Chapter 14
CATRIONA
O’Connor’s jaw clenches, unclenches in that way of his that I’ve already memorized, if I cared about memorizing anything about him.
Then he’s moving with a muffled curse, and I flinch, curling inward and hoping to protect my face from his retaliation.
My body trembles against his until I realize he’s not my father.
He isn’t going to fight back with his fists.
Fireworks go off—no, that’s not right. There’s no sound other than the music from the party. It’s only the lights flashing that are temporarily blinding me. Disorientation mounts for a long minute. Get ahold of yourself, Ri, I hear Yasmine coaching in my head.
Not for the first time, I wish her schedule had allowed her to attend.
She would have been able to tell me if I was hallucinating or not because there’s no way O’Connor’s arm is wrapped protectively around me.
No way he has me huddled close against his body as he fights his way through a crush of spectators, ignoring my father’s protests.
But that’s exactly where I find myself, ears filled with O’Connor’s biting warnings as we move through the hovering crowd to the ballroom.
My chest is tight as my thoughts race in an attempt to figure out what his game plan is going to be.
Will he move us to a room with more privacy?
Will he wait for later to dispense his revenge?
I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking. The only person I’ve ever hit before was him, but that was different. He’d chased me through the estate at his masquerade to stop me from leaving. The circumstances here are wildly different. We’re different.
But now he needs me.
If he’s going to get the trip to Ireland he wants, he can’t hurt me.
The thought steadies me until we’re safely ensconced on the other side of the room, a couple of hundred people between us and the cluster of socialites.
I go through the motions, accept another drink, and take my place at the head of the table.
A plate from the buffet is placed in front of me, and I eat mechanically, suddenly ravenous and hyperaware of O’Connor sitting next to me.
Mara and Eamon are on the other side of him.
The trio conducts an entirely silent conversation through lifted eyebrows and smirks, in a language of their own, which ends with Eamon sniggering and Mara looking very pleased.
O’Connor stretches an arm over the back of my chair, and I stiffen. “Stop looking like I’m going to hurt you, pet, or it’ll give the press more fuel, yeah?”
I eat, but I don’t taste it. It goes down like lead. Like other lawyers, I hate apologizing because it means I’ve done something wrong. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m—”
“If you say you’re sorry, I’m going to be disappointed. O’Connors don’t apologize.”
It’s so close to the thought I had only seconds ago that I’m speechless. Before I can untangle how to respond, we’re called away for more pictures with my father.
And Elizabeth.
Which turns out to be even more awkward than my entire evening with O’Connor.
Father and Elizabeth get through the whole ordeal without saying a word to either of us, but still paint beatific smiles on their faces for the cameras.
They don’t say a word about the scene they witnessed, but I do catch Elizabeth sending vicious glares my way.
Remembering my promise to O’Connor, I position myself at his side, wrapping one arm around his waist and placing my hand on his chest to display the rock of an engagement ring and matching band on my finger.
He stuffs his free hand in his pocket, tilts his chin up imperiously, and winds his other arm around my waist. This is the only time Father and Elizabeth break character.
It doesn’t make my smile deepen, just a little.
It doesn’t make me shift closer, just a little. And I don’t feel vindicated.
Not at all.
What the fuck is he doing to me?
Later, after we say our goodbyes.
After Eamon and Mara eye us with discerning gazes.
After O’Connor speaks with the man I’ve learned is his assistant, Finn, to hopefully stop the release of those pictures to the masses.
After I flee upstairs to my room and lock myself in the bathroom.
I finally let myself think of O’Connor’s face after I slapped him. How good it had felt. How he’d looked.
Instinct had told me he was pissed. That there’s no way he’d let me get away with it. That he’d retaliate.
But as I sink deeper into the bubbles and scalding water, I don’t think the look on his face was fury at all.
It was hunger.
The memory of it has my hands slipping over my body, caressing my breasts, teasing my pebbling nipples, and biting my lip to contain the twist of pleasure. His voice fills my ears over the music blasting from my earbuds. “Does it ache for me, love?”
Here, safely behind a lock, I admit to myself that it does. It does ache for him. I ache for him. And even though it makes me hate myself, I slide my other hand between my thighs, breath rushing out of my lungs as shocks shoot up from the contact.
My fingertips swirl over my clit as I center my thoughts on the memory of him pressing me against the wall, his mouth grazing my ear.
His sexy, throaty, threatening voice. This is so wrong.
I hate him, but I can’t seem to make myself stop.
Two fingers plunge inside, the heel of my hand exerting delicious pressure against my clit, but it’s not enough.
Growling, I release the plug and let enough of the water drain out so the tub won’t overflow. I pop out a bud, ears straining for some hint of where O’Connor is, but I can’t hear anything over the flow of water, and, if I’m being honest with myself, a part of me wants him to hear.
To wonder.
To want.
Whoever designed this room must have been a woman because the faucet has a detachable head.
I adjust the settings until the spray is firm but not too stimulating, then angle the shower head just where I need it.
Hooking my heels over the sides of the tub, I pull my body into position, letting the jet of water give me the perfect pressure and freeing up my hands to cup my breasts and tease my nipples.
In this secluded place, where I’m alone and safe to fantasize without judgment, all I need is the memory of O’Connor to get me close.
He’s not here, so I don’t stop myself when I finally come, and the name I whisper is, “Aiden.”
It’s Thursday, what feels like a century later, when my phone pings with a text from Broussard asking me to meet.
I’m just replying my affirmative when it rings in my hand.
All I want is to go home, soak in my giant bathtub—without thinking of O’Connor this time—and turn my brain off for a while.
The other girls in my class keep stealing glances at me, as the sound of the incoming call reverberates off the walls.
Despite O’Connor’s best efforts, it hadn’t taken long for word of my scene at the reception to spread locally, as everyone in attendance began sharing online.
Especially when Father’s opponents caught wind of the news and used it to attack the core of his “family man” focused narrative.
The gossip and attention, which had ebbed in the months since my mother’s death, reignited with each salacious clip.
A glance at my phone screen shows it’s from Judge Landry’s office, and my stomach sinks. While the story isn’t the most flattering, I was hoping it wouldn’t be serious enough for the judge’s office to get wind of it. My clerkship with her after graduation is absolutely vital to my ten-year plan.
“Hello?” I answer breathlessly, as I start shoving my belongings into my bag.
“Hello, this is Patricia Sterling from Judge Landry’s chambers. I’m calling for Ms. Gal—forgive me. I mean, Mrs. O’Connor. Catriona O’Connor.”
I’ll never get used to hearing that name. “This is she.”
She makes a humming noise. “Yes. Do you have a moment to speak with her regarding a matter that’s come to our attention?”
My stomach sinks. “Of course. When?”
“Please hold, and I’ll transfer you.”
Throat dry, I mumble my agreement and sink into a chair.
She doesn’t want to make an appointment.
She wants to speak now. Not a good sign.
My fan club is still here, waiting. Watching.
I smooth the emotion from my face. No matter what happens, I won’t give anyone more to run their mouths about.
The moment I’d walked into class Monday morning, it had been to complete silence with all eyes on me.
Yasmine finally badgered me into looking at the videos two days ago, and I wish I hadn’t. Short clips of it are everywhere. Aiden towering over me, eyes glittering and unhinged. One arm blocking my way. The other at my hip.
Next clip, my hand whipping up. My face pinched with fury. The sound of the slap echoing over the balcony. The way O’Connor presses closer for a moment before the phones start flooding the space with lights.
But it’s the last clip that gets me. The one where my face goes white with panic, when I flinch. At the time, it had been out of fear, with the memory of Father hitting me at the forefront of my thoughts.
The phone clicks, and Judge Landry’s businesslike voice fills the line. “Mrs. O’Connor. Lovely to speak to you again.”
“Same to you, Judge Landry. I hope you’re well.”
I’ve always admired Judge Landry. Born and bred in Louisiana, she also graduated from Tulane Law and began her career at the Louisiana Division of Administrative Law, where she’s been a judge for twelve years.
Prior to becoming a judge, she was an assistant attorney general.
She’s no-nonsense and highly respected for her unwavering professionalism—a characteristic I would have said applied to myself prior to my mother’s death.