Apart from talking in the car and fucking last night, we’ve hardly spoken since. This is the most he’s said to me all day and I’ve only just noticed. Dante consumes every minute of my thoughts. There’s no room for anyone else.
“All I know is, it isn’t black.” It’s midnight blue, or at least that’s what the stylist said it was.
He stares me down, absorbing my words. I can’t tell if Lorcan’s angry at me for not telling him about my plan to deal with Dante, or because his sister is about to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather. Or maybe he’s just damned horny again.
Finally, he opens his mouth. “You look…fuck.” He shakes his head. “Just come here.” I’m always right. He is horny.
“That’s a no.” I can’t fuck before a job.
He raises a brow. “You’re going to make me work for it?”
“If I take off this dress, I’ll never get it back on. We’re almost there,” I point out to him.
His eyes become hooded. “Who said anything about taking it off?”
There’s a hidden slit that runs all the way up to my crotch. Despite my better judgment, I brought my blade, strapped it to my thigh. Any minute, I could flash someone my knickers or my knife.
I flash Lorcan the latter. “Don’t push me, not tonight.”
“Midway through this fucking party, I’m going to find you, restrain you, and fuck you senseless.”
I raise both brows. “You can certainly try.”
He smirks. “Try? It’s a fucking promise, sweetheart.”
Thank fuck for Lorcan, because I’m going to need release soon. He’s the only one I can trust to just take it from me. Ever since I cut Dino up in Jude’s car, he’s been treating me like I’m made of glass. I don’t understand. Out of all of them, boy racer confuses me the most.
The party isone of those tense, uptight, affairs with boring small talk and elevator music.
Saskia is once again her evil swan self—beautiful, elegant, gliding around ensuring her guests are well looked after, hissing insults at anyone who so much as puts a napkin out of place. She’s wearing a green and gold one shoulder dress with her hair coiffed into the perfect French roll. Every time her fiancé, a balding walrus with halitosis, puts his meaty hand on her pale flesh she grits her teeth and looks at me.
I know that look.
It’s the face of someone drowning in fear.
I’ve no idea what to do about Saskia’s torment, so I use the time to observe and take in my prey.
Walking the edges of the crowd, occasionally I take in Joseph Duke as he entertains guests. He’s dark haired, but that’s where the similarities between him and his adopted children end. He’s tall and angular, with heavy hooded eyes. Greek or Latin-looking, even though I know he’s not. His family are Londoners. West End born and bred. Chelsea to be exact.
He plays the part of the doting father well. Maybe too well. Occasionally, he drapes an arm over Saskia’s shoulder, idly stroking her bare skin. Her shudders mean nothing to him, all he does is grip her arm harder, digging his fingers deeper until she pastes over it with a bigger smile.
About an hour in, he spies Lorcan with his hand on my waist and frowns. He saunters over holding a glass of wine and an uncut cigar.
“I thought I told you to bring the Goldsteen girl?” he says, directly to his adopted son, totally ignoring my presence.
“Ah, but it would have been impolite to bring anyone but my girlfriend, Father.” Lorcan answers, drawing me closer, putting his claim on me physically.
“Your girlfriend?” Joseph says. He makes no attempt to conceal his contempt as he assesses me from top to toe.
Inside, my rage screams at me to take the heel of my expensive shoe, and shove the pointed end through his throat. But I don’t. Instead, I give Duke Senior a winning smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Looks like gold digging trash,” he spits out. “Who are you and how did you get your claws into my son?”
“Verity Hawthorne,” I say smoothly.
“Hawthorne. Never heard of you.”
“Who gives a fuck,” says Lorcan.