Page 21 of Stolen Rival
Pushing two euros into the coin slot, I wait for the packets of seeds to drop. Fishing them out of the tray at the bottom of the machine, I return to the lake.
“Here.”
“Thanks.” Her fingers skim my palm as she swipes them from my hand. A faint tremor of pleasure skips up my spine. Attraction isn’t necessary for me to wed, but it sure fucking helps make the medicine go down a little easier. Although with the hellion redhead, it’s probably more like poison.
“I’ll leave you to it and wait in the car.”
Ignoring me, she rips open a packet of seeds and places a few in her brother’s hand, then helps him to throw them.
I turn away, that fucking pressure on my chest a granite boulder. Rubbing it, I shake my head, and almost as surprising to me as it would be to anyone else watching me right now, I smile.
Now that she believes she knows what’s at stake, it’s time to test if my fiancée can behave herself in front of others—and put a few McCarthy captains in their place.
Chapter 12
SORCHA
The last thingI want to do tonight is put on a fancy dress and a smile and pretend to enjoy the company of my betrothed. And yet, that’s exactly what is expected of me.
The staff are preparing a meal for Patrick’s “visitors,” and I have ninety minutes to make myself presentable, amenable, and get my arse downstairs.
Apparently, when Patrick entertains, so do I, unless otherwise informed. It seems my life now is to wait around to see if Patrick needs me as some kind of window dressing. Presumptive prick.
There aren’t enough expletives in the dictionary to describe how much I loathe this man, and there sure as hell isn’t a word strong enough to convey how much I want to watch him take his last breath.
The best I can hope for is to look pretty, keep my mouth shut, and not get my brother and myself killed. Not really the life I dreamed of or got straight As in school for, but Cathal is alive, and that’s loosened the noose from around my neck.
As long as he’s still breathing, I’ll keep fighting to get to him, to rescue him, and to move us someplace the Mahoneys can’t hurt us.
For that to happen, I need to play the long game, figure out a way to gain Patrick’s trust, and bide my time. It’s not about jumping out of a moving car anymore. Cathal’s care requires careful, precise planning and a boat load of patience I’m not sure I have the capacity for.
But God knows I’ll try my damndest.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and when I open it, three women stand facing me. One is carrying a garment bag, presumably the dress Patrick told me he’d arranged for this evening.
Why I need to wear a fucking gown when we’re staying right here in his mansion is anyone’s guess, but when he says jump, I say how high.
Apparently.
A second women is holding a shiny silver case—if I was a gambler, I’d say she’s a makeup artist—and the third woman of the trio is a hairdresser. I’m not sure who Patrick is hoping to impress with this flex. Is he showing me that he can give me whatever I might need at the drop of a hat? Or is he working overtime to convince his soon-to-arrive guests that his fiancée isn’t an irrational waif he picked up off the street?
To be honest, from the way the women recoil when they lay eyes on me, it could go either way. I’m not sure that three professionals, all their equipment, and nine hours would make me presentable to whatever criminal underlords Patrick has invited for dinner. But from the firm set of their lips and the determination in their eyes, these women are about to give it their best shot.
I’m ushered into a scalding hot shower and encouraged to wash my hair with expensive-looking products they’ve broughtwith them. Everything about these women screams opulence. Well-manicured nails, perfectly shaped eyebrows, and I think one of them may have had fillers in her lips and jaw, but whoever does it for her is so good, I’m not sure.
Under normal circumstances, I’d ask for her contact and get some done myself. I’ve always thought my lips were a little too asymmetrical for my tastes. But these aren’t normal circumstances, and I can’t let Patrick Mahoney win me over with some cosmetic goddesses who swoop in and make bedraggled Cinderella ready for dinner in an hour and a half.
When I’m showered and dried, they step in to turn me into the belle of the ball. I’m lotioned from head to toe, with the exception of my still-aching gut wound. Though, when they get even close to my gunshot wound, I still wince. The hairdresser dries my hair while the makeup artist somehow manages to make the black eye that has developed disappear. Although, even she can’t do anything about the staples in my forehead.
By the time they’re done with my glow-up, I almost look normal. My makeup is subtle, natural, and runway ready. My hair falls in loose waves over my bare shoulders, and the emerald green dress with a sweep train and sweetheart neckline clings to me like I was poured into it.
He might be an absolute arsehole, but he’s definitely got an eye for fashion. I swallow a snort. There’s literally no way Patrick Mahoney handpicked this silk dress for me, but whoever he has on staff to deal with such matters has impeccable taste.
The silver pointed-toe slingbacks sparkle as I slip my feet into them.
“Will I do?” I ask the three women standing in front of melooking terribly proud of their group project. If they say no, I might vomit.
Hell, I might vomit anyway.
