Catering staff passed among the guests, serving a selection of snacks and offering glasses of Krug and single-malt whiskey. I noted the Rothmore label on the whiskey bottles stacked up on a sideboard. Landon had probably given Declan a good deal.
Declan was already doing the rounds with Bridget draped over him in a slinky silver dress, but I hadn't spotted the twins yet. No doubt they would make an appearance soon. And the minute they did, I would retire to my room and read.
An hour later, we stood in a corner while Saoirse scanned the guests and offered snarky comments about their outfits. I'dlargely tuned out her chatter until she squeezed my arm and gasped. When I looked up, I saw James McGregor.
The not-so-lovely James with his limp blond hair did nothing whatsoever for me, but she liked him. We’d last crossed paths at a party in London. I disliked him then and my opinion had not changed in the months since.
As soon as he entered the ballroom, she dragged me over and fluttered her eyelashes at the weasel.
The slimy bastard stood like he had a stick up his ass, with his much-shorter, uglier friend hovering next to him. The friend looked me up and down, lingering way too long on my boobs.
"I'm Grant." His upper-class English accent grated on me. "My father owns a publishing company, Stafford Press."
I forced a polite smile. "How lovely. What sort of books do you publish? I like to read."
"Works of great literary merit." From his haughty expression, he clearly assumed I lacked the intelligence to appreciate whatever turgid tomes his father's company churned out.
"Not dark stalker romances, then," I replied with a straight face. Saoirse coughed and turned away, knowing exactly where my reading tastes lay. The more fucked up, the better. I treated trigger warnings as a shopping list.
Grant shuddered. "God, no. We don't accept low-brow submissions like that."
"Then I won't bother reading any of your books." Judging by his sneer, he didn't appreciate my comment. "Be right back," I whispered to Saoirse. She nodded, distracted by James' talk of summer vacations in the Bahamas, and I walked away.
It was time to call it a night now that she had someone to entertain her. Swipe a bottle of wine and some snacks. Have a picnic for one in my room. Binge a Netflix drama on Saoirse's laptop. Read a smutty book.
But first, I needed some fresh air. The stench of expensive perfume and Cuban cigars had given me a headache.
Nobody paid me any attention as I slipped out of the room and headed toward the kitchen, intending to grab a drink and then take it outside.
When I opened the door, Conal stood leaning against the counter, talking to a petite blonde. He seemed tense as the blonde pouted up at him. Was this Maeve? Saoirse had mentioned her, mostly in a disparaging way. I got the impression from Saoirse’s comments that Maeve was a raging cunt.
The minute Conal saw me, he edged away from the blonde. She spun around to check who'd caught his attention. Apparently, I didn't pass muster because she instantly dismissed me.
Not wanting to interrupt their discussion, I edged back out of the kitchen, but Conal stopped me.
"Everything OK, sweetheart?"
"Yeah. I was thinking of heading upstairs," I said, focusing on his chest rather than his face. He wore a pale lilac shirt and charcoal pants, with the shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Just enough skin showing to tempt me.
"But it's still early."
"Ugh, let her go." The blonde waved her hand dismissively. "She's clearly unimportant."
"She's family," Conal growled. "Treat her with some fucking respect!"
My jaw dropped. Conal rarely raised his voice. Unlike his twin, he typically engaged his brain before opening his mouth. If this woman was his girlfriend, it seemed odd that he'd defend me to her.
"It's fine." I didn't care what the stupid woman thought. She meant nothing to me, and besides, I'd be gone soon.
"No, it's not fine!" Conal took a step toward me, but I grabbed a half-empty bottle of wine from the counter and dashed away. I didn't need any drama this evening.
The Kelly estate stretched out over several lush acres. Immediately behind the house lay a wide terrace and outdoor pool, which saw very little use thanks to the shit Irish weather. The small rose garden lay beyond a crumbling stone wall to the left, planted by Seamus' late wife. Next to that, the kitchen garden, and then a vast lawn bordered by yew hedges and trees. Wild woodland around the estate hid the house and garden from prying eyes.
The granite facade stood majestic against the lush green backdrop of trees and lawn. This stretch of coastline was wildly beautiful, especially in winter, when Atlantic storms lashed the cliffs with ever-increasing ferocity.
I genuinely loved it here; always had. It reminded me of the cliff-top house we stayed in when I first came to Ireland.
A tall eight-foot wall topped with razor wire marked the accessible parts of the property’s perimeter, with guards patrolling the gardens night and day. Although I was safe here, my lack of freedom niggled.
