And then I hear Pepper. “Zulus! Help! Murder!” He stops. “Show us your tits.”
“Oh my,” Harry says, fanning herself as she comes into the living room. “Who is that naughty bird?”
Then everything in me stills.
I know the moment Marlowe enters the room. I don’t say a word as she skirts the edges, making her way to the front door, bag in hand. “Molly.”
She stops. Everyone else is talking, and cats chase dogs, and at the top of the steps both Fiona and Monarch peer down. And I totally fail in feeling guilty over the soft dognapping last night.
Marlowe’s almost vibrating in her focus on me, and everyone and everything melts away. I didn’t speak loud, but she heard me and I nod to the foyer. She has a loaded day of rehearsal, and tonight…it’s gonna be one hell of a night.
I walk to her and open the door. “Shall we?”
Whatever moments we might have had yesterday are packed beneath delicate ice layers. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
I’m almost late to the performance. I look around the smalland intimate room as I slide in, the usher not daring to give me a hard time.
Cal’s there. Not even pretending to watch the stage. He’s clocking people in the audience. No doubt already with a list of who’s who in his head. Not the glittery Uptown old money, or even the newer money from Midtown and below. But big time players. Shakers. Mafia and white-collar criminals with vast empires beneath them.
I don’t see Torin, but Harry’s sitting with Lucie.
Seamus is with Ava, and they’re pretending to watch. At least, Seamus is.
Some might say there hasn’t been enough time for the players to emerge, whether they be the mysterious Leon or whoever might be threatening the Briggs family.
I didn’t find anything from her stalker inside the dressing room. No gifts or cards. Just the lingering scent of hair spray.
It shouldn’t bother me. But it does. I don’t like the fucking feeling of something unseen breathing down my neck. It reminds me of the drugs I had to leave in that truckyard. Shit, maybe Molly was right, there wasn’t anything there, but even if a room appears empty…sometimes it’s not.
I put my hand in my pocket, closing around the hidden camera I found. The stalker? Some pervert? Fuck if I know, but maybe Torin can trace a video upload or get information off of it. I pulled it out and went over every inch of her dressing room because if anyone’s seeing Marlowe naked, it’s going to be me.
And fuck everything if me holding the world’s biggest grudge for her locking me up means that statement makes no sense. I still want her.
The music changes and my breath freezes. Marlowe dances onto the stage.
She’sfucking stunning.
I’m not a highbrow fine artsgobshite.Give me a fiddle and some raucous Irish music in any form. Give me a club and some action films. A good comedy. Shit, I’ve even got a soft spot for the old musicals, thanks to Mam. But ballet’s never crossed my mind.
Until now.
She’s delicate and ethereal, so elegant. She conveys heartache, love, happiness, and sadness in her movements, and I’ll confess I’m a little jealous of theeejitdancing with her.
But while I know I’m meant to be taking in the room, I’m taking in the red-headed swan princess on the fucking stage.
Shit.I rip my gaze from her dancing form and make my way out of the theater space. I’ve been here all day, the bodyguard in the background. I’ve been making calls, scrolling online for both personal and professional reasons, chasing down any and every lead that O’Shay could give me into this Mario guy, which isn’t much.
And I’ve been doing my job, too. Chasing payments, getting Clive to collect under instructions to just let me know who doesn’t pay, who has issues I need to deal with, and so on. The tiny little cogs of my day feel weird to be out of my hands.
I step into the lobby, and that’s when I see something from the corner of my eye. It’s probably someone involved in the production, walking with confidence through a door that leads to the backstage area.
But I follow.
It’s a corridor with others snaking off, and a lot of doors. But I turn left, toward the dressing rooms, because it strikes me now would be a good time to leave something for Marlowe. A so-called fan who doesn’t want to be seen.
I’m about to go into her room when I see him. A man in black, cap pulled down low, long sleeves to obscure any identifying markings. The jacket moves as he starts toward the stage area, and I narrow my eyes.
