Page 2 of Reckless Seduction
It was never going to be her.
It was always going to be me.
He said he chose me. Not her. That is what he led me to believe. Drew hadn’t chosen me at all. He chose my family’s name and power. Nothing more. I was stupid and foolishly naïve.
Knowing there was no way in hell I was going home to face my father, because he would send me right back to Drew, I tried to find somewhere else to stay for a while. The problem is that every hotel in the area is booked.
So much for a place to sort things out.
My plan had been to get my shit together, find a hotel, and regroup. I am going to make sure to get every penny back that I gave him for that company. I’ll be damned if I let him profit off my hard-earned money.
Not after this.
Now, I am sobbing like a baby in my car with only the whiskey to keep me company. The festival weekend has all the hotels in the area booked. Seahawks games are no joke.
For some, it is practically an Olympic sport.
Earlier, I pulled into the small alley parking lot behind Clover, an up-and-coming Irish club, to sort out my maddening thoughts. It isn’t the best place for me to be, considering who owns it, but I had little choice at the time, and I doubt anyone will be sober enough to recognize me.
When I went to leave and find a hotel out of town half an hour ago, my car refused to start, stuttering like a forty-year-old virgin.
Just my luck.
Calling my father is out of the question. My engagement to Drew is pivotal to the deal he’s been brokering with Drew’s father since I was sixteen. His family, like mine, is full of prominent figures in Seattle politics, and our marriage gives my father greater reach.
From the thirty missed calls and forty unread text messages I’ve received in the past half an hour from my stepmother, Drew has already informed her of what happened, no doubt spinning everything so that I am the villain.
Not that Sarah, my stepmother, needs much of an excuse to villainize me. He probably complained that I haven’t given him what he needs because I refused to leave my career to have his babies and become his trophy wife. Somethinghedidn’t want me to be in the first place. It was his idea for me to keep my career.
I gave him everything, and all I’ve gotten in return is shit.
“Forget this,” I mumble drunkenly as I rip the keys from the ignition. I wipe away the excess tears with the sleeve of my dress, and after a quick glance in the rearview mirror, I grab my purse from the passenger seat and climb out of my useless car.
Might as well find more alcohol and get even more shit-faced than I already am. It will take at least another bottle of Jameson before I can think about abandoning everything and crawl back home to my father.
Maybe two bottles… or three…
It is beyond luck that I’ve stalled behind a club. If that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.
Slamming the door shut, I stumble behind the alley toward the main road. My heels wobble slightly on the uneven cobblestone.
Or it might be because I am tipsy.
Who knows?
The lights in the alley are dim and flickering, casting an ominous shadow around me. Fuck, maybe I should walk around the other way?
A door in the back of the alley swings open violently, raised voices reach my ears, and I barely manage to stifle a scream before ducking into a small alcove a few feet down. This isn’t the best neighborhood, I know that. Not that crime is particularly high in the Irish Village, but it isn’t a secret that it is run by the Irish mob, who keep things on a tight leash.
“Please…” a nasally man pleads, his voice echoing off the brick walls of the alleyway. “I was just hired to do a job. I swear. I didn’t know she was with you. The hit said she was a Dashkov. You have to believe me.”
“Problem is…” another voice speaks up, his accent holding an Irish lilt. It is dark, deep, and deadly. There is no mistaking the dangerous edge to his tone, even from here. “We don’t.”
There is a scuffle and the sound of bone cracking against bone. The nasally man screams, and then there is nothing but ragged breathing.
“Tell us who sent you,” the Irish voice growls. “Was it Romano? Ward? Tell me who the fuck put a hit out on my sister!”
“I don’t know,” the nasally man whines and sobs. “The hit was encrypted. Anonymous payer.”
