“Yes,” he says. “More attacks, more loss of life.” His gaze is raw, not the impenetrable, polished look I’m used to.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s a terrible thing. To lose people who believe in you.”
“It is.” He clears his throat, probably shocked that he shared anything with me. “I will meet you at the lift doors in thirty minutes.”
“Thanks for the first half of that conversation, at least!” I call after him. Sure, it was maybe three sentences, but they were the most honest words he’s said to me.
***
“You look beautiful.”
Alastair lifts my hand and kisses it, and it’s as startling as if he’d ripped off my dress and had at me in the hallway. Once he didn’t have to carry me when my feet healed, he’s never willingly touched me. Ever.
Not true,my irritating self reminds me.He carried you down to the library after your nightmare. He smoothed your hair.
With some help from Eileen, I managed to figure out the straps and zippers on this thing, a dark green beaded dress with a long slit showing most of my left thigh. I’m going to have to take very short steps to keep from flashing the general populace.
I am unreasonably angry at Alastair because he could not look hotter than he does right now, as if black tie was invented specifically for him.
“Thank you. You as well.” I realize I just called him beautiful as the corner of his lip curls up into an almost grin. “I- I mean, ya’ look true braw. Grand.”
Now his wide shoulders are shaking, just slightly and I wonder if he’s murdering that chuckle before it can escape. “I had pictured your hair up with this dress.”
My bit of happiness evaporates like a soap bubble. “No.” I shake my head hard enough to make me dizzy. “I never wear my hair up.”
He’s walking me to the lift, putting his hand on the scanner to open the doors. “Pity,” is all he says.
Once we’re in the Maserati and heading towards… wherever the hell he’s taking me, the reality of it all hits me again.
“Why did you insist on getting married? I mean… what are we doin’ here? This is an act, aye?”
Alastair actually puts away his phone. “Where did this come from?”
“Well, husband, ya’ haven’t been around since you dragged me into that judge’s chambers and told me to marry ya’ or you’d go after my family,” I snap. “A bit of a delayed response.”
Oh, hell that little smile is playing at the corner of his full mouth again. He finds this entertaining?
“We are married, Sorcha,” he says. “Quite legally, I assure you. As for why?” He hesitates and I know he’s crafting some half-arsed response. “It protects you.”
“From what?”
He’s not smiling anymore. “From my enemies, and yours. No one would dare touch my wife. As Sorcha Taylor, you have the protection of my entire organization. As Sorcha MacTavish, you would still be a tool for revenge.”
I snort. “Wasn’t that why you paid a hundred million pounds for me?”
“Initially,” he shrugs. “But the game always changes, and so do I.”
The SUV pulls up to a magnificent building, all golden stone with stately pillars and every window blazing with light. “I’m not giving up on this conversation,” I say. “Where are we? What is my responsibility?”
He raises a haughty brow. “Your responsibility is to be my sweet, demure wife for the very short time we will be here at the Royal Opera House. We’re here for a fundraiser and to allow people to get a look at you.”
“Being sweet and demure is a bit of a stretch,” I say. “Is this to flaunt me so that my family finds out where I am?”
“I have sent pictures,” he says as Ben, our driver, opens my door. “They know you’re alive and unharmed.”
Pictures… I groan, thinking of the ones he took of me, shackled and in that horrible lingerie. Bastard. I want to scream at him, but cameras are going off, the lights at the red-carpeted entryway are blinding, and I have a part to play.
For now, anyway.
