Page 14 of Forced Vows

When she fails to respond to something Shaughnessy says, I finally focus my gaze on her.

Brilliant green eyes stare back at me, her expression a strange mix of trepidation and dislike. Something about her is familiar. Have I seen her at one of the clubs? No. She's not twenty-one yet and a mob princess isn't going to risk getting into a mafia owned club with fake I.D., is she?

Too big a chance her actions will blow back on her family.

Then she speaks. "Uh…hello," she says after a short hesitation.

I know that voice.

Aphrodite.

The woman who has haunted me for two damn months.

Other than her voice, the woman standing in front of me has nothing in common with the siren who gave me the best sex of my life.

And a gift I had not looked for.

It can't be her.

But then she speaks again, a wisecrack about keeping it in the family when she's introduced to my don, me and Big Sal. That snarky tone is pure Aphrodite.

Róise…cazzo, I thought her name was Ann…is wearing black like that night in Portland.

The color of the dress is the only similarity between then and now though.

This black dress has a full skirt that reaches past her knees like something from the 1950s. It hides the perfect curve of her lush ass and although it highlights her waist, her tits with their raspberry pink nipples are hidden behind a conservative bodice.

Not a single inch of the creamy skin I spent so much time licking and marking is on display. Her black leather flats add nothing to her diminutive height.

My intended fiancée's outfit wouldn't be out of place at a funeral.

The platinum hair is gone. Her waxed pussy hadn't hinted at the dark brown curls that shine with rich copper glints under the bright office lighting.

If she's wearing any at all, Róise's makeup is subdued and does nothing to give her the look of false sophistication she had two months ago.

That woman's innocence better matches this woman's presence.

Accidente. She definitely didn't come with the intention of impressing her future fiancé.

Not like two months ago when she'd been dressed to kill with makeup that changed her features more than I realized.

Or my mind is just playing fucked up tricks on me. There's one way to know for sure.

With a perfunctory greeting, I put my hand out to shake.

Her uncle has to prod her, but Róise takes it. Her fingers slide against my palm and the electric current that jumps between us from that simple touch is as familiar as her voice.

Unwilling to put off learning the truth, I turn her hand over so I can see the memorial tattoo on her forearm. It's there. If it were angel's wings, or something common, I could believe it was a million-to-one coincidence, but this?

No.

The overlapping butterflies in flight are distinctive both in design and coloring, going from vibrant blues and purples to black. There are two dates under them. Her parents' deaths, she'd said.

Fury battles with shock and relief that only increases my rage.

What is there to be relieved about?

She's a good lay. So are thousands of other women in New York. Her charade only goes to show how good she is at deception.

---