Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe it was just some random guest, or maybe I really am seeing her everywhere because I can’t get her out of my head.
Cat.
Her name tastes like whiskey and regret on my tongue.
I brace my hands on the balcony rail, looking down at the cousin crew below. Ale’s laughing and Rory’s glowing. Serena’sholding up more skimpy lingerie while Bella and Alessia cackle, and the aunts pretend to look mortified when in reality we all know they were ten times worse at our age. They must have been to lockdown our ruthless fathers.
It should feel like home. It should feel safe. But something in my gut says otherwise.
And as much as I tell myself it’s impossible that sweet, shy Caitríona could ever turn into the assassin that haunts me now, I can’t shake it.
I squeeze my eyes closed as memories of the past threaten to resurface. Now is not the time,coglione. I have to focus, not get lost in that perfect, sun-kissed summer.
Drawing in a breath, I block out the sounds of laughter and clinking champagne glasses. Up here in the VIP level, it’s quiet. Too quiet.
Twisting my head over my shoulder, I catch sight of the Gemini guard positioned by the elevator opposite me. He gives me a faint nod when our gazes meet.
I catch the citrusy scent before I see anything, the faintest trace of something on the air. My lungs hitch. It’s not D&G’s latest perfume, not some new high-end lemon vodka. It’s something sharper, darker and familiar in a way I can’t place. Or my brain doesn’t want me to. It’s the salty air and the summer sun threaded with the faint citrus bite of adrenaline.
My hand drifts toward the gun at my hip as my pulse spikes.
There.
A sound. Barely audible. A soft scuff of leather on polished tile. I whirl toward the corner where the shadows are the thickest, halfway between me and the guard by the elevator.
My heart catapults up my throat.
It’s her.
She’s dressed in black from head to toe, the same sleek mask hiding her face. My ghost. My trigger-happy stalker. For a splitsecond, we just stare at each other. The air between us snaps tight, a live wire ready to ignite. The room narrows to the space between her mask and my gun.
Then she bolts.
“Merda—” I’m already moving. I should call for the guard, call for backup, but for some reason I can’t explain, I need to be the one to catch her.
She’s fast and silent, I’ll give her that. She vaults a velvet rope and dives for the window at the far end. I cock my head over my shoulder as I run, and the guard on the other side of the balcony hasn’t even noticed the commotion. Good.
I pump my arms faster, my dress shoes smacking the tile. By the time I shoulder through the pile of stacked chairs and storage crates, she’s already pried the latch open and slipped onto the fire escape.
I yank the Glock free and raise it, sights locking on her sleek form as she climbs. “Stop!” I shout.
She ignores me.
“Trigger!”
That gets her attention.
She cocks her head over her shoulder, and the corner of her lip curls, revealing a faint dimple. The unexpected sight has my mind reeling back in time. That smile…
She’s moving again, ripping me free of unwanted images of the past.
My finger twitches on the trigger. Just one squeeze.
A memory wedges between my sight and the barrel: salt on her lip, a laugh, a hand on my arm. My finger falters.
My breath catches, throat closing. The crosshairs blur. My pulse hammers. And for a reason I can’t fucking explain, I hesitate.
She glances back once, blue eyes flashing in the dark between the mask’s edges. The sight punches the air out of my lungs.
