Page 40 of Her Irish Savage

But when she does, if she does… God help her. God help both of us.

I spear a scallop out of the lo mein. I chew it well and swallow hard. And then I say, “I’ll have a new key made tomorrow.”

15

FIONA

I’m standing in the walk-in closet, surrounded by Aunt S’s clothes. I couldn’t bear to throw anything away after she died.

All of it is couture and most of it would give Patrick a heart attack if I staged a private little runway show. Aunt S loved her peekaboo tops and cutaway trousers. She honestly believed the human body was a work of art. That’s why she hung the original Georgia O’Keeffe in the living room.

There’s one outfit at the very back of the closet. Aunt S kept it here in case she had an unexpected command performance at thedún.

Her black A-line skirt hits me mid-calf. A matching silk shell looks like something an English princess would wear to tea at the Ritz. There’s a double-breasted jacket with cloth-covered buttons and a wide-brim hat with a somber black ribbon.

“Holy hell,” Patrick says, when I enter the living room.

I genuflect, like I learned to do for my first communion.

“You look amazing,” he says.

My face ignites.

I’m not a girl who blushes. I spend my time figuring out ways to makeotherpeople flush. But Patrick’s praise hooks something deep inside me, and for just a moment, I’m back in our crappy hotel room, balancing on my knees and forearms as he fucks me blind, telling me I’m beautiful, I’m strong, I’m brave.

His lips turn up as he registers my reaction, just the corners, and something inside me trembles as I wait to see if he’ll really smile.

“Good girl,” he says, crossing the room to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The tiny hairs on the backs of his fingers brush my cheek, and I catch my breath like I’m about to come.

No. NotlikeI’m about to come. He’s taken me from zero to sixty in less than ten seconds. My clit throbs, and I squeeze my thighs together to keep from straddling him on the couch.

He laughs, as if he can see straight through Aunt S’s proper skirt. “Give me a minute,” he says. “And we can be on our way.”

On our way? Right. We’re going to the funeral. We’re burying my father. That’s why I’m wearing this outrageous costume.

He closes the bedroom door behind him, and I cross to the living room windows, fanning myself with one hand to get some air. I lean my head against the glass, wondering what the hell he’s done to me.

I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. I’ve been fooling men with my fake orgasms since I turned sixteen. I don’t cream at a few nice words. I’ve got a hell of a lot more control than that.

Patrick takes more than a minute. He takes five. But he comes out of the bedroom dressed in the plain black suit he wore to Da’s wake. This time, he’s wearing a white shirt, so bright it takes away all the breath I’ve managed to gather. His tie today is the dark green of grass under starlight, with a sprinkling of Celtic knots that match his golden ring.

He squirms under my inspection. “It’s a Fishtown tie,” he says defensively.

I don’t care if the silk was woven by the devil himself. I just think about how it would feel, lashed around my wrists. I gulp air like I’ve just downed a ghost pepper smoothie.

“I need to stop at a drug store,” I make myself say. “I need sunglasses.”

“So no one sees you weeping over your da’s grave?”

“So no one sees my bruises,” I snap. I won’t be crying. Not today. Although the thought of how little sorrow I feel makes me wonder if I’m some sort of monster.

My makeup skills are excellent, but I don’t trust the results in broad daylight. Not when I’m going to be under intense scrutiny as the grieving daughter. Or the girl making an upstart bid for Queen.

Moran’s phone starts to serenade him from his pocket. He takes it out with an automatic motion and thumbs an icon to stop the song. “Alarm,” he says to my unasked question. “Don’t want to be late.”

Another alarm goes off fifteen minutes later, as we’re leaving the CVS. This sound is louder and faster paced. I blink behind my cat’s-eye sunglasses. As he turns off the music, he says, “Sorry.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re caught at a traffic light and a third alarm goes off—the steady beeping of a smoke detector. He grimaces and kills the sound. It’s not until he opens my door at St. Augustine’s, handing me down from the Land Rover, that I realize I didn’t tell him our destination.

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