Page 32 of A Trap So Flawless

“At the funeral?” I ask, figuring that’s the only event that could have forced a tear from his heterochromatic eyes.

Those eyes show confusion now. “Grandda’s funeral? I wouldn’t know much about that. I didn’t go.”

“You didn’t go?” I echo in disbelief. “You flew all the way back here so fast, like a bat out of freaking hell, and you didn’t even attend the funeral?”

“What do you care whether I attended or not? What do you care if I flew back here right away?” he asks. His tone tightens to a vicious point. “Weren’t you the one with all that ‘we can never see each other again’ bullshit in the deal you tried to make with me? Whether it was for a funeral or for a fancy cruise through the goddamn Caribbean, what do you care why I left, when you were so eager to see the back of me?”

Because you fucked me then left me bleeding and alone with nothing but a ring! You left me to get married off to Sal Di Mauro!

You left me.

All at once, I’m back at that masquerade. And I’m running.

Running through the crowds. Running after him.

But he’s already gone.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m going to have a shower.”

I get inside the glass shower, fully clothed, and slam the door.

Chapter 12

Valentina

I don’t get undressed until I see Darragh leave the bathroom. At first, I think he won’t. I think he’ll stay planted in the middle of the room, staring at me intently through the glass. But after a tense moment that feels like a soundless stand-off, he turns and walks out. He leaves the bathroom door open.

I step back out of the shower and slam that door, too. I lock it in protest, a reclaiming of a little bit of my own privacy, even though I know he could knock the door down without even breaking a sweat if he wanted to. He probably wouldn’t even have to knock it down. I’d bet my left boob that Darragh Gowan could pick any lock, anywhere.

He doesn’t bother doing it now, though. I don’t hear anything directly on the other side of the door or beyond it, even though I press my ear up against the wood in a vain attempt.

Whatever. I don’t care where he’s gone or what he’s doing. I’m the one who closed this door.

I strip quickly, sighing as the sweaty clothes I’ve been wearing all night fall into a yucky heap. Swiping some of the shampoo, conditioner, and soap from beneath the sink, I return to the shower and wash every inch of myself. I stand under the hot water much longer than is necessary. Every time I stop scrubbing myself, my eyes start pulling vicious tricks on me, showing me streaks of blood where there are none.

When I’m clean enough – enough, because I’m not sure I’ll ever be clean entirely – I leave the shower and wrap myself in a towel.

It’s only then that I realize that I don’t have my bag.

It’s back in the car, parked in the garage.

I have no clothes.

Well, I do have clothes, but the thought of putting the same leggings and sweater I had on before makes me feel like I’m going to throw up again. My head pounds. My mouth feels gummy and sour. When was the last time I ate? I didn’t have a single bite of that chicken pot pie. And I haven’t slept enough.

Tying the towel more firmly around my chest so that my arms are free, I take a spare toothbrush, the tube of paste, and brush my teeth as vigorously as I have the energy to. I doubt I do it for the full two minutes. My arm feels like it’s been replaced with a limb made of lead. Plus, my gag reflex has decided that it just doesn’t want to quit. Every time I swipe the bristles too far back on my tongue, my throat contracts and my stomach flips ominously.

I rinse the toothbrush, then my mouth again, and venture out into the bedroom. It’s so silent in here when I open the door that I think Darragh really must have left. But as my eyes make a cautious sweep of the room, I see him.

He’s stripped down, too, to a pair of tight, silky black boxers. He’s wearing nothing else, the tautly muscled and tattooed expanse of him on full display, which sends a treacherous shock through my exhausted body.

He must be exhausted, too.

Because he’s fast asleep. On his back on the bed, his strong legs are splayed. One hand rests behind his head – a head that’s turned towards the bathroom door. His other arm, his right one, is stretched out across the bed, the tips of his fingers aimed at the door I’ve just come through.

Aimed right at me.

But he’s definitely asleep. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face so peaceful. It’s almost jarring, how smoothed-out his expression has become. While I can’t say that I truly know the waking Darragh, sleep has turned him into a stranger.

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