Page 55 of Reckless Seduction
TWENTY
Traitor and whore.
Those are the two words currently rattling around in my brain as Nan holds up the dress that has been set aside for me to wear to the auction being held just days after the gala.
The word dress is a bit of a stretch. It is nothing more than two poorly sewn together pieces of fabric with thin armholes.
“There is no fucking way I am wearing that.” I narrow my eyes at the scrap of fabric. Maybe if I glare at it hard enough, it will burst into flames. “I’m pretty sure my vagina would pull a Paris Hilton.”
Ava snorts. The redheaded bombshell is currently sitting on my bed, her legs folded under her, flipping through some trashy magazine she has brought with her. Next to her sits a pile of clothes she has washed for me to wear back to my house. My car has magically been fixed, and everything is set for me to make my sudden appearance back home.
“I know it’s not the best, lass,” Nan says gently. “But it is what’s expected of you.”
Stupid, stupid idea.
“You couldn’t find something with at least a little more length?”
This is what I’ve signed up for. Being paraded around like Kiernan’s whore, which is a lot more fun in the bedroom when he is whispering dirty Irish sayings in my ear and less fun when it requires me to be pranced around like a brood mare waiting to be mounted.
“We can’t always get what we want, now can we?”
“Sure, I can,” I tell her. “If I set it on fire.” Although that might be hazardous to the environment since it is no doubt made from some toxic material.
“I’ll get the matches.” Ava winks conspiratorially at me, and I laugh. She is a lot like Seamus, easygoing and quick to laughter, but the glint beneath her emerald eyes tells me she can be just as cold and stubborn as Kiernan.
Or her father.
“Might need to find a crater to burn it in,” I sigh. “It’s probably also considered hazardous waste.”
Nan tuts at our banter, scolding us like two small children, but there is no mistaking the laughter behind her eyes.
“For a prisoner, she sure is growing bold.” A sharp voice cuts through our laughter. Nan’s smile fades and her eyes narrow into slits as she stares down the intruder.
“For someone who says she’s not a witch,” Ava snarls, “you sure know how to appear out of thin air when you’re not wanted. Where’s your broomstick? Did you lose it? Or is it just shoved so far up your ass no one can see it?”
Well, holy fucking shit balls on a tortilla.
My vagina just exploded.
Fuck, I’m not into chicks, but whatever the hell they are putting in the Kavanaugh sibling gene soup is sure as hell stirring my pot.
“I’d remember who the guest is here, Avaleigh,” the woman hisses, her red painted lips turned up in a snarl. She is slender, with pin-straight strawberry-blonde hair that falls just past herstiff shoulders. Her face is narrow and her porcelain skin nearly flawless. Muddy brown eyes are framed by long lashes caked in mascara.
She looks familiar, but I can’t place where I have seen her.
“You.” Nan glares at the woman. “How many times do I have to remind you of that? You, Marianne, are the guest here, and how the twins choose to handle Bailey is their business, not yours.”
“My sons once again disappoint me,” the bitch, Marianne, mutters. I would have taken the fireplace irons to her face if I hadn’t been so shocked at her being the twins’ mother. The woman wasn’t at dinner the other night, and since the twins haven’t bothered to share much about their normal lives—outside of growing up in Ireland—I haven’t known why.
Now I can see exactly why she wasn’t invited.
Debbie downer. Bitch on a stick.
How did this woman birth two amazing men?
Ugh, there’s that Stockholm syndrome talking.
Kidnappers, Bailey, they’re your kidnappers. Hot fucking kidnappers who have managed to light my vagina on fire.
