He might be a dark and dangerous psycho who flips from threatening to carve his brothers’ eyes out to beaming at me, but he is one hell of an attractive man.
Why has he never brought a woman here?
I’ve learnt more about my fiancé in thirty seconds from this woman than all the whispered rumours I heard throughout my entire life.
The woman seems to mistake my surprise for the fact that she didn’t even tell me her name. ‘I’m Sheila, the housekeeper. If you need anything, you come to me, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I manage to mutter.
‘Here, I’ll put these bags on the bed and you can have asift through and see what you’d like to wear for dinner.’ She snatches up the bags, swinging them so close to my face she nearly gives me a nose job in the process. ‘These should tide you over until he can take you shopping.’
Shopping? With Dominic Kincaid? It seems unlikely.
I’m speechless, but it doesn’t matter because she ploughs on regardless, ‘I picked out some nice dresses, a pair of flats, a pair of heels. Some nice cosmetics.’ She struts over to the bed and dumps the bags in the centre. ‘And some lingerie.’ She waggles her eyebrows seductively. She tips one of the bags up, and a mountain of silk lingerie cascades all over the bed. ‘Sheila’s got you covered, if you know what I mean.’ She winks, and I feel my cheeks flame.
Dominic did say his family would know if we weren’t sharing a bed.
Now I know how.
‘Put a dress on for dinner,’ she urges. ‘He’s going to a lot of effort for you.’ She beams at me.
‘He is?’
‘Yes, Miranda, the cook doesn’t work weekends. I offered to cook for you both, but he wants to be alone with you.’ Her eyebrows wag suggestively, and my stomach flips. She scurries towards the door, then pauses. ‘I’ll leave you to it, but if you need anything, or if you fancy a cup of tea, I’ll be here for another hour.’ She winks again, then disappears down the corridor.
What the actual fuck?
I head over to the bed to see what she bought. Even the bags look expensive—thick glossy card emblazoned with the store logo. I tip one up and three stunning sundresses spill out across the sheets. One white. One a lemon yellow. One a blush pink. A cute denim one. I run my fingers over the soft cotton. They’re all designer—they have the pricetags to prove it. Four hundred euros for one dress? I didn’t make that in a week working three jobs between Mr and Mrs Micheal’s bar, restaurant, and the laundrette.
How will I ever pay him back?
I tip up another bag. Two shoe boxes fall out—Jimmy Choo, no less.
Shit.
I prise the lid off. A pair of flat white pumps fall out, the logo embellished with hundreds of tiny crystals. I open the second box—also Jimmy Choo. Inside sits a pair of silver sequinned stilettos, each wrapped in a clear plastic bag. I gasp. They’re the prettiest shoes I’ve ever seen.
I swallow thickly, struggling to take it all in as I tip up the last bag. A mountain of cosmetics fall across the bed. Shampoo, conditioner, Tom Ford perfume, a hairbrush, a pink toothbrush, and a Dior complete skin care kit containing serums and creams I’ve only ever dreamed of trying.
It’s too much.
I don’t need designer stuff. I simply need safety.
My fingers brush over the lingerie. What the actual hell? As well as being silky and sexy, it’s also the right size. So are the shoes.
How did he know?
I tear the tags off, toss the towel on the bed, and slip into a thong. It might be the tiniest scrap of lingerie I’ve ever worn, but it’s undoubtably the most expensive. I slip my arms into one of the bras and hook it closed, then reach for the white sundress. It’s simple but stunning. The neckline is square cut, showing a hint of cleavage compared to the monstrosity Rory picked out for me. The material nips in at the waist before kicking out into an A-line skirt that lifts as I spin. I feel like a princess. I drag the brush through my hair, then sink my feet into the Jimmy Choo pumps.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and despite the day I’ve had, despite the fact that Rory Kavanagh is probably tearing the city apart looking for me, I’m actually grinning.
And it hits me then, like a slap to the face.
All of this stuff, this luxury—it’s paid for with drug money.
The same drugs that killed Jason.
So much for clawing my way up in the world. For breaking free. I’m at the epicentre of the very darkness I was determined to drag myself from.
