Page 22 of Queen Of Dark Money

Ihatedto be taken advantage of.

Herass was the only thingIcould see as she scrambled through the underside of my sink, no doubt looking for a first aid kit.Icould hear her mumbling to herself under there, the soft echoes barely escaping the walls she’d nearly crawled into in an effort to correct her fuck up.

Itwas a nice ass, though—far rounder thanI’dexpected such a waif-like girl to be in possession of.Thenagain, her pictures didn’t do her justice.She’dlooked malnourished in them, like someone kept her eating only grass and wheat germ and maybe some fruits, forcing her to adhere to a plant diet to keep her rail-thin and weak.Thisgirl before me ate and ate well.Shewas round in all the right places, with a thickness to her that alludedto her skill in a kitchen.Eitherthat, or someone fed her well through their own culinary skills.

Hadshe obtained a new chef, perhaps, who wasn’t keen on starving his patrons?

“Wherethe fuck does a millionaire keep his first aid kit?” she hissed from her knees, pulling back only to stare up at me in frustration. “Well?”

Mylashes dipped briefly asIfought to retain my composure.WhenIspoke to her, it was with a calmIwas impressed to hear come from my mouth. “Thefirst aid kit is in my kitchen, actually.”Myuninjured hand reached out and grabbed a towel to staunch the bleeding now thatIwas back to thinking properly. “Andthat rug you let me bleed out on cost a small fortune.”

“Ruglater, bloody wound now,” she spat, dragging me along by the good hand this time, down the stairs and directly into the kitchen area.Howshe knew where it was,Ihad no clue. “Where?”

Ipointed calmly to the wall box that contained every manner of first aid a normal person would need.Therewas even thread and a needle in there for her to suture my hand back together untilIcould get to an actual doctor. “Everythingyou need to fix your critical error in judgment, right there in one spot.”

Hergrumbled response was unintelligible, butIgot the sentiment.Sheblamed this on me, not on herself.Itdidn’t matter to this wild spitfire who had wielded the weapon.She’dlashed out at a man with a pistol–

Shit.

I’ddropped the pistol in the bathroom in my shock.Andnow,Iwas in a kitchen full of sharp objects with a crazy woman who’d already fucked me up once tonight.

Sheseemed oblivious to her advantage for the time being, andIwas not eager to rectify this ignorance.Asshe puttered around my kitchen,Iglanced back down at my hand and quirkeda brow at the amount of red staining the white terrycloth towelI’dgrabbed to put pressure on the wound.

Iwas severely injured.Thiswound would warrant a call to my on-call physician, and soon.Still,Iwasn’t about to turn down assistance in the meantime.AsCatrionaSinclairtook my hand back in hers and turned it over to study the wound,Itook stock of the situation.

Or, rather,Itook stock ofher.

Herlong lashes framed stunning blue eyes that swam with an unnamed emotionIcouldn’t pinpoint.Herhigh cheekbones accentuated slightly parted lips that still clung to a faint layer of pale pink lipstick.BeforeIcould derail it, a strange thought ran through me.

Pinkis not her color.

Ibet she’d look stunning in a cherry red.

Iwas not by any means a makeup artist, butI’ddated enough women who knew what worked for them to understand how colors worked differently with a person’s complexion, their eyes, even the color of their hair and clothes.Icouldn’t help but imagine a deeper hue on her, teasing a man to temptation as she sucked that bottom lip between her teeth in concentration.

Theburn of the alcohol on my wound didn’t even make me hiss.

“Shit,I’msorry,” she whispered, her free hand shaking.Icould see the sudden disconnect in her eyes, like she was withdrawing, distancing herself from the situation, but it didn’t seem to affect her first aid.Shesmoothed away the dampness on my wound and brought out a surgical needle.Thesmooth, cold slide of the steel barely registered as she knitted my hand back together, quite skillfully, in fact, for a woman who’d lived such a sheltered, pampered life.

Mythoughts once again turned to the strange feeling, sitting like an undercurrent beneath her abrasive personality.Somethinghere wasn’t adding up, but with my hand in hers, watching her intently study my wound as she sewed up her handiwork, the discrepancies in the woman before me and the one from the image didn’t matter.

“Sorryyou hurt me, or sorry that you suck at wound care?”

Sheblinked slowly, the thousand-yard stare dissolving as she brought the world back into focus. “What?”

Inodded to the bottle of alcohol sitting forgotten beside her. “Whenyou coated me in that foul shit, you apologized.Sorryfor what?”

Herbrows knitted together in frustration as she knotted the persnickety thread holding my hand together. “I. . .Idon’t know, actually.”

Thattimidity was more in line with whatIexpected from her.Thepampered princess.

Herchange in demeanor didn’t make me feel any better.

CHAPTER NINE

KENZIE

I’deasily slipped the cuffs, zip ties, whatever, but sneaking out of the apartment was gonna be a hard no between his alarm system, the doorman, and who knew what else.I’donly had a minimal amount of time to slip away while pretty boy was in the kitchen rummaging for something to murder me with.

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