million-dollar deals. Sweet divine, someone find me a priest to marry this man immediately. If I landed this blond god, he could sugarbaby me and Jonathan.

"Would you like something to drink before we start?"

"Are you on the menu? By the way, has anyone ever told you you're the spit of Chad Michael Murray? Dead ringer for him, swear to God. If the kidnapping business goes tits up, you could always become an actor."

"You're funny," he said with a bemused smirk. "Shall we get started then?"

I nodded, still grinning.

"Do you know why we kidnapped you?"

"For being criminally sexy?" I teased, barely holding back a laugh as his henchmen exchanged eye rolls. "My boyfriend would tell you I'm quite the catch if he were here."