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Everyone in Ireland knows Ríoga. It’s got private rooms, waiting lists, staff trained to serve every whim. A restaurant that doesn’t need to show prices on the menu because those who dine there have money to burn.
Dinner for ten in the private dining room at Ríoga, the Harringtons’ Michelin-star restaurant.
I pick up the card before I can talk myself out of it. The paper is thick with the same embossed crest and gold lettering that came with my necklace.
On the reverse, there’s a short description of the chef, the underground wine cellar, and the dining experience.
I’d rather eat beef stew on a bench at the docks than dirty the boring white tablecloths of that place. I put the card down.
“Not to your taste?” Mara asks, watching me. “We dined there with Alasdair the other evening. The food was outstanding.”
“I’m sure the chef is very talented.”
“The waiting list runs into next year,” she adds, laughing, then her gaze moves past me, and the sound disappears.
Alasdair approaches with a woman in pearls and two older men behind him.
“The coveted Ríoga experience,” he says, gesturing to the photograph.
Fionn appears next to him and mutters to one of the men as they inch closer, his expression composed, his voice carrying that low, social warmth I now hate more than his face.
Alasdair greets Mara before he looks at me.
“Miss Tallon.”
“Harrington.”
His attention drops to the auction card beside my hand. He offers a crooked smile.
“Ambitious choice.” He cocks a brow.
“Ambitious for who?”
“Ríoga is particular about presentation,” he says. “Borrowed dresses may pass at a charity event, but dinner there would require a little more class.”
The woman beside him laughs into her glass.
“You think this dress is borrowed?”
I flip the material open at the slit to reveal my bare thigh.
“Oh, silly Mr. Harrington. This designer dress was the bargain price of fifteen thousand. I’ll donate it to charity tomorrow. Although, that suit you’re wearing… Isn’t that the same one you wore to your son's engagement party?”
I can sense Fionn’s eyes drilling into me and refuse to give him my attention.
Even though the seductive bite of his cologne surrounds me, and my stomach twists.
“Isn’t it wonderful that the Kinnanes have taken you in as their project?” he says. “Your family has never quite understood the fine line of class.”
Mara laughs under her breath. “Oh, Alasdair. Every bad penny can shine.”
Jesus Christ.
“True, Mara,” he says, smirking. “Though I don’t think this particular bad penny would be welcome in Ríoga.”
In a heartbeat, Fionn is between me and his father, his expression void of emotion. One moment Alasdair has a clear line to me, and the next Fionn is in it, his shoulder cutting across my view, his body buffering me from the insult.
He’s so close that the warmth of him reaches through my dress.
