She peers at me, focus shifting between my eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re full of shit or just an excellent actor.”
“Can’t it be both?”
Silence falls as Catriona quite literally bites her tongue to keep from snapping out a response.
Despite repeated attempts to the contrary, no force on earth can keep me from looking at her mouth. Remembering what it had been like to finally kiss her, taste her. And how much I wish I could do it again. The fact that she keeps to her room or flees before I wake up have kept me from trying again. That and the fact that I know I won’t be able to catch her off guard a second time.
Flocks of partygoers stop by to wish us well, and Catriona paints a demure smile on her face. I wonder if she realizes she gets that from her father, the ability to charm an audience. I doubt she’d find the comparison a flattering one, so I say nothing.
Every now and then, I find her looking in the direction of her family, frowning. And in those moments, her face softens, vulnerable, and I imagine that’s what she must have looked like as a child. Wanting to be loved. Craving the security a family should provide.
Unsettled, I scrutinize the people on the dance floor for a distraction, and I find Eamon and Mara jerking this way and that as he interrogates her under the guise of dancing.
“Look at that. I think they’re playing our song,” I say stonily, as I pull her onto the dance floor.
She resists, but only slightly. “We don’t have a song, you psycho. Don’t grab at me.”
“Well, then, this can be our song.” I wrap my arms around her waist, thankful she’s settled back into annoyance. That I can handle. “Smile pretty. You’re supposed to be desperately in love with me.”
Etta James croons “At Last” in the speakers as Catriona tilts her head up to me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Like that’ll happen.”
“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of practice faking it.”
I don’t realize it until we’re across the room, but Catriona has let me lead the entire dance, her body pliant in my arms. One would almost say trusting. I write it off. She’s probably as distracted by her father as I am trying to maneuver us closer to Eamon and Mara, who are now turning in tight circles, mouths pressed into lines. Eamon’s neck is corded with tension.
“Why do you keep staring at them? Is something wrong?” Catriona pushes to her toes to see over my shoulder. Spotting them behind me, she says, “What happened? Are they arguing?Thatwould make a lovely headline, don’t you think? And I’ll bet you were certain I’d be the one to cause a scene.”
“Stop staring.”
She relaxes back and twists her lips to the side as she puzzles over this new tangle. Is that what occupies her thoughts? Problems and all the ways she can fix them? Like her father? Like her sister? The lastfuckingthing I need is someone else to trip their way into my problems. Especially her.
“Did someone hit her?” she asks, keeping her voice low enough that I’m the only one who can hear it. “Are those bru?—”
“Keep out of it, Catriona. You know what your job is and what it isn’t. Don’t think because I’ve been agreeable that it gives you license to nose your way into my life. Into my friends’ lives.”
Her mouth falls open for a pregnant pause before she snaps it closed, and her hands, which had been resting lightly on my shoulders, drop to her sides. Then she erases all emotion from her face, spins around, and strides in the other direction, moving as fast as she can to get away from me. It’s only our first public outing, and she already can’t stick to the contract.
I follow. Of course, I fucking do.
According to people I’ve worked with, when they experience adrenaline, their thoughts blur. It makes them frantic. But the opposite has always been true for me. Sure, my heart races and my muscles tense, but everything gets very, very clear. My thoughts. My perception. My next move.
Catriona’s golden head bobs through the crowd. I stick close, prowling, always her predator. One who’d sink their teeth in her, if given the chance. She moves quickly, but not so fast that she’ll cause any unsavory attention. She can keep her cool with anyone else. But when she’s with me? It’s like she can’t help herself.
I seriously consider calling the entire party off. She’s with a man I don’t recognize. I reason with myself that it could be anyone. It’s a party, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t mean anything. He hands her a drink, and she smiles at him.
Smiles.
At him.
The bounds of my jealousy are apparently nonexistent because the mere sight of her with another man has me crossing the room, threading through well-wishers like a bull, and she’s my red flag.
Just before I reach her, she spots me over the shoulder of her companion. Her eyes bulge, and she hisses something. The man gives her a sharp nod before leaving. I glare at his back until Catriona stalks to me, grabs me by the arm, and tugs me to an empty balcony. Classical music spills from the party, but out here, we’re cocooned in secrets and shadows.
“Who was that?” I ask the moment the doors close behind us.
“None of your business,” she snaps.
“You’re my wife. Everything about you is my business.”
