He does that elegant brow-raising thing he uses to convey disbelief and indifference. “Ya have access to all my books, the electronics, and the internet. The gym is right across from yourbedroom. Are ya remembering that I’m doing this for your safety?”
“If you’re trying to sell that we fell in love and got married after awhirlwindcourtship, doesn’t it look weird that you’re keeping me locked up in your house?”
“We haven’t started using that cover story, lass. Ya do have your first chance to try it out tonight.” He holds up a garment bag. “We have a party.”
“Actually, whyisit that we’re trying to pretend this is a love match? Don’t gangsters still have arranged marriages? I thought Sloan said something about that at girl’s night.”
Kai chuckles quietly. “Sloan and Ethan? That one’s a love match. Well, it is now, at any rate.”
I wait, but that’s the extent of what he’s willing to share. Ian is driving us tonight and there’s another SUV behind us. I would probably be meaner to Kai for his high-handed bullshit, but the dress he brought me is almost unreasonably beautiful. It’s a dark blue-green like the shades of the ocean, ankle length with a long slit up the right side. The halter top cuts a little low, but the girls are contained as long as I don’t do something drastic.
Then, there’s the issue of my new husband in a tuxedo. Sweet, baby Jesus I almost hate this man. No one has the right to look this good in black tie. His tuxedo is simple and obviously custom-made because shoulders as wide as Kai’s do not fit in an off the rack suit.
“Again, why are we trying to sell this as a love match?”
“Therearearranged marriages in most crime families, but the MacTavishes dinna do that,” he says. “There will be fewerquestions about this union if people believe it’s a love match. Less probing.”
“Probing?”That sets me off into a round of giggling. “Now all I can think about are little gray aliens with guns at an illegal poker game.”
With a put-upon sigh, Kai says, “The more questions people have, the more they’ll check into your background. So, kiss me a couple of times, let the media arseholes get a picture and they’ll move on.”
We pull into the venue and I’m already shaking my head. “You said this was a small party!”
Even I know about the Kelvingrove Museum because I read an article in one of the gossip magazines in London about a Duke’s daughter having her wedding here. It’s a magnificent stone mansion with a row of cool little turrets lining the roof. Expensive cars are dropping off expensively dressed people for what is clearly an expensive as hell event.
“You’ll be fine,” he says unsympathetically. “There’s usually a shite tonne of lights when ya get out of the car and people shoutin’ questions. If ya look down for a moment, the lights won’t blind ya. Just keep a smile on your face and hang on to my arm.”
“I thought you meant apartyparty, like a bunch of people at a pub or something.” I’m close to whining and I’m not proud of it, but this is insane! I’m used to working this kind of event, carrying around a tray of crudités or champagne. Not swanning up the stairs like I’m one of the Beautiful People.
“You look regal,” he says, holding out his hand to help me from the car. His onyx wedding band glows slightly in the reflected light. “We’re in this together, aye?”
Reluctantly putting my hand in his, I sigh. “Aye.”
The fundraiser is “For the Arts,” which is as wishy-washy and non-specific as an event can be when no one really cares about where the money is going and they’re here just to be seen.
I can practicallysmellthe entitlement and tax evasion from here.
“Where does the money really go?” I ask Kai.
“To the Arts,” he smiles cynically, “Dinna ya see the sign up front?”
He’s guiding me around the massive entryway. It’s three stories high with hundreds of Japanese paper lanterns and origami birds dangling over us. The curved ceiling glitters with gold leaf, and the guests around us glitter too, burdened with an unimaginable amount of jewelry. Necklaces with diamonds as big as grapes, rings so enormous that they must weigh at least as much as the skeletal socialites wearing them.
The memory of the mansion, crowded with that pack of cruel, spoiled monsters rises up with a vengeance, and I stop, trying to catch my breath.
Kai’s arm slides around me. “You are the most beautiful woman in this room,” he whispers, “and everyone here knows it.” Weirdly, his words push away the memory of that night, and I straighten my spine. His fingers slip just under the back of my dress, stroking my skin. “There’s my bride.”
“The happy couple at last!”
It’s Michael. I remember him from the rescue. He’s also in black tie and accompanied by an older man who must be his father. He’s wearing the hell out of his kilt in the MacTavish tartan andevery man who glances over looks like they wish they’d worn their kilt, too.
“Luna,” Michael says, “this is my father, Cormac MacTavish, Chieftain of our clan. Da, this is Kai’s new bride, Luna Jones MacTavish.” He raises his voice as he says this and I can hear a couple of muffled gasps behind me.
“A pleasure,” Cormac says, kissing my hand. He’s looking me over carefully, no doubt wondering how this looks to the outside world, how a poor girl from Iowa got hitched to his nephew.
“This is Luna?” A gorgeous redhead comes up behind them, smiling at me approvingly as if I’ve done something more notable than stand here. She has an American accent and it’s nice to hear it again. “I’m Michael’s mother, Mala.” She takes my hands in both of hers. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
My shoulders sag a little in relief. “Yes. So much extra. Of everything.”
