“I’m talking to you, little girl.” Patrick grips my chin and turns me toward him. My eyes land on Aidan’s for a moment before I’m looking at Patrick. I jerk my chin away from him.
“Patrick, you’ve had too much to drink. I think you should leave. I don’t even know why you are here.”
“Why I’m here? I’m here because you are. I’m getting control of you before you embarrass us both and your family.”
“I don’t understand. What do you and my family have to do with today?”
“Fifi, you’re so naive.”
I hear a snicker and look at the bartender, a woman whose breasts are on more display than the liquor bottles behind her.
“I’ve told you not to call me that. Now, I’m here with friends and would like to get back to them.” I take a step back, but he grabs my arm again and pulls me to him.
“You will be leaving with me. You are mine and I won’t allow you to sully your family’s good name with scum like him. I can’t believe you’re dressed like a whore for him.” Patrick pours a drink down the front of my outfit and I gasp. He grips my arm tighter and starts to pull me away. I’m so angry that tears are rolling down my face.
“That’s enough.” I hear the deadly calm voice and turn to see Seamus standing there. He gently takes my arm and pulls me away from Patrick. But Patrick pulls again. Faster than a flash, Seamus’s hand flies out and hits Patrick in the throat. Patrick lets go of my arm as he chokes and holds his throat. Wesley joins us and pulls me toward him and away from the fray. I curl into him and softly cry because my blouse is ruined. The red wine staining it.
Another man walks up and drags Patrick off.
"I thought he was my friend." I tremble as Wesley pulls me into his arms and hugs me for a second.
"I'll take her to get cleaned up." Seamus offers and reaches out for me. Wesley nods and goes to look for Kayla. “Come this way.” Seamus directs me, his hand against my back.
“I don’t understand what he was talking about.”
“What did he say, bn d?”
“Why did you call me lady bird?” I know Gaelic. My parents didn’t want me to learn it because they don’t want anything to do with our Irish heritage, they say we are English. After they disowned me, I identified as Irish on my passport.
“You know Gaelic?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t answer my question but leads me down a hall to a set of large wooden double doors. He opens them and directs me inside. During the tour, we didn’t come down this hall. It’s an elegant office. I’m distracted by the smell of whiskey and cigars. Could this be Aidan’s office? This is his building, so maybe.
“The water closet is right there.” Seamus points to a closed door. “I’ll be in the hallway.”
“Wait.” I hold out my hand to him and bite my lip. “Thank you for defending me.”
He bows his head slightly as he steps out the door. I take another big breath and enter the bathroom. I look in the mirror. My makeup is staying—thank goodness for waterproof mascara—but my eyes are puffy.
I pull a cloth off the rack and dampen it. After untying the bow at my waist for my blouse, I slip it off and set it on the counter. I proceed to blot my camisole, but it’s already stained. My slacks and even my boots are ruined. The wine is starting to stick to my skin. I start to cry again and throw the cloth into the sink. I slip my camisole off and grab the cloth again. The door flies open as I swipe at my bare breasts. I turn around and gasp, dropping the cloth to the floor. I wrap my arm around myself and come face-to-face with an angry looking Aidan.
“Aidan,” I say, and he growls before he pulls me to him. My hands come up to his chest as he pulls me into his arms.
“Who was the man that accosted you?” His voice is so gravelly sounding, I shiver and stare up at him. “Beauty, I will only ask this one more time. Who was the daft wanker?”
I’m shaken by his words. “He was a friend.”
“A friend. The same friend who can’t take no for an answer?” he demands, and I look toward the closed doors where Seamus must be. He told him about our first encounter.
I nod, unable to speak. Aidan gently lifts up my chin so I’m looking at him. He stares into my eyes for a moment as I bite my lip unsure what he is seeing. He shifts and looks down my body.
“I don’t have a shirt on.” Obviously.
“Who bruised you?” His voice is rough again.
“Patrick grabbed my arm, but I bruise easily.” I defend him.
