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No bank account, no social security number, no health insurance. Apart from the fake passport on the table between us, there is no trace of my existence. But by the way his throat bobs and he adjusts his tie, I realize I’m brewing suspicion I can’t afford to have.
“My job pays cash,” I garble, twisting the sleeves of my sweater around my wrists. “I just pay everything into my roommate’s bank account, and he uses that to pay our rent, bills, and groceries.” Fluttering my eyelashes, I flash him an apologetic smile. I have a lot riding on this. “I know, I know. So childish of me. I’ve just never got around to setting one up, you know?”
His stare is blank for a few beats, but to my relief, he eventually nods. “You’ll need to get one,” he says seriously. “Everybody needs a bank account.”
My cheeks are aching from all this goddamn smiling. “Sure thing.”
He clears his throat in a way that tells me he’s going to ask something more difficult. “Now. You mentioned your job pays cash… will you, uh, stop working?”
“As a hooker, you mean?” I say with a smile so sweet it’ll give him a cavity.
“Y-Yes.”
“Hmm…” I look around the room, strumming my fingers on the table. “Why should I? Will it embarrass my darling husband?”
To my surprise, his features harden, and he injects a sliver of ice into his tone. “You know as well as I do, this marriage is a sham. If it becomes public knowledge that Donnacha Quinn’s wife is a prostitute, it’ll look like he’s hired you to jump through a loophole. I guarantee you we’ll be able to erase any trace of your… past employment,” he all but spits, “but it’ll be a lot harder to conceal if you’re still…practicing. Do you understand me?”
Damn. Not such a sweet old man, after all. I guess that’s why Donnacha Quinn keeps him around.
I rearrange my face, making sure he can’t tell I’m thrown off by his sudden change of attitude. Over his head, Donnacha appears in the doorway. He leans against the frame, staring at me. “I understand,” I say loudly, “but if my soon-to-be husband wants me to stop being a whore, then he’ll have to compensate me.”
I’m sure I see the flash of anger across Donnacha’s face. I’m sure his nostrils flared, and his eyes darkened just for a second. But it all happens so quick, and he’s gone by the time I blink.
“Of course,” Cooper says breezily, “You’ll have an allowance of thirty-five thousand dollars a week. Negotiable, of course.”
I tear my gaze from the now-empty doorway and back down to the lawyer, or whatever he is. “I will?”
His bushy brows knit in confusion. “Of course.”
Hell, that’s more per week than I make in five years. This falls into my plan perfectly…maybe being married to the Devil won’t be the worst thing, after all.
He leans over the table, assaulting my nostrils with eau de mothballs and tobacco. “Here, here, and here,” he says, punctuating his words with messy circles around several dotted lines.
I take the pen from his hand and scribble my name and the date wherever he’s marked.
Get me the fuck out of here.
The pocketknife in the waistband of my panties digs into my hip as I rise to my feet. “Are we done?”
He pulls all of the papers together, then taps the stack against the table for good measure. “We are indeed, Mrs. Quinn.” He sticks out his hand and smiles a toothy smile. Mrs. Quinn? Jesus, talk about jumping the gun a bit. Still, I hate how the name gives me a little jolt of pleasure down my spine. It’s gone as quickly as it arrived. I offer him a limp handshake and scan the room, searching for the dark-haired girl who took my jacket. It’s the most expensive thing I own, and I’m sure as hell not leaving here without it, even if I have just signed on to a hefty payday.
Cooper slides out of his seat and disappears through one of the many doorways leading out of the room. Hopefully, he’s not already on the phone to the FBI, snitching about my fake passport. I shrug the paranoia off my shoulders. It’s made by the best in the business—it’s authentic to the naked eye. Hell, it might even get me on a flight when all of this shit is over. Then I can truly fly above the clouds, up into the warmth of the sun, and escape with the help of all this cash I’m coming into.
I tap my boot against the marble floor, growing impatient. Where is she? Or anyone who can locate my jacket, for that matter. I’ll even settle for my soon-to-be husband. But all I can see are men with earpieces and carbon copies of Abe Cooper clustered around other tables.
Fuck it, I’ll find it myself. I stalk in the direction of the elevator and take the door to the right of it. Logically, the room closest to the entrance will be where the cloakroom—
“Ouch!”
As I round the corner, I crash into something hard and stagger backward. Strong hands dip around my waist, righting me.
“Easy there, wifey,” the voice drawls. I look up from the chest muscles in front of me and lock eyes with Donnacha Quinn. His signature shit-eating grin is smeared across his perfect face.
I grit my teeth, trying to regain my composure. “Not quite your wifey yet,” I snap back, folding my arms across my chest. There’s that feeling again…the one that makes me want to crawl out of my itching skin and hide in the shadows, as far away from his blistering amber gaze as possible.
He looks confused. Then delighted. An expression backed up by a gruff laugh that echoes down the empty hallway. “Wedding? That was the wedding, sweetheart.”
His words swirl around me like a fog. I’m unable to see through them. “I don’t understand,” I say blankly.
