by Shen, L. J.
The only thing keeping me standing upright at this point was the thought this was probably a hallucination, due to the fact I hadn’t been sleeping or eating well recently.
Carbs. I need carbs.
“You want me to cheat on you?” I rubbed at my forehead.
“After you give me legitimate children, you can do whatever you want.”
“You need a hug.” I frowned. “And a shrink. Not in that order.”
“What I need is siring heirs. At least one male. A couple of others for appearance and backup.”
Backup.
Were we talking about children or phone chargers?
My head spun. I reached to the wall for support.
I always knew Cillian Fitzpatrick was messed up, but this was a level of crazy that could easily secure him a place in a mental institution.
“Why male? In case you haven’t noticed, this is the twenty-first century. There are women like Irene Rosenfeld, Mary Barra, Corie Barry…” I began listing female CEOs. He cut me off.
“Spare me the supermarket list. The truth of the matter is, some things haven’t changed. Women born into obscene privilege—aka my future daughters—rarely opt for hectic careers, which is what running Royal Pipelines demands.”
“That is the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Shockingly, I agree with you on that point.” He began to button his coat, signaling his departure. “Nonetheless, I’m not the one making the rules. Traditionally, the firstborn’s son inherits most of the shares and the role of CEO in Royal Pipelines. That’s how my father got the gig. That’s how I got it.”
“What if the kid wants to be something else?”
He stared at me as though I just asked him if I should pierce my eyebrow using a semi-automatic weapon. Like I was truly beyond help.
“Who doesn’t want to be the head of one of the richest companies in the world?”
“Anyone who knows what a role like that entails,” I shot back. “No offense, but you’re not the happiest man I know, Kill.”
“My first son will continue my legacy,” he said matter-of-factly. “If you’re worried about his mental health, I suggest you send him to therapy from infancy.”
“Sounds like you’re going to be a wonderful father.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“They’ll have a soft mother. Least I can do is give them the hard facts of life.”
“You’re awful.”
“You’re stalling,” he quipped.
The nervous knot of hysteria forming in my throat grew. Not because I found the idea of marrying Cillian so terrible, but because I didn’t, and that made me deranged. What kind of woman jumped headfirst into marriage with the wickedest man in Boston while still married to the most unreliable one?
Me.
That was who.
I entertained this insane idea for many reasons, all of them wrong:
No more money problems.
A sure divorce from Paxton.
Having Cillian’s company, and undivided attention, even if just for a few short years.
Who knew? Maybe Auntie Tilda was going to deliver after all. We could start off as an arrangement and end up as a real couple.
No. I couldn’t board his train to Crazy Town. The last stop was Heartbreak, and I’d had enough of that in my life. Paxton had already crushed me. But my infatuation with Pax was sweet and comfortable. Cillian always stirred in me something raw and wild that could enrapture me.
I needed to think about it clearly without him getting in my face with his drugging scent and square jaw and cold flawlessness.
I stepped sideways, toward the stairway. “Look, can I think about it?”
“Of course. You have plenty of time. It’s not like the mob is after you,” his rich-boy diction mocked me.
I knew exactly how bad my situation was. Still, if I was going to officially sign the rest of my life over to the man who crushed me, I needed to at least give myself a few days to process it.
“Give me a week.”
“Twenty-four hours,” he fired back.
“Four days. You’re talking about the rest of my life here.”
“You’re not going to have a life if you don’t accept. Forty-eight hours. That’s my final offer, and it’s a generous one. You know where to find me.”
He turned around, making his way to the door.
“Wait,” I yelped.
He paused, not turning around.
A flashback of myself watching him leave and asking him to stay at Sailor and Hunter’s wedding slammed into me. I knew, with certainty that scorched my soul, that it was going to be our norm if I accepted his offer.
I would always seek him out, and he would always retreat to the shadows. A dusky, heady smoke of a man I could feel and see but never catch.
“Give me your home address. I don’t want to go to your office again. It makes me feel like we’re conducting business.”
“We are conducting business.”
“Your PA is horrible. She almost stabbed me that day I visited you.”
“Almost is the operative word here.” Producing a business card, he flipped it over and scribbled down his address. “I wouldn’t have covered her legal fees, and she knows it.”
He handed the card to me.
“Forty-eight hours,” he reminded me. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you declined my offer or were offed prematurely, and move on to the next candidate on my list.”
“There’s a list.” My jaw dropped.
Of course there was a list. I was just one of many women who ticked all the boxes for the mighty Cillian Fitzpatrick.
I wondered what said boxes included.
Naïve?
Desperate?
Stupid?
Pretty?
I swallowed, but the ball in my throat didn’t budge. I felt about as disposable as a diaper and just as desirable.
Cillian shot me an icy look.
“Go browse through your mail-order brides catalog, Cillian.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’ll let you know my answer.”
I watched him go, carrying my freedom, hopes, and choices in his designer pocket.
Knowing it didn’t matter whether I refused or accepted his offer—either choice would be a mistake.
The next day, I showed up at work in a coffee-stained dress and with bloodshot eyes. I’d called Sailor, swallowing my pride and doing what I promised not to do—ask her for a loan. But before I could even utter out the request, she told me she’d been feeling suspicious cramps in her abdomen, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
I spent my lunch break calling every cash loaner in Boston. Most hung up on me, some laughed, and a handful expressed their regret, but said they’d have to pass on my business.
I even tried calling Sam Brennan. I was met with an electronic message asking for a code to get through to him.
I didn’t have access to the most mysterious man in Boston.
Though I grew up as his younger sister’s best friend, I was as invisible to him as the rest of my friends.
Belle was at work when I got home. I was glad she was because a box waited outside her apartment door. The parcel was addressed to me, so I opened it. There were two pieces of lingerie inside.
I picked up a black lace thong, realizing inside the lingerie waited a bullet.
Byrne.
I ran to the bathroom, throwing up the very little I’d eaten.
Shoving a sleeve of crackers into my mouth, I swallowed a small chunk of cheese, and washed them down with orange juice.
I crawled into Belle’s bed, still in my work dress. It was cold and empty. The rain knocking on the window reminded me of how alone I was.
Mom and Dad had moved to the suburbs a couple of years ago. Moving in with them now would invite trouble to their doorstep—deadly trouble—and I couldn’t do it to them.
Sailor was married and having a baby, running a successful food blog and training young archers as a par
t of a charity foundation she started. Her life was full, complete, and good.
Ash was busy coming up with schemes to win Sam Brennan over, going to med school, and blossoming into one of the most fantastic women I’d ever met.
And Belle was making a career for herself.
Lying still in the darkness, I watched through the window as Lady Night went through all her outfits. The sky turned from midnight to neon blue, then finally, orange and pink. When the sun climbed up Boston’s high-rise skyline, inch by inch like a queen rising from her throne, I knew I had to make a decision.
The sky was cloudless.
Auntie Tilda wasn’t going to help me get out of this one. It was my decision to make. My responsibility.
Silence buzzed through the apartment. Belle hadn’t returned home last night. She was probably inside a handsome man’s bed, splaying her curves like a work of art for him to worship.
Scurrying out of bed, I padded barefoot into the kitchenette, then flicked on the coffee machine and Belle’s vintage radio. The same eighties station that never failed to lift my spirits belted out the last few notes of “How Will I Know” by Whitney Houston, followed by a weather forecast, warning about an impending storm.
There was a vase full of fresh roses on the counter, courtesy of one of the many admirers who frequented Madame Mayhem in hopes to capture my sister’s interest.
Flower Girl.
I plucked one of the white roses. Its thorn pierced my thumb. A heart-shaped blood droplet perched between the petals.
“To marry or not to marry Boston’s favorite villain?”
I plucked the first petal.
Marry him.
The second one.
Don’t marry him.
Then the third.
The fourth.
The fifth…
By the time I reached the last petal, my fingers quivered, my heart drummed fast, and every inch of my body was covered in goose bumps. I pulled the last petal, the snowy color of a wedding gown.
Fate said the last word.
Not that it mattered as my heart already knew the answer.
A decision had been made.
Now I had to face the consequences.
“Good session, Mr. Fitzpatrick. You’re one of the most talented equestrians I’ve ever seen. Mad skills, sir.” One of the pimply stable boys under my payroll staggered behind me, his tongue lapping about like an eager puppy.
I made my way from the barn back to my car, shoving my bridle into his chest along with a fat tip.
If nothing else, being filthy, immortally, disgustingly rich meant people were eager to tell me how I was the best at anything, be it horse riding, fencing, golfing, and synchronized swimming.
Not that I synchronize swam, but I was sure I’d be given a medal for it if I asked for one.
“Thanks for the tip, Mr. Fitzpatrick! You’re the best boss I’ve ever—”
“If I wanted my ass kissed, I’d go for someone curvier, blonder, and with an entirely different reproductive system,” I said cuttingly.
“Right. Yes. Sorry.” He blushed, opening the door to my Aston Martin Vanquish for me, bowing. I slid into the car, revving up the engine.
The Ring app on my phone advised me there was a visitor at my front door.
Tugging at my gloves, I tossed them on the passenger seat before swiping the phone screen.
I didn’t have to check my wrist to know I wasn’t at my usual fifty beats per minute. I was a highly conditioned equestrian, a born athlete. But right now, it was at least at sixty-two.
I was a certified moron to develop a preference toward one potential bride over the other, considering none of the candidates on my list were going to walk down the aisle happily or willingly.
They all had reasons to say I do, and none of them had to do with my winning personality, wit, or flawless manners.
Persephone Penrose was the first I’d approached. She needed financial relief like I needed a good PR stunt and a couple of kids.
She was, however much I hated to admit it, also my favored contender. Good-natured, of sound mind more or less, with the face of an angel and a body that could tempt the devil.
She was perfect. Too perfect, in fact. So perfect I sometimes had to look away whenever we were in the same room. I averted my gaze from her more times than I could count, always opting to observe her mouthy sister. Watching the train wreck that was Emmabelle reminded me I didn’t want the Penrose DNA pool anywhere near mine.
Emmabelle was loud, lewd, and opinionated. She could argue with a goddamn wall for days and still lose. Focusing on her was less dangerous than watching Persephone.
And watching Persephone was something I did discreetly, but often, when no one was looking.
Which was why the fact she hadn’t returned to me with an answer was a good thing. Terrific, really.
I didn’t need this mess.
Didn’t need my heart rate hiking over sixty.
Case in point—as the video of my black, brass hardware double doors came into view, my pulse began strumming over my eyelid. It was the cleaning ladies and my chef, marching into my house to prepare it ahead of the kickback I was hosting tonight.
I threw the phone to the passenger seat, glancing at my Rolex.
It had been exactly forty-nine hours and eleven minutes since I’d presented Persephone with my offer. Her time was up. Timekeeping and reliability were two of the few things I’d admired about people.
She lacked both.
Clicking open my glove compartment, I produced the sticky note Devon had given me with names of potential brides. Next on my list was Minka Gomes. An ex-model who was now a child psychologist. Legs for miles, a good family, and a perfect smile (although Devon had warned me she had veneers).
She was thirty-seven, desperate for children, and traditional enough to want a Catholic wedding. She’d already signed an NDA prior to my approaching her, something I’d made Devon do with all of my potential brides, save for Persephone, who was:
My first candidate, and therefore my sloppiest attempt. And—
Too good to tell a soul.
I punched her address into the navigation app, rolling out of my private ranch’s driveway, where I had spent the past few hours riding my horses, ignoring my responsibilities, and not seething over the fact Persephone Penrose needed to think about marrying me when the other option available was grisly death in the hands of street mobsters.
I deliberately wasn’t home because I knew Persephone wasn’t going to take the bait.
She had too much integrity, morals, not to mention—another flipping husband somewhere in the globe.
“Let’s hope for your sake you’re not dumb enough to turn down my offer, too,” I muttered to an invisible Minka as I took the highway toward Boston.
Bride number two it was.
As if it made any difference.
Sam Brennan threw his cards onto the table later that evening, tilting his head back, a ribbon of smoke curling past his lips.
He always folded.
He didn’t come here to play cards.
Didn’t believe in luck, didn’t play for it, and didn’t count on it.
He was here to observe, learn, and keep tabs on Hunter and me, two of his most profitable clients. Made sure we kept out of trouble.
“Sally” by Gogol Bordello rose from the surround system.
We were in my drawing room for our weekly poker night. A tasteful, albeit boring space, with upholstered leather incliners and heavy burgundy curtains.
“Don’t worry, sons. It’ll all be over soon,” Hunter tsked, attempting his best John Malkovich impression in Rounders. “Poker is not for the faint of heart.”
“This, from someone who is a Nordstrom membership away from being a chick.” Sam slid his cigarette from one corner of his lips to the other, his forearms nearly ripping the black dress shirt he wore.
“You bet your ass I have a Nordstrom membership.” Hunter laughed, unfazed. “I don�
�t have time to shop with my stylist, and the ladies at the store know my measurements.”
“I see your thirty-five k and raise eight thousand.” Devon tossed eight black chips to the center of the table, drumming his fingers over his cards.
Devon was the opposite of Sam. A hedonist lord with a taste for fine, forbidden things, open manners, and zero scruples. Watching money burn was his favorite pastime. Ironically, Devon Whitehall needed a job like Hunter needed more distasteful sexual innuendos in his repertoire. He chose to go to university in America, passed the bar, and stayed far away from Britain.
I was pretty sure he had his own can of worms waiting to be cracked open back in his homeland but didn’t care enough to ask.
“All in,” I announced.
Hunter smacked his lip, pushing his entire stack of chips forward.
“You’re taking the piss.” Devon narrowed his eyes at my brother. Hunter flashed an innocent smile, batting his lashes theatrically.
“It’s a zero-sum game, Monsieur Whitehall. Don’t step into the kitchen if you don’t like the burn.”
“You’re mixing two phrases,” I said around the Cuban cigar in my mouth, pushing my chips to the center of the table. “It’s don’t step into the kitchen if you can’t take the heat. Burn is what you get between your legs for sleeping with enough women to fill up Madison Square Garden.”
“Funny, I don’t remember you inviting me to your sainthood ceremony, big bro.” Hunter took a pull of his Guinness, dragging his tongue over his foam mustache. “Oh, that’s right, it never happened because you bonked half of Europe. ’Sides, this was all in the past. I’m a married man now. There’s only one woman for me.”
“And that woman is my sister, so you better think carefully about what you say next if you want to get out of here with all your organs intact,” Sam reminded him.
Sam had brown hair, gray eyes, and tan skin. He was tall, broad, and had that ragged, hunky look that made women lose their pants and senses.