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“I won’t be long,” I muttered to Michael, and before he could stop me, I dashed across the road.
I heard the honking of a car horn but I ignored it as I made it to the other side of the street, just as the door to the tearoom opened and out walked Elizabeth.
The noise from the road caught her attention, but her gaze drifted a second, held, before it swiveled onto me.
As I walked over to her, she smiled. “Magdalena O’Shea, as I live and breathe.”
My eyes narrowed upon that catty smile. I’d known her as an eight-year-old and she’d been as much of a bitch back then as that smile indicated she was now.
“Lizzie Ó Cléirigh, what a surprise.”
The smile faded. “It’s Davidson.”
“It’s O’Donnelly. You’d know that seeing as Aidan donates to Alan’s campaign.” I tipped my head to the side. “I’m surprised you’re in New York. Isn’t Alan in Florida? Trying to swing enough votes to get people to forget about that unfortunate news article last winter?”
She scowled at me. “That was all conjecture.”
“The best type of news usually is,” I drawled.
“People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” she hissed, dipping down from her irritatingly statuesque height to loom over me.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning my husband isn’t the only one who can’t keep it in his pants.”
I straightened up at that, her words hitting me on the raw. “Aidan’s—”
She scoffed, “Aidan’s, what? Faithful? Get real, darling. Mine’s about as faithless as yours, but at least Alan isn’t a hypocrite. And that article last year was nonsense.
“I wish hewouldsleep with staffers. At least that would be easy to cover up.” A dry laugh escaped her. “I heard all about Aidan, though. Alan doesn’t like having his arm pulled.”
My brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“What do you think I’m talking about?” She jerked her hand toward the tearoom. “I just had to check this place out when I read the report on Alan’s desk.”
“What report?”
“On your husband, of course.” She tsked under her breath. “I assume that’s why you’re here? To confront her? I wish I didn’t have to dash because I’d have loved to see the show.”
“The show?” I asked faintly.
“I do love a catfight. Of course, she’smuchyounger than you so I doubt you’d win. That would be far more entertaining.” Her smile was vicious. “I never did like you, Magdalena. I was so glad when that mobster scooped you up. You weren’t good enough for George then.” Her gaze dripped with disdain as she looked me up and down. It fastened on my throat. “You certainly aren’t now.”
She stepped aside without another word and moved over to her car. She stayed there a second too long, enough for the driver to ask her something, but she didn’t bother answering, just climbed into the backseat. I watched as the driver closed the door behind her then whisked her away.
As they drove off, I stood there, shivering, feeling as frail as a sapling being blown around in a hurricane.
When Michael appeared at my side a second later, he ordered, “Stop scratching your throat.”
I frowned. “What?”
He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to my neck. “It’s bleeding, Lena. You scratched it raw.”
Pulling back, I stared down at the folded fabric and saw the red staining it. Placing pressure against it, I rasped, “I’ll have it laundered and get it back to you tomorrow.”
He shook his head, and like I was as ancient and as frail as that bitch had made out, he helped me over to the car.
“I’ll take you home.”
