He was a supervillain, brilliant and ruthless. For James Moriarty, fortune and power had become so easy, it was boring. But not for long. Now the Great Game was getting interesting.
Annabelle Watson didn't have a clue how important she was in his p...
Moriarty pushed his way through the people blocking the doorway of the Glenny Pub, and once he was inside, it was shoulder-to-shoulder-room only. All heads were bobbing, all hands clapping, and all eyes riveted on the young woman and her violin.
The lively Irish music exhilarated the air as Annabelle's entire body moved with the jaunty strokes of her bow across the strings. Even from where Moriarty stood across the pub, he could see her eyes sparkling as she played. She laughed as the music streamed across the room, masterfully adding her own musical embellishments to liven up the notes and tantalize the air. She was a goddess, enchanting and irresistible, and Moriarty's heart pounded in his chest.
But when Annabelle grinned at the antics of some of the men on stage with her, his eyes narrowed. Red-hot anger coursed through him as the men—drunken men—danced the Irish stepdance around her.
What the hell was she doing encouraging them?
At that moment, a hand clamped down on Moriarty's shoulder, and he turned his head to scowl at Father O'Rourke. The old priest grinned back.
"James, my boy, it's been a while," he yelled in Moriarty's ear to be heard above the laughter and music. "Have you ever seen such happiness? The place is loving this young lass. Not sure where she came from, but we must get her to stay. Can you talk to her? Maybe she'll listen to you."
Moriarty could feel a growl welling in his throat. Annabelle listen to him? Not the Annabelle he knew. Angrily, he shrugged off Father O'Rourke's hand and pushed through the crowd to his private table at the corner of the pub. He sat down and drummed his fingers on the table as his eyes fixed on her, his expression darkening by the second.
She continued playing, laughing, her fingers breezing over the strings, her shoulders and hips moving to the lilting rhythm of the music. Moriarty fumed, his eyes spitting fire as he simmered in his seat. Her aura was even more captivating than when she had played in London.
Now Annabelle was... seductive.
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Every muscle in his body tensed as he watched her. And when his eyes fastened on a burly young man putting his hands on her swaying hips, Moriarty launched out of his seat. He stormed through the crowd, punching and pushing anyone who got in his way.
Annabelle jerked her body away when she felt herself grabbed from behind. She glared at the drunken man though her fingers continued to play the Irish jig. But when Moriarty suddenly appeared beside her, she gasped, and her hand halted over the strings. "James..."
"I'm going to kill you, Owen!" Moriarty seethed. He grabbed the stunned young man by his shaggy hair, yanked him backwards, then propelled him forward with a hard shove into the crowd.
He levelled his furious gaze back on Annabelle. "Enough!" he ordered. "Stop encouraging them!"
Annabelle gritted her teeth and lowered the violin, returning his glare with one of her own.
