Page 108 of Captive Audience
The jeweler has a no-returns policy. They’re yours, Asha.
I held the necklace up to the light. Sunbeams caught the stones and scattered starbursts across the ceiling.
“You crazy Irish bastard.”
41
ASHA
Istepped off the elevator and onto the rooftop of the Lynch Ambassador, flanked by Finn in a crisp black tux.
The terrace was pure opulence. The Lynch empire’s signature colors of emerald and gold were everywhere—cushions, table centerpieces, strings of lights arching overhead. High-top tables glowed with flickering candlelight. A string quartet played something classical and romantic under a draped-silk canopy. It was the kind of party you read about on the social pages.
Because this wasn’t just a grand opening. It was a power display.
And thanks to Orla, I’d been dressed like the Lynch Ambassador’s freaking poster girl.
The forest-green gown made me feel like an Irish princess. Velvet bodice beaded in gold, sheer chiffon skirt embroidered with Celtic filigree that shimmered at every step. A harp-shaped clasp cinched a belt at my waist. And the matching earrings and necklace Rook had bought me felt too heavy, and far too expensive for someone who’d recently survived off Costco ramen and cabernet sauvignon in a box.
I’d had my hair styled into an elegant twist with loose curls framing my face. Something about the way Orla had looked at the finished product and smiled, like a proud big sister dressing me for prom, made me want to live up to her expectations.
I wondered if all her efforts were intended to impress Rook or his boss. She seemed determined I make a good impression on the head of the Philadelphia Irish Mob.
My eyes passed over groups of elegantly dressed people mingling.
And then I saw him.
Rook.
He leaned against the bar in an all-black tuxedo custom-made to fry women’s brains and soak their panties. He looked like a wicked prince of the underworld, a questionable life choice waiting to happen.
I ought to know.
Damn him for being so unbearably appealing.
Rook stood next to the man who’d played witness at our phony wedding—Aidan. And he looked just as disarming and lethal as my gangster. He was a similar height to Rook, with dark hair and blue eyes that sparkled with mischief. The tattoos creeping up his neck only stopped at his cut jawline.
Since I’d been unconscious the only time we’d shared a room, I hadn’t been formally introduced to Aidan. But after spending time with Orla, I felt like I already knew him. When he wasn’t working for the Beasts, Aidan ran Red Hand MMA, the gym he and Orla co-owned.
Aidan was intimidating, no question. But he was also the fiercely protective single dad of a thirteen-year-old daughter. Any man who accepted that challenge couldn’t be all bad.
The two men seemed deep in a serious conversation, until Aidan caught sight of me and his words faltered.
Rook turned to follow his cousin’s line of sight, and his gaze collided with mine. Blue eyes traveled down my body and up again, sending warmth to my core.
Rook swallowed, said something to Aidan without looking away from me, then made his way toward me, eating up the space between us on his long legs.
I moved, too. That intense stare pulled me toward him as if he were tugging a string wrapped around my waist.
I snatched a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and took a long gulpto ease my nerves.
Finn peeled off into the crowd once Rook and I stood toe to toe.
“You look”—he wiped his hand over his mouth—“Christ, Asha.”
“You approve?”
He gave a slow blink. “I’m barely breathing.”
