Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Leith
Smiling, I accept a glass of whisky from a deferential waiter.
I now wield almost infinite power over her.
I can chain her, whip her, or feed my cock down her throat, and she’ll beg me for it, take it, and thank me afterward.
I’m her god, as I felt in my bones when I invaded her mouth and drowned in her sweet taste at the altar.
She vibrates with receptivity. And I plan to use, degrade, and torment her till I’ve had my fill.
Aaron, part one of my mission is complete.
If I believed in heaven, I might look up. As it is, I suspect my friend haunts us like an implacable phantom. He sees, knows, and approves of all I’ve done thus far. He also urges me on to phase two.
But first for the little matter of settling the score with Darian.
As I press through the throng, hands slap my back and shoulders, and women call out their congratulations.
The men combine Syndicate associates with clients past, present, and future.
The twins let me take on outside clients if they’ll benefit the Syndicate.
So I often accept as payment connections, favors, and immunity for the organization.
I consider it my pro bono work—for the good of the Crew.
Glancing at my Patek Philippe Geneve watch, I make my way to one of the side doors, where two soldiers bar the way of an irate newcomer.
Hume Irving.
Darian may have invited him, but I instructed these soldiers to keep him busy until after I’d given my brief speech and joined them.
A red-faced Irving glowers at me. “Darian invited me, so you’d better let me in, Cargill.”
My lips quirk in a half-smile. “Of course, Irving. I wouldn’t think of blocking you. Come this way.”
His face falls, and he blinks with confusion as I nod to the soldiers.
They step aside, and I press a hand to Irving’s back, leading him into the hall.
On cue, a sylph-like brunette clad in a clingy sparkling gown glides over and links arms with him.
We’ve attracted enough attention that I capitalize on it.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” I clear my throat, and the chatter dies.
I meet the malicious gleam of Darian’s eye.
“We have another marriage to celebrate tonight. A distinguished member of the police force, Hume Irving, has just tied the knot with his mail-order bride from Kazakhstan, Aigul.” Though the term mail-order bride is politically incorrect, I use it for emphasis, suppressing a smile, since Aigul is one third Irving’s age.
“Irving is at heart a romantic. I asked him what drew him to Aigul, and he said their union had been written in the stars. Thank heaven for the internet, which now brings together fated mates who are geographically so distant!”
Aigul presses a fawning kiss on Irving’s lobster-red cheek, and cheers resound amidst smatterings of applause. Not a few guffaws mingle with the cheers. As I hoped, Irving is the general object of mockery.
As guests resume their blether,?1 Aigul twines herself like ivy about Irving, whose face contorts with fury. Aigul waylays a waiter and giggles at the bubbles rising in her glass of champagne. In America, she wouldn’t even be allowed to drink.
While I smile at my handiwork, Darian stalks toward me, his expression thunderous. Leaving Irving to enjoy his online bride, I sheer off to the patio, where we can have our showdown in peace.
Darian slides the doors shut behind him, stabbing me with a baleful glare. “You think you’ve won, but this is just the first round.”
I slope against the stone balustrade and take a sip of whisky. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Dar. I don’t want the boss position. You and Declan can lock horns to your hearts’ content.”
He chuffs a bitter laugh. “You can’t expect me to believe that.
You have our father and uncle in the palm of your hand.
They love you like their son. You’re loyal to the Crew, and you have a good head on your shoulders.
Why else would you marry now, just after they’ve announced the terms of the promotion? ”
I tip my head back, looking at him through lowered eyelids. “I have my reasons, which I’m not required to share with you.” I open a palm. “It’s a waste of energy to fight amongst ourselves. Surely even you can see that.”
“I see nothing but a potential rival,” he snorts. “I’m not taking any chances.”
Seeing there’s no point in reassuring him, I hitch a shoulder. “It’s your funeral. Just know I won’t take any of your attacks lying down. I may be outside the Ramsay family, but I’m just as cold-blooded and unswerving in my purpose as the rest of you.”
Yet I know—and he knows—I’m at a sore disadvantage in this fight. My hands are tied because I serve his family. If it should come to blows, I’ll be largely defenseless.
Unless I cook up an alternative scheme.
* * *
Iona
I’m helping myself to an appetizer from the waiter’s tray when a rip sounds directly behind me.
“Oh, dear, that’s a shame,” a low female voice purrs.
I twist to find the back hem of my dress shredded on the floor as a stilettoed woman steps out of the torn fabric.
My eyes journey north to meet those of the woman who was with Leith two day ago at the café.
Dressed in a lemon-yellow body-hugging mini-dress, she showcases her breasts, narrow waist, and model’s hips.
She splays her fingers over her chest. “I was pushed into you by some of the passing crowd. I’m afraid my heel got stuck. Let me help you repair the damage.”
Before I can say anything, she plucks my clutch from the table and starts swishing away through the crowd.
I’m forced to follow her, though every fiber of my being tells me she’s bad news.
Embarrassed by the ragged cloth, I pick it up and hold it to the side, clicking after my rival through the thick crowd.
Listen to me—rival. She’s either nothing to me or my sworn enemy, depending on how you look at it.
There’s no halfway point where we’re vying for Leith’s attention, because I’m his wife, nothing more and nothing less.
At least, that’s what my rational brain tells me.
My body and soul want her out of the picture, period.
They don’t like grey areas, nor does my pride.
We arrive at an ornate door, and she opens it, sailing through as if she owns the hall. I trail after her, taking in the elaborately corniced walls, gilt furniture, and marble floor.
“Shut the door,” she directs.
Since I’d rather no one witnessed my wardrobe malfunction, I do as she says. Surveying the damage to my hem, I wonder if it wouldn’t be simplest just to cut the material off. I don’t think anyone would notice the jagged edge.
But at this moment my dress is the least of my worries. A viper in feminine form slants her calculating gaze toward mine from where she stands, by the fireplace.
“Do you know who I am?” She uses the mirror above the mantel to reapply her lipstick.
“I have no idea.”
Smacking her lips, she catches my eye in her reflection. “I’m one of Leith’s oldest friends, his legal assistant, and his . . . confidante.” She pauses pregnantly before the last word, and I don’t like the weight she gives it.
Sharp fangs catch at my lungs, chest, and throat, tearing them so I can barely breathe.
My worst suspicions are proving correct—she and Leith are involved.
As my knees buckle, I desperately want to sink into a chair, but I need to be ready for more of her attacks, so I force myself to remain standing.
“That you don’t know who I am—or my name—says much about your . . . relationship to Leith.” Her tone drips with pity.
Not relationship with Leith but to him. How Leith is with me depends on how he is with her. My tense jaw sets with a click.
She tilts her head, still controlling the conversation. “A marriage of convenience on flimsy grounds.” She taps her chin with a well-manicured index finger. “No wonder my services are in such demand.”
“What do you mean?” The growl in my voice is foreign to me. She has everything at this point—knowledge, experience, and resources—while I have nothing but a ring on my finger.
Her lips tip up at the corners. “If you don’t know, Iona, you’ll find out soon enough. Some of us have wonderful powers of self-deception.”
I thought my heart couldn’t sink any lower, but it plummets to the floor. She’s suggesting I’m willfully blinding myself to what’s going on right under my nose. A flashback to Thursday afternoon at the café confirms the truth of her words.
“What’s your name?” I demand hoarsely.
She drops my clutch into a rubbish bin and sashays toward the door, brushing shoulders with me.
As her strong, jasmine-scented perfume plumes about my head, she leans in.
“Galiene. I recommend you do something about that hem, Cinderella.” Chuckling, she breezes to the door and flings it open, flouncing out.
I detest her superiority, but I loathe even more my own ignorance.
He was already having an affair before we kissed.
Will continue to do so, as if we hadn’t just said vows to each other.
I grind my teeth, thinking of how she laughed at the café, her laughter now, how everyone must be laughing at me.
The worst of it is, while my head tells me I don’t want to be married to him, my body says that’s nonsense.
It very much wants him to kiss me again.
And do much more, a small, breathless inner voice pipes.
I feel powerless against the emotions roiling in my heart.
I hail a waitress passing down the corridor. “Excuse me, do you have any scissors?”
“Of course, miss!” The waitress leaves and returns a moment later with a pair of scissors.
Seeing what I need them for, she helps trim the torn pieces off.
“Thank you.” I’m grateful to find a woman who’s not plotting my downfall.
“You’re welcome, miss.”