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She smiles. “That’s Daisy for you. Anyway, that’s not what I meant.”
I know what she meant. How I feel about Lorcan using me as bait. About my father promising me to a sixty-year-old Russian mob boss and then shooting me when I tried to run.
What my father did? Broke me, but didn’t surprise me.
What Lorcan did? Left a confused, twisted knot in my chest.
It’s been about a week since I woke up at the Quinn chalet on Martha’s Vineyard, head, leg, and heart all aching. I drifted in and out of medicated sleep for a few days, and every time I woke up, he was there. Reading a dusty book in the armchair. Watching the television on mute. Always silent, but there.
He disappeared when I could sit up again and hold a conversation. Orna filled the void, bounding in with wide eyes and a pack of cards. Between peppermint teas and games of Black Jack, she filled me in on what she knew.
The Quinns decided to use me as bait to lure the Bratnovs into a false sense of security. Only, Antoin betrayed the family and both he and Bratnov are now dead. So are the Regazzis and Rodrigo Mondez. My heart breaks for Nova, and as soon as the dust settles, I’ll give her a call. She told me about Cillian, how he saved Lorcan’s life, and then how their cousin, Donnacha, saved mine.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I say slowly. I reach out and squeeze her hand. “But enough about me; how are you?” I ask softly.
Her eyes begin to brim and she stops the tears from falling with a swift shake of her head. “I’m struggling to understand how Antoin could do this. It’ll take time.”
I nod, still gripping her hand. I know better than anyone that coming to terms with a family betrayal takes time.
I’m one level of consciousness above a hypnotic state, listening to the leaves rustling on the trees above us when the breeze carries in a low voice.
“You shouldn’t be out here without a jacket.”
I snap out of my daydream, and following the voice, I lock eyes with Lorcan.
He’s standing in the middle of the path, the chalet looming behind him. He looks heartbreakingly handsome, in a softer way than usual. Tapered cream chinos and a slate-gray sweater hug his muscular silhouette. His hair untamed, unruly curls framing the hard lines of his face.
The intensity of his stare takes my breath away.
The silence is broken by Orna rising to her feet and letting out an awkward groan. “Well,” she says, clapping her hands together, “I’m gonna go raid the pantry and hunt for my millionth snack of the day.”
I squeak something in acknowledgment but it doesn’t meet her ears. She claps Lorcan’s shoulder as she brushes past him and disappears into the chalet gardens.
Once again, I’m face to face with the Devil. Only this time, I’m not so scared.
He frowns, dragging his eyes away from mine long enough to assess the wheelchair situation. A trace of amusement on his lips and he says, “Are you stuck?”
“Maybe.”
He closes the gap between us and wraps his arms around me. Within seconds, my ass is in the air and we’re striding across the beach, me pressed against his chest, the wind blowing in my hair. “See,” he scowls, glancing down at my teeth chattering, “I told you, you shouldn’t be out here without a jacket.”
Gently, he places me down on a flat bed of rocks, like I’m the most delicate antique in his collection. Then, he tugs off his sweater, revealing a white T-shirt and the sculpted, tanned skin just above his waistband, and tosses it to me. “Put it on.”
I do what I’m told, melting into the touch of cashmere, warmth and faint trace of cologne against my skin. It feels like the most welcome hug in the world.
We sit for a moment, his eyes boring into me. “How are you?”
“Alive,” I bite back. I look out to the Atlantic, because if I look at him, I’ll last half a second before I burst into tears.
I might not look at him, but I feel him. His possessive arms around my waist as he pulls me close. His heart beating hard against my ear as he clamps my head to his chest.
God, his embrace is like a drug.
He murmurs into my hair, “I have something for you.”
I look up as he slides something from his back pocket and presses it into my hands. A letter. A thick, cream envelope that has already been torn open. With a suspicious glance up at Lorcan, I shake out the paper and gingerly unfold it.
My eyes scan over the header, then my name, and home in on buzz phrases like “we’d be delighted” and “return in the new year.”
