“Did you find one, Miss O’Donnell?” Tina, the sales associate at LA, is a tiny little thing. I thought I was short, all five-foot-three of me, but she has to barely clear four-foot-nine. Her black bob frames her round face, glossy bangs sweeping her forehead.
“Yes. I’ll take this one. Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to keep searching.”Or, fortunately, I add to myself.
She pushes up her chunky, square-framed glasses that dominate her face. I swear she reminds me of someone … “I’ll put this on your father’s account. Anything else?” She moves quickly, short steps shuffling herself and the dress behind the counter.
I think back to Grayson’s words. “Actually, Tina. Can you put it on my own account? I don’t know if I have one, or if I can set one up, but I’d like to make sure anything I or my families purchase is put on mine.”
She grins and types with clipped efficiency into the computer in front of her. “Sure thing, Miss O’Donnell. Anything you need.”
I dip my chin and roll my shoulders back. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have this delivered first thing in the morning.”
I shove my sunglasses on. Which is stupid because it’s overcast this Friday afternoon, but I commit to them once they’re on my face and stride toward the door. Outside, the weather looks ominous—taking the bike wasn’t my best option. But despite the cold nip in the air, and the heavy traffic I’ll have to weed through, there’s a lightness in my chest and I grin. Full on bare my teeth and let out a bolstered giggle.
It’s small—stupid, even—but it’s something.
CHAPTER 12
GRAYSON
I’m running late, and no matter how many times I do my tie, I can’t seem to get it right. I stare in the bathroom mirror. At my hair combed back with gel for once, which means I need to avoid running my hands through it this evening. My hands shake as I attempt my tie for the umpteenth time. Shit.
I opted for the gray suit, mostly because black doesn’t feel right on me, and I prefer to feel comfortable entering the lion’s den. The tie however—as I redo it, again—is black, and I smooth the silk down the front, willing it to cooperate. I twitch, fumbling with my cufflinks and thinking about a cigarette entirely too soon after just having one.
Hey, Mother. Father. It’s good to see you. I hope you enjoy the evening.I rehearse the words in my head. Along with my response when they offer an obligatory invitation to Christmas Eve Mass.I have to work, I’ll say. They’ll buy it, or at least pretend to, and come back with a witty response about how Mass is every Sunday, and I’m always welcome to join them.
I move from the bathroom and snag my trench coat off the couch, sniffing it. More smoke. Hell. Hopefully, the cologne I’m wearing douses enough of it that I can get away with avoiding comments from my parents during our forty-secondconversation. That may be generous. But I can see it now—my mother’s curled lip, wrinkled fake nose, and that smirk aimed at my father that really meansI told you so,before she steers the conversation toward my brother and his family.
I yank it on and glance at the clock, mentally calculating how long it’ll take me to drive to the Omni Hotel at the Seaport, which is dangerously close to Aoife’s condo. The fact I know where she lives—the Irish Mob leader—pisses me off. She shouldn’t have told me. I bite back the temptation to skip the gala altogether and see if she’s home, which is ridiculous. Of course, she isn’t home. She told me she never is.
Besides, I told the chief I’d be there tonight, along with a handful of other detectives and my captain. The idea of floating around with the rising leaders of Boston, the philanthropic socialites of the city, and the powerhouse politicians makes me want to vomit up the leftovers I ate, afraid I’d be stuck with caviar and over-ritzy food.
I head to the door, swing it open, and take the necessary step out of my apartment only to run straight into a delivered package. I trip and stumble, narrowly missing crushing the top of it. I growl, kicking the box into my apartment before bending down to glimpse the sender. It’s an order from a huge online retailer I never order from, so it’s got to be a mistake. I check the name and pause.
Detective.
That’s it. Not my name. Detective. Followed by my address, not the precinct.
Detective. Aoife’s sultry tease of a voice whittles its way into my mind as I stare at it before pulling it closer to open the damn thing. It pops open with ease, and …
I let out a laugh that’s loud and echoes in the hallway of my complex.
Lights. Boxes of colored Christmas lights fill the deep package. I shake my head. “You …” I mumble into the void. Then my brain asks the questions I’m not sure I want answers to. Was she upset we couldn’t decorate the tree? Is this her way of saying she wants to? Can I give her up as easily as I thought? She’s in my thoughts every hour of every day. Hell, I could sit here all night contemplating Aoife O’Donnell, but I’m already late. So, I scoot the box farther into my apartment and lock it up, grateful for the temporary distraction. I need to get through this evening, then I can concentrate on the alluring mob leader.
The Winter Gala is such a shitty and cliché name, but I’d be lying if I said wasn’t impressed as I entered the ballroom. The theme seems to be marble statues and red poinsettias, all of which sweep into the hallway along the floor-to-ceiling window opposite the ballroom. Inside, the crystal chandeliers are dim, and flameless candlesticks litter the tables in candelabrums. Long strings of evergreen garland and white lights frame each entrance into the ballroom, which is filled with standing white marble tables and a bar the length of one whole end.
A live orchestra plays classic carols, and several couples dance, but the majority of the political heavyweights and generational families engage in conversations. Champagne flows freely, ushered in on trays by the event staff. More trays of oysters and truffle canapes drift through the crowd, but very few people touch them. They’re more concerned about their next business deal or blowing smoke up each other’s asses.
A drink sounds good, and it might calm the force-fed anxiety currently being shoved down my throat by the idea I could see my parents at any moment. So, I weave through theattendees, who are steadily pouring in. I note the sign propped on an easel announcing the cause for the evening: The New England Children’s Health Fund. A cause definitely worth the time to come out tonight but veiled by the glamor and the disingenuousness of those here. Very few people here actually care about providing medical care, counseling, and family support for underprivileged children. They’ll write a check to posture how deep their accounts go and garner applause from other attendees for their generosity and commitment to the cause. Then they’ll go back to their posh lifestyles, not giving two shits what happens to the funds afterward. Does it get to the families? Or does more than half of it line the pockets of those in charge? I don’t know, and I’m not willing to pass judgment; all I know is the event portion of this charity deal is for the exhibitionists.
Which must be why my parents enjoy coming so much.
I spot Reed over at the bar immersed in conversation, so I wander over, waiting my turn to order a drink. It’s an open bar tonight, so it’s full. So full, many of the men have congregated around?—
There’s a laugh. An enchanting, floating, nearly perfect laugh that’s familiar. I’d recognize that siren’s song anywhere since it’s invaded my sleep, thoughts, and car the past couple of weeks. I realize what the men are flocking to, or more accurately,who.
Aoife O’Donnell.
