8
1037 Words
Everything is so bright here. So colorful. So cheerful.
I hate it.
The woman standing off to one side of Declan and the new arrival is Sloane. I recognize her from the picture Kazimir gave me. She’s tall, curvy, and unmistakable, watching the new girl with hesitancy.
Dismissing her, I turn my attention back to Declan.
He sets the waif back onto her feet, but I still don’t have a clear shot. She’s standing too close to him. Then he picks her up and…
I move my face away from the scope, blink to clear my vision, then squint into the scope again.
I wasn’t mistaken.
He threw the waif over his shoulder.
Now he’s swaggering back to the mansion, holding Sloane’s hand while simultaneously carrying another woman upside down. The trio disappears inside together.
I sit back onto my heels and think.
The girl obviously isn’t a refugee. Perhaps a domestic worker? A new maid? By the cool way Sloane greeted her, they didn’t appear acquainted, so that would make sense. It seemed as if it were the first time they’d met.
But the way Declan embraced her with such distinct enthusiasm… The way he was so familiar in handling her, tossing her over his shoulder like a possession…
Ah.
She’s a w***e.
A girl so poor and disadvantaged, she has to sell herself to kinky rich couples for money to eat.
“f*****g Irish,” I mutter, disgusted.
I think of my dead brother and the sad-looking waif in the baggy sweatpants, both of them victims of the vicious Mob king.
Then, seething, I settle in again to wait for another shot.
That bastard can’t stay inside forever.
5
Riley
T
he inside of the estate/castle/palace/whatever is even more impressive than the outside.
Everything is made of marble, crystal, or polished mahogany. Blank-eyed Grecian statues lurk in lit alcoves in the walls. Expensive bric-a-brac decorates every available surface. Plush Turkish rugs muffle our footsteps, while white linen curtains draped in front of floor-to-ceiling windows billow and fold in the languid sea breeze.
I gape at all the glamour right side up, because Declan set me back onto my feet as soon as we came indoors.
I still haven’t forgiven him for it.
I trail behind him and Sloane as they lead me to the guest room where I’ll be staying. It probably has its own pool. “So, Declan. What kind of work do you do?”
He and Sloane exchange a glance. He says, “International relations.”
Outside the windows, a pair of armed guards prowl by. “Really? That’s interesting. I saw this Denzel Washington movie one time where he told people he was in international relations, but he actually worked for the CIA. Do you work for the CIA?”
He scoffs. “They wish.”
“The FBI?”
He lifts a muscular shoulder. “Occasionally.”
“Yeah, me, too. Only when they twist my arm, though. I much prefer working for MI-5.”
“Six.”
“Excuse me?”
“MI-6 is foreign intelligence operating outside the UK. MI-5 is domestic.”
“Oh, right. I always forget. It’s hard sometimes to remember all the different intelligence agencies I spy for.”
“Tell me about it.”
That makes me grin. I love it when people play along with my silly games.
At the end of a long corridor, we stop outside a closed door. Declan leans against the wall, folds his bulging arms over his chest, and smiles down at me. My ovaries sigh in contentment.
“I’ll let you get settled in and give you girls a chance to catch up. If there’s anything you need, just pick up the phone.”
“I don’t have a cell. I’m philosophically opposed to technology that can stalk me.”
“I meant the phone next to your bed.”
When I c**k an eyebrow, Sloane says, “It’s the house phone. Tell whoever answers what you want, and they’ll bring it.”
I look back and forth between the two of them. “Who is this person who’ll answer?”
“Whoever’s on shift,” says Declan.
“So you have staff, too, not just an army of bodyguards. Kinda like Downton Abbey, except with guns.”
Declan chuckles. “You’re a lot like your sister.”
“Don’t tell her that. She’ll break off the engagement. Speaking of engagement, Sloane, why aren’t you wearing a ring?”
Declan turns to her and says mildly, “Good question. I can’t wait to hear the answer.”
She rolls her eyes. “Technically, I haven’t said yes yet.”
I almost punch her in the face.
“What?” I holler. “Are you crazy?” I make spokesmodel hands at his overall gloriousness. “He’s asked you to marry him, and you haven’t said yes? What is wrong with you?”
Stifling a laugh, Declan says, “Amen.”
“Also, hold on a minute, because did you or did you not say you wanted me to visit because you’d be getting married any day? To your fiancé?”
Exasperated, she says, “We will be getting married any day. When I finally say yes.”
“You act like that makes any kind of sense. Spoiler alert! It doesn’t.”
“I ask her every day if she’ll marry me,” Declan interrupts, his voice throaty. “She always says not yet. But one day soon, she’ll agree, and we’ll go straight to the courthouse and make it official.”
He looks at her with hot, half-lidded eyes.
How she manages to stay upright under that smoldering look and not melt into a flaming puddle of hormones is beyond me.
Indignant, I turn to her. “Are you deliberately leading him on? Because that’s not cool.”
“Not cool,” agrees Declan, shaking his head.
She chews the inside of her lip and glances at the floor.
The hesitation is wildly uncharacteristic of her. She doesn’t stop to think before she answers. It makes me worry. The Sloane I know would’ve already slapped me across the face by now.
Figuratively speaking. With scorn.
- Writer
