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“What is Tommy doing here? Who are all these people?”
A muscle tensed in his jaw. Connor grabbed me by the arm and steered me from the room. My head swiveled, and I caught a glimpse of Tommy glaring at Connor's retreating back. I tried to pull away. He was gripping me so tightly, it hurt. “Connor, what is going on? What's wrong with you?"
Was this about how I was dressed? Granted, the situation was embarrassing, my bed hair and state of undress making it painfully obvious to everyone in the room what we had done last night, but that wasn't my fault. How was I to know half the Clan had decided to camp out in our kitchen?
But Connor didn't look embarrassed. He looked pissed.
Connor propelled me down the hall and back into the bedroom. The sight of the rumpled sheets on the bed mocked me as Connor stalked past them and opened the closet. He pulled a suitcase out of the closet and pointed to it. “Pack. We’re leaving in thirty.”
He turned to leave, but I stepped in front of him. "What happened? Why are we leaving so suddenly?"
"Something came up. I'm needed back in the city."
"Business related, I guess." My stomach sank. I wanted to slap that cold, blank look right off his face. Where was the sweet man from last night? I tried a new tactic, meeting his rigidity with quiet empathy. "Connor, please talk to me. Whatever it is, whatever's bothering you, I can help."
His lips curled in a humorless smirk. "There's nothing you can do that will help the situation, I assure you. Besides, you didn't want to know anything about my business. Rule number two, right?"
"Well, we blew rule number one right out of the water last night, I figured the whole rule thing was open to interpretation." I was getting really irritated, now, stepping into his personal space. Wanting to fight, all of a sudden. Get a reaction out of him. Anything.
"Those were your rules, not mine." Connor looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't have time for this."
"You had plenty of time for me last night."
Finally, a reaction. Emotions flitted across his face, too fast for me to decipher before they disappeared altogether. "Pack your things or you'll do without. I don't care which. You now have…" he looked at his watch. "Twenty-seven minutes."
Connor stepped around me, but this time, I didn't stop him.
What. The hell. Was that.
I stood there in my bathrobe, barefoot on the cold hardwood floor. Staring at my suitcase. Wondering if I'd somehow tumbled out of a dream and into a nightmare.
I told you so. I told you so. I told you so.
The robe was almost impossibly tight where Connor had tied it, but I pulled it even tighter, wanting to disappear into its folds. I counted the seconds. The minutes. Five minutes passed and then ten while I stood there staring at my one suitcase, but all I could think about were two hands on my body and one mouth against mine, and I realized I had been such a fool.
He used you. He told you exactly what you wanted to hear, and you gave into him so easily. Now it's back to work. Poor little lonely girl, back up on the shelf until he wants to play with you again.
I thought I had seen the real Connor McTiernan. I thought his coldly indifferent facade was just a cloak of protection around a sensitive heart.
Now, I knew better.
Connor McTiernan had no heart. Last night was the real lie.
I let my robe hit the floor and marched into the bathroom. Naked. Not out of any sense of urgency over Connors blessed timelines, but because I wanted the memory of him off my body. Now.
I washed him down the drain along with my tears.
When I got out, the tears were gone and my heart was empty. I tossed my clothes carelessly into my suitcase, letting the anger and hurt and embarrassment build into something that was strangely comforting. Or vindicating. I wasn't sure which.
Soon, there was only one item left in the closet. A cream-colored designer pantsuit in Italian wool with matching blazer, nude heels and gold jewelry tucked into a pocket in the garment bag. Clothes that hadn't been picked for me, but rather for the person I was supposed to be.
Suddenly, in that moment, I wanted desperately to be someone else. Anyone else.
I took my time dressing. I knew I took much longer than thirty minutes, but it didn't matter. Nobody came for me. Each piece was carefully put on, and I wielded them like armor. Hair tucked into place. Lipstick and mascara were applied, and I studied the reflection in the mirror.
I was an ice queen. A worthy trophy wife for a mob warlord. This veneer would have to be enough. I was done playing games. I would do what needed to be done to ensure my survival, find Johnny's killer, and maybe—just maybe—escape with my career and my sanity intact. I wasn't fool enough to think I could stop this kind of madness. Organized crime had existed for centuries. I wasn't going to be the one to stop it, but I could pull myself out of the mire before I got sucked under.
Survival, baby. It was all about survival. My wounded pride amounted to less than zero in this scenario.
