My plan to crash the charity masquerade celebrating the opening of his hotel and casino had been dumb, not that I’d admit it to Yasmine, who would probably say I told you so. No one was more surprised than I was when I caught his attention. I nearly dropped my champagne glass when we’d locked eyes across the room. If this had been a love story and not a tragedy, it would’ve made great TV.
I was supposed to go to the party, sneak away when no one was watching to find my mother’s phone, and be in and out of the house before anyone noticed me. What I was not supposed to do was spend the night with him.
Then, sneak out before he woke up.
“I slept with him,” I say, bracing myself for Yasmine’s reaction.
She laughs—and I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, because that’s not the response I’d been expecting. Recriminations, maybe. But not laughter.
“Good one, girl. Please. You would have told me before now. I asked you a thousand times if something happened, and you told me, of course not.” She does a double take when she realizes I’m not next to her. There’s a pause when her smile dies, and her brows draw together. “Catriona, c’mon. Tell me you didn’t keep that from me. Be for real.”
I can’t force the lie out of my throat.
Her laughter trails off, and her brown eyes grow serious. “Catriona?” Her voice wobbles.
Guilt swirls in my stomach. I’ve never kept anything from her for this long. For one, I’d been terrified to say anything at first, certain that Aiden was going to track me down. And then, because I didn’t know what to say. How do I explain to her the things I saw? What I did? If anyone would understand, it would be her, but I didn’t even know how to explain it to myself.
“It’s why I’ve been a little paranoid. I couldn’t deal with everything that happened, and I ghosted him after.”
“Ghosted him?” She turns in a tight circle, hands shoved in her curls, laughing uproariously. “And I thought sneaking into the masquerade was crazy, but I swear to God you’ve gone off the rails since your—” She cuts herself off before she can finish the sentence. We both freeze for a second before she continues. “I can’t believe you slept with him.” Another pause, and I school my face, trying to hide my fears. “Why would he be following you? Is there something else you’re not telling me?”
I should tell her. The me before that night would have spilled my guts in a heartbeat. Before I’d witnessed a murder, slept with the killer, and decided I should keep my mouth shut. The person who’d entered law school intent upon sticking to her laurels feels a million miles away from the person I am now. One willing to break laws to mete out justice.
It’s because I love her that I don’t tell her.
Yasmine is a good person from a good family. I’ve spent as much time in their house as I have in my own. The Baptistes don’t deserve to be tainted by this. Especially not Yasmine, who has stuck with me through everything. She has enough going on with medical school; she doesn’t need to bear this burden on top of everything else.
So I swallow back the truth that wants to spill free and shake my head. “No. I never told him my name. There’s no way he knows who I am. I didn’t talk to anyone else. Besides, I honestly think he’s forgotten about me. I’m sure it’s just anxiety.”
She believes that lie a lot easier.
But I still watch my rearview the entire way home to make sure.
He didn’t come looking for me. It’s been months. The night we spent together must already be a distant memory for him. He probably doesn’t even think about me.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
CHAPTER 1
AIDEN
Eamon tosses the protesting man to the floor at my feet, then takes a step back, eyes gleeful and alight with devilish intent. Whoever it is crumples into a heap, the pungent stench of ripe sweat and what I can only describe as fear wafting up. Interesting contradiction considering his Hugo Boss suit and Gucci loafers. Someone with expensive taste and a debt to settle is my initial guess.
I lift my brow at Eamon, who is practically bouncing in his blood-splattered leather boots. I’d lecture him about getting blood on the Persian rug, but I know he wouldn’t give a damn, so I’ve stopped trying. If parenting is anything like dealing with him, I’d make a terrible father.
“Aren’t you going to open your present?” he asks as he strips out of his leather jacket and tosses it over an empty chair-back. He prowls around my office like a restless tiger.
“Is this one of those cat-and-mouse situations?” I reply. The last thing I want is to find myself in the middle of one of Eamon’sgames. They never end well, and I always end up annoyed when he outwits me. I’d pay to be on the sidelines the day someone outwits him.
“Depends. Are you calling me the cat or the mouse?” he asks.
The man on the floor pushes to his hands and knees, trying to crawl away, but his ribs meet with one of Eamon’s boots for his effort. Cocking my head, I study the gasping figure, trying to figure out why he thinks crawling is a good idea. Running would be even worse. Then again, he doesn’t know us very well.
Yet.
“The cat,” I answer and recline in my leather desk chair, flicking my attention back to Eamon, who is watching the mass on the floor with cold amusement. “You’re bringing me a dead—or nearly dead—mouse because you think I’m your pet and incapable of feeding myself?”
“Does that mean I can put a collar on you and walk you around, little pet? Will you purr for me?”
