I pulled my focus back to the reason we were there.
Bridgette Krause.
She was tall and blonde, with a voluptuous figure, now walking the runway wearing what appeared to be two tiny white scraps of cloth as if we were in the caveman days. Was this high fashion? Really?
Sean managed to draw Bridgette’s eyes, no surprise there, when he reached up and slowly raked his free hand through his thick, sexy hair as she walked in front of us. I was more shocked by the fact my heart stuttered at the sight of him blatantly flirting with her. But that was why we were here, wasn’t it?
I truly hadn’t known what jealousy felt like until that moment. And it pretty much knocked the wind out of me. My chest was so tight it felt as if someone had reached inside, grabbed hold of my heart, and separated my soul from my body.
I may have also envisioned myself punching Bridgette in the face. Right smack between her blonde brows. Knocking free that sexy look she’d sent Sean in response to his very convincing adoring gaze.
He was doing what I’d asked, garnering Bridgette’s attention, and I was acting irrationally.
And on her second, then third, walk during the show, I was certain it made Bridgette feel all that much better to have captured his attention when it was clear I was his date by his possessive hold on my thigh. She loved the idea of stealing someone that wasn’t hers.
Oh yeah, this plan would work. Bridgette would take him to her room. No doubt in my mind.
Sean’s palm was big and warm on my skin. And his intention was clear. What he wanted to do to me later with that rough palm was unmistakable, and it lit a fire inside of me.
When his fingers flexed as though itching to claim me, I tightened my thighs and imagined his hand trailing over my curves. Seeking. Exploring.
Thankfully, the staff kept the champagne flowing, and I accepted every glass of the rather mediocre stuff in an attempt to dull the want coursing through my body. To crush the ridiculous jealousy. But the thought that Sean would someday belong to another woman nearly sent me over the edge. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I was drinking more than I should.
“It’s working,” I whispered into his ear as Bridgette exited and another model took to the runway. Sean shifted to face me and tightened his grip on my leg.
The blue of his eyes had darkened to the color of a turbulent sea, and the look he pinned me with was borderline feral. I wanted him to lean in and let the animal loose, take my mouth in a searing kiss and make his claim on me more obvious than a hand on my knee.
His broad chest lifted, and a deep exhalation followed.
“She’s coming back. Let’s wrap this up,” I said ten minutes later, catching sight of her again.
Bridgette was the type of woman who was accustomed to winning over powerful men with the crook of a finger. Maybe cheating was even like a sport to her.
Sean was a taken man. And I had the feeling she rejoiced in the fact he appeared to be stripping her naked with his eyes while his hand rested on my thigh.
And in one, two, three. I flicked Sean’s hand off my leg when Bridgette strode close to our seats for the last time of the evening, wearing black lace thigh-highs and a black see-through lace bra that showed her nipples. Oh, for fuck’s sake . . .
After my blatant rebuff, purely for her benefit, Sean settled his hand back on his lap—a sign to Bridgette he didn’t give a damn I’d caught him eye-fucking her, too focused on her to care. I spotted the wry smile at the edges of her mouth.
After the show concluded, Sean set a hand to my back, and we walked out of the ballroom, doing our best to avoid conversation with anyone else. “I guess you were right. It worked,” he said, not sounding all that enthusiastic about it.
“You’re an excellent actor,” I told him as we made our way to the party.
“You, too. You almost looked jealous.”
Because I was. No way would I confess that. “On our way here, didn’t you say you have Scottish relatives? Any chance you could introduce yourself as one of them?”
He politely nodded at a couple that went by us. “And at the club you made it sound like she might get a kick out of screwing one of her husband’s enemies.”
“Then Sara happened, and I got to thinking . . . if Bridgette accidentally lets the name ‘Sean McGregor’ slip around her husband or Atlas, it could derail our plans for Monaco.”
“And what if she knows I’m giving her a fake name? What if she’s more involved in Alliance affairs than we thought? Or hell, she could know who I am simply because I’m a McGregor. We own a fecking football team, Emilia. If she knows me at all, and I lie to her, I’ll lose my chance to plant the bug.”
“I doubt she follows your family business. And sports? Don’t make me laugh. We can’t risk her knowing your real name. If she already does, which I highly doubt, well, then, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. But I’m not willing to risk you or Ethan or any other McGregor for a bug. We’ll find another way.”
We stared at each other for a few moments before he finally said, “I have some distant cousins that live in Scotland. I can use one of their names. I doubt she’d have met any of them,” he offered. “You know the type,” he said with a smile, his mood lightening again, “recluse and rich.”
“Of course they are.” I copied his smirk. “And how’s your Scottish accent, Macbeth?”
“I’ve got it covered.” He winked and took my hand.
We showed our passes and entered the room where the party was being held, and I snatched a new flute of champagne upon entry.
The cocktail servers all wore designs from the fashion show. Lacy numbers. And barely there all-black pieces.
The servers managed to keep my flute full of champagne—the good stuff this time—as we waited for Bridgette to make her move. I needed to stop drinking soon. If all went according to plan and Sean was invited to Bridgette’s suite later, I’d wind up taking a photo of the wrong room.
Sean had me by the elbow twenty minutes later, a gentle but dominating touch that would indicate to anyone with their eyes on us that I was his in every way. It also felt that way to me. But still no sign of Bridgette. “You okay?”
I gulped down some of the Dom Pérignon I’d planned not to drink more of and focused on his blue eyes. They weren’t a stormy or turquoise blue right now. They were a soft shade of concern.
Yeah, I’d most definitely had one too many. Soft shade of concern? A humorless chuckle fell from my lips, and I slapped my free hand to my mouth as a hiccup escaped.
“Are you drunk?” I couldn’t tell if he was amused or upset.
“I become a poet around you, so it would seem.” He had no clue what I was talking about, but from the sounds of my voice, I was sliding into tipsy-slash-drunk territory.
“I can relate. I’ve had Shakespeare lines running through my head tonight.”
“Macbeth,” I teased, and he crooked a smile. Maybe we were a pair? “The only time I’ve ever been drunk was when I was sixteen.” The champagne was talking, and I didn’t feel like stopping it. “Chanel and I were bonding over the fact her mother and my father were having an affair.”
Sean nearly choked on the swallow of champagne he’d taken. When the coughing subsided, he pulled me off to the side of the room. Even in my tipsy state, or perhaps because of it, I noticed there was no sign of Christmas anywhere. That was surprising, considering the rest of the hotel looked like someone from Hallmark was filming three holiday films there at once.
“Papà took me to Bali to celebrate my sixteenth birthday in style. Well, that’s what he told me. And Chanel was there with her mother having a mother-daughter trip. Or so she was told,” I went on, hoping my words were clean and crisp and not as wayward as they sounded to me.
“You’re saying Penelope and your father . . .?”
I nodded and then hiccupped again. This wasn’t me.
No, that was Emilia at sixteen. Drunk after having just walked into her father’s room to f
ind him with Penelope, our sworn enemy. That Emilia bumped into Chanel in the hotel hallway as she searched for her mother that same night.
Right now, I wasn’t even acting like the current version of myself—on the verge of turning thirty-one with a few years of experience as a League leader under my belt.
Here I was in Scotland at a lingerie party to help take down The Alliance, and I was divulging my secrets because of some gold-hued liquid.
“That’s how you met Chanel. And you became friends because of it?” His expression was blank, as if my shocking admission had dulled his thoughts to nothing.
“Yeah. Our parents said it was a one-time thing, and if anyone found out, we’d all be in danger,” I quickly explained. “But we knew they were lying. And we chose to keep our friendship a secret. Chanel and I . . . we instantly clicked. She understood me, and I felt the same about her.”
Sean reached out and moved strands of my blonde wig off my shoulder before racing the back of his hand over my cheek and down the side of my neck.
“And now she’s dead,” I whispered, then broke away from him to mindlessly snatch another flute.
“Maybe we call this night off?” His hand went to my wrist before sliding up my arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I sipped more champagne, and he reached for the flute, deciding I was done. This time I didn’t protest. He was right. We were there for work.
“Emilia.” He spoke my name like he was biting into it. Getting a feel for how it’d taste when he called it out during sex.
My body was hot. Almost feverish.
I wanted to rip the uncomfortable blonde wig off and toss it into the fountain of overpriced champagne pouring from the mouth of . . . is that a vagina?
I peered back at Sean as he turned me toward him. “You have the most incredible eyes.” My palm landed on his chest, and my fingers slowly walked up the buttons of his dress shirt to reach his black bow tie.
“You sure you took ibuprofen and not something else with that champagne?” His brows became defined lines of worry.
After I was born, my mother left my father, but the woman he’d spent years longing for was the one who’d done the most damage to his heart. Penelope had made the deepest cut.
“What, do you think I carry a bottle of Xanax around in my purse and mistakenly took one?” I asked around another hiccup.
“Did you leave your drink unattended?” he probed. “Set it down for a second?”
“I’m drunk, McGregor,” I blurted, then retracted my hand from his bow tie at the sight of Bridgette approaching us. This should be interesting.
Bridgette had changed into a long, tight black dress that wrapped around her torso like a corset, making her boobs look like the cork in a champagne bottle about to pop.
“Mrs. Krause.” As if on cue, Sean brought his attention to her, and voilà, I was a distant memory. “I’m an admirer of yours.”
Maybe now I’d puke.
“And you are?” she purred. “You seem extremely familiar to me.”
And here we go.
“I have one of those faces.” Sean dazzled her with a smile. “Landon Kincaid,” he offered her one of his cousin’s names.
“Mm.” Bridgette raised a curious brow. Was she not buying it? Did Sara give Bridgette’s husband a heads-up we’d be coming? “Of the Scottish Kincaid Group?”
She was either also a great actress and hiding the fact she knew who Sean really was and was equally playing us. Or she wasn’t part of her husband’s master plan and saw Sean as another handsome conquest. Or hell, there was the possibility Sara was innocent, and there was no plan.
“You know your companies,” Sean went on with the act. The man really did have skills, and his Scottish brogue was on point.
“No, Landon, I know money.” Well, at least Bridgette was honest there.
Bridgett’s eyes flitted over me, sizing up her competition. “I’d love to show you our private collection reserved for only those who attend this party.” Her icy glare melted when it switched from me to Sean. “Maybe pick something out for your”—she paused to check Sean’s ring finger—“girlfriend?” Her English was polished and perfect like mine despite German being her native tongue. “Surprise her later.”
“Sounds like a grand idea.” Sean curved his hand around to my ass and brought his mouth to the shell of my ear. “Are we still on?”
“Of course.” I responded to his touch of my derrière by leaning in, my eyes meeting Bridgette in a competitive stare from over Sean’s shoulder, and I grabbed his ass. Very, very firm ass, too.
Bridgette’s eyes lowered to my hand, her eyes drawing into slits as she dragged her gaze back to my face like a challenge. And wow, was the woman competitive. It wasn’t enough that she had a husband and possibly a lover, but she was upset with me for fondling my boyfriend. Okay, well, he wasn’t my boyfriend, but Bridgette didn’t know that.
She lifted her chin and shot me a fierce, this-is-game-on kind of look. It was also a sobering gut check. Her lips would soon touch Sean’s and it had me wanting to kill her.
“See you later, love.” Sean nodded goodbye, discarded my glass of champagne he’d been holding, and walked off. Each step he took farther away should have served as a painful reminder I had a job to do, but the damn alcohol had created a green monster inside me. I was on the brink of face-planting this woman into the vagina fountain.
I’m a Calibrisi. A fierce League leader. I mentally pinched myself and snatched a bottle of water. Maybe you’re also a woman in love? Too scared, though. Too obedient to your dead father.
“Not now, Chanel,” I muttered under my breath like a crazy person before sucking the bottle dry to prepare for what was to happen next.
I grabbed my bag from the hotel room, then went to the industrial building across from the hotel to set up. I’d bypassed the building security system to break in. It was the weekend, and thankfully, no one was on the fourth floor where the offices were located.
It took a mere fifteen minutes for Bridgette to “lure” Sean into her suite. The drapes were still drawn, but the light in the living room had turned on.
First step, Sean needed to find Bridgette’s purse and plant the listening device without her noticing. Be extra careful in case she suspected Sean had ill intentions.
Second step, open the curtains and kiss her so I could get a shot of the action.
Third step, maybe I really would vomit.
I reached for my long-range camera, the kind paparazzi loved to use, and waited.
After meeting Bridgette, I honestly didn’t feel so bad for dismissing Adam’s concern we might be ruining her life. There was no doubt in my mind, despite being slightly under the influence, that she knew exactly what her husband and Atlas were up to. She was as guilty as they were for every one of their sins.
Part of me always wondered if Chanel would have wound up sucked into her family’s affairs when she was older, same as me. She’d never wanted anything to do with their illegal activities, like her mom, but I doubted her father or brother would have offered her much of a choice.
Thinking about Chanel was like a bucket full of heartache and regrets dumped on my head. I was now fully sober.
And the moment the curtains parted, and Sean had Bridgette in his arms in front of the window, I wished for an entire bottle of Dom Pérignon. Forget the glass.
Looking through the camera lens, it was as if I could reach out and touch them.
The fact he was about to kiss her meant he’d already planted the device. That was my cue.
Sean slowly leaned in, and my stomach clenched at the sight of his mouth touching Bridgette’s. She had one hand on his chest and the other on the back of his black trousers.
Her dress swiftly and unexpectedly fell to the floor, leaving her in absolutely nothing. Not even a stitch of the lingerie she’d modeled.
Sean gripped her hip and pulled her tight to his body and kissed her again.
I snapped shot after sho
t, pieces of me dying a small death with every click of the camera.
I had plenty, so I set the camera down and checked to ensure the listening device worked. Opening the app on my tablet, I reluctantly listened.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I heard Sean speak up as planned.
“Oh, come on.” Bridgette began speaking in German before shifting back to English. “I’m a model. That woman you’re with is not one.”
“That woman I’m with is everything,” he growled out, but before she could respond, the device picked up on a loud knock, followed by someone calling out Bridgette’s name.
“It’s me. Atlas.”
You’re supposed to be in London. I peered through the camera lens to see Bridgette scrambling to get dressed, whispering too low for me to pick up on the device.
The next thing I knew, she motioned for Sean to go out onto the small terrace off the bedroom.
I had to think fast. We had proof of the affair now with Atlas there, which we hadn’t expected to get, but if Atlas caught Sean with Bridgette, our plans would not only be ruined, he’d probably shoot him. While Sean’s defensive skills were excellent, it was still hard to block a bullet.
I hurriedly grabbed my things, knowing I only had one choice. I reached for the edge of my dress at the side and ripped the fabric, so I’d be able to move faster.
Once on the street, I peered up to see Sean had stepped off the patio and was now balancing on the thin ledge that ran parallel with the building.
He was going to try and make it to the balcony one room over.
I didn’t have time to wait for the lift. Once in the stairwell, I hurried up the steps to Bridgette’s floor.
Praying no one was inside the suite next to hers, I grabbed the universal keycard strapped to my thigh and opened the door.
The Final Hour (Dublin Nights Book 5) Page 13
