‘What happened?’ I demand.
Ciaran’s head whips to face me.
‘I’m at the hospital emergency department. I broke my wrist chasing my grandson around the park. I’m going to be out of action for the next six weeks at least. I’m so sorry; I know it’s not ideal, especially now Miss O’Shea has moved in.’
Relief floods my chest as I exhale the breath I’d been holding. ‘Relax, Miranda. It’s fine. Just get better.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Kincaid,’ she stammers.
‘I’ll hire a temporary replacement. You’ll be paid fully while you recover. Have the hospital send your medical bills directly to me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I hang up and double check the cameras again, as my heart rate finally begins to regulate.
I promised my fiancée I’d call her.
And that’s what I’m going to do.
16
AOIFE
Ispent the past three days padding around Dominic’s huge house, walking the grounds, admiring the manicured lawns, borrowing books from his extensive library, and even enjoyed a couple of glasses of his Bandol in front of his eighty-five inch TV. I’m unaccustomed to so much luxury. But the biggest luxury of all is doing nothing.
Sheila’s been in and out every day, fussing over me, making sandwiches and revealing snippets of information about the man I’m engaged to. Apparently, when Dominic isn’t plotting or executing the demise of his rivals, he likes to binge watchGame of Thrones, and gorge himself on Chinese chilli chicken, which coincidentally, is my favourite takeaway. Hard to imagine the same man who is feared throughout the city watching a series about fire-breathing dragons. Go figure.
I offered to help with the housework, but Sheila was appalled at the mere suggestion. Instead, I’ve taken to wedding planning and reading by the pool. I bought myself the bare minimum with Dominic’s credit card—a couple of pairs of jeans, yoga pants, hoodies, some toiletries—notfrom Brown Thomas, I might add. I’ve planned pretty much every detail of the wedding that he asked me to—apart from a honeymoon.
I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Especially when a tissue wrapped crimson bikini arrived yesterday with my name printed across the packaging. Naturally, it was the right size, because my fiancé could apparently tell my bra size the second he saw me, a talent which fascinates and irritates me in equal measure.
And I’m not irritated because he’s looking at my breasts. Men have been doing that since I was fourteen years of age. No. What truly irritates me iswherehe harnessed the breast measuring skills—and why it sets a surge of jealousy through my stomach.
Though that didn’t stop me from putting it on. It’s not like there’s anyone here to see it, bar the staff. There’s a certain comfort to being utterly removed from the real world, holed up in Dominic’s mansion, sunbathing by a pool. Beats being repeatedly raped by Rory Kavanagh, that’s for fucking sure.
I sigh, staring across the sparkling water. The weather has held out, surprisingly. The summer is in full swing. Out in the open, with blue skies soaring overhead and the birds singing in the tall trees, I can pretend I’m not trapped here, stupidly pining for a man who represents everything I said I would escape in life.
I put my book down, wondering for the millionth time when he’ll be home, back sharing our bed, and why the prospect sets my skin humming—and not with fear.
A shrill, sharp sound pierces the air, and it takes me a minute to realise it’s my phone. Dominic’s name flashes over the screen. My stomach somersaults as I swipe to answer, tentatively raising it to my ear like it might burn my flesh theway his pupils do any time they linger a beat too long on my body.
‘Hello?’ I battle to keep my voice even. A wisp of hair blows across my face in the warm breeze, and I reach for it, curling it around my index finger.
‘Aoife,’ his deep, raspy voice slides over my spine. ‘I trust you’re wearing sunscreen.’
My head whips up as I glance around the gardens, like he’s liable to dart out from behind one of the large fir trees surrounding the property.
He chuckles, deep and low. ‘Cameras, Aoife.’
‘You’respying on me.’ I glance down at my exposed skin. The idea of him watching me should horrify me, but it sets a slow, deep throbbing between my legs.
‘Red suits you, sweetheart.’ He purrs.
As usual, blood rushes to my cheeks. I have no idea what to say, so I opt for nothing rather than something I’ll regret.
‘You’re cute when you blush,’ he continues, in a low, teasing tone. ‘You know, I think I’m going to make it my mission throughout our marriage to make you blush at every given opportunity.’
