Page 2 of Little Death
By him, she means the man of the hour and host of the party. Aiden O’Connor. The mysterious bastard who swept in when my family was vulnerable to buy my mother’s ancestral estate in cash. It happened so fast after my mother died that I didn’t even have time to lodge any protests with my father or figure out another move.
I can’t handle living in this house for another day, Catriona. Please don’t make me feel any guiltier than I already do. It’s too hard, he’d said when he broke the news to us less than a month after her death. My younger sister, Elizabeth, had been too numb from the loss to take my side, and neither of them wanted to listen to my desperate pleas that Mom never would have committed suicide. She would never have left me behind. They wanted the whole ugly mess swept under the rug, perfectly content to accept the suicide findings from the police despite my testimony to the contrary.
We’d been staying in a hotel at the time, waiting for hazmat crews who specialize in renovations after incidents like this to clean the marble or replace it or whatever the hell they do. The blood had been… my stomach drops, and I flick the memory away. Anyway, it wasn’t long after my father had announced the sale, hired moving crews, and within days, my mother’s home—her pride and joy—was gone. Her legacy had been signed over to a stranger. It had taken me this long to find out who he sold it to because there was so little online about Aiden O’Connor. The enigmatic billionaire entrepreneur from Ireland has next to nothing on social media.
Seriously, what sort of psycho doesn’t even have an Instagram account?
Remembering Yasmine, I type out a reply while studying my surroundings for a glimpse at the man in question. It’s not why I’m here, but I can’t stop myself. Who would want to buy the home where a famous socialite supposedly committed suicide?
Me: Not yet, but I just got here.
As though the words conjure him to life, Aiden O’Connor appears in the hall, sycophants swarming at both sides. My hand loosens on my phone and the glass of champagne I’m still holding, almost sending them both careening to the floor, but I maintain my grip at the last second.
I recognize him from the lone picture I found. I’d studied it in rage for hours, so there’s no way I’d miss him. I don’t hear what the people around him are saying because a swell from the band drowns out the words, but I don’t care. I don’t need to hear anything. Seeing him is enough to make me want to leave without accomplishing a damn thing I set out to do.
Without realizing it, my feet have transported me backward into the doorway leading to the terrace. Most of the partygoers are there, hovering around the blackjack and craps tables, dressed in gaudy gowns and ornate tuxes that remind me of Mardi Gras. Their expressions are hungry behind their masks, eagerly awaiting the start of the gambling. People with money sure do love to play games with it. My back smacks into the doorframe, but I barely feel a thing. Masked faces blur around me, a funhouse of raucous laughter and devilry.
It’s golden hour, the perfect time for an arc of waning sunlight to streak through the floor-to-ceiling windows and surround him in a brilliant halo. Like he’s a fallen angel. His sinner’s mouth, so full and tempting, is like art as it forms a response, but there’s a buzzing in my ears drowning it out. My vision narrows until I see only him. If we were in a rom-com, this would be our meet-cute, but it’s a jump scare instead.
His tailored black suit clings to his muscular body, accentuating his broad shoulders, trim waist, and thick thighs. A snowy-white button-up strains over well-toned pectorals and parts at his neck, revealing a wealth of tattoos. The only one I can discern at a distance is a death moth at the base of his throat. The rest are shadows of ink—all black—that cover every available surface aside from his face. The fingers of one hand, covered in rings, dance as he twists a lone black and gold casino chip around his knuckles. He prowls through his admirers, a ready smile on his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his stormy gaze.
It's been a long time since I could tear my attention away to note that two men are on his heels. One is dressed in an understated black suit, similar to the one worn by the attendant at the front door. A quick study dismisses him as an assistant or bodyguard, maybe? He sticks to the background, eyes attentive, and rejects offers of champagne to murmur into an earbud he touches every few seconds like it doesn’t fit quite right.
The other must be one of O’Connor’s friends, because he sticks close to his side. His wide, manic smile is a ready punctuation to whatever he whispers in O’Connor’s ear. He’s dressed much more casually in a pair of black pants and an untucked white button-up, only halfway fastened, at best. A variety of gold chains adorn his neck and hang over the sleek muscles of his exposed chest. His hands frequently dive into dark, riotous curls, making them a wild mess around his angular, striking face. Even more striking are his impossibly light blue-green eyes.
To ease the ache in my stomach, I polish off the rest of my champagne and divert my focus. A ready server is nearby, appearing as though out of nowhere, and replenishes my glass with only a smile. I should pace myself—I’m going to need a clear head for what I have planned—but I down it in several long gulps.
When the fuzziness and warmth of the alcohol melt away my nerves, I look up and freeze.
Because Aiden O’Connor glares right back at me from beneath a blank white half-mask, his heavy brows furrowed, silver eyes piercing.
Staring at me like he knows I shouldn’t be here.
CHAPTERTWO
His intense, unexpected scrutiny pins me to the spot. It can’t last for more than a few heartbeats, but it feels like a century. Maybe he’s trying to place me among his dozens of guests. Maybe he’s wondering why I’m gaping at him. Either way, the line between his brow smooths away, and I question if it was ever there in the first place. One of his companions says something to him, and he angles his body away from me.
I unfreeze, my breath wheezing from my lungs like his attention had been a weight pressing on my chest. Soon, but not soon enough, he and his entourage move through the door next to me. He’s so close for a moment, the scent of him teases my nose. Silly, because it could be either of the men at his side, but somehow, I know the dark, earthy aroma belongs to him.
The last thing I want to do is draw any attention to myself, so I wander a few steps away to admire the pamphlets detailing today’s charity event with several of the other guests. My heart continues its frantic fluttering until the three men are through the door and out of sight.
Me: I knew you were a witch. Did you summon him? He just looked right at me. I think I had a heart attack.
Yasmine: I picked a terrible time to be a lapsed Catholic. I thought you were going to stay as far away from him as possible??????
The squeal of feedback from a microphone cuts through the string quartet, and a clear, feminine voice comes through over hidden speakers I know are present throughout the living spaces. I use the distraction to weave through the crowd, but it’s nearly impossible because the guests are making their way en masse to the terrace doors.
“On behalf of the Emerald Isle staff, we’d like to welcome you to our charity gala to support our grand opening next week. As you all know, all proceeds from tonight’s event will be donated to support the New Orleans Regional Hospital. I’m here to introduce the man of the evening, Mr. Aiden O’Connor! Let’s give him a hand!”
Polite applause punctuates the introduction, followed by Aiden’s throaty growl, and I hide my seething expression behind another gulp of champagne. “Thank you.” He says you like ye, and I scoff inwardly at his undeniably attractive Irish accent. “And thank you for bein’ here tonight to support this new venture and raise some money for a good cause. That means it’s time to open those pocketbooks and find your inner generosity. The O’Connor Foundation plans to match every dollar.”
A glance around shows everyone riveted by this proclamation. It’s impressive, that’s for sure. But I don’t buy a word of it.
Me: I wasn’t looking for him. He was going outside, and I was in his way.
Yasmine: Should I go back to church? My mom will be thrilled, so that’s one reason not to go. But I’m willing to do this for your wayward soul.
Me: No?
