“And you are?” She offered her gloved hand for him to kiss.
“Ransom Lockwood, your sister’s security detail.” He ignored her outreached hand, popping his ID card from the inside of his blazer.
“What a peculiar name.”
“At least I’m not named after the most jealous, vengeful creature in Greek mythology,” he said, low enough only for her and me to hear.
She sized him up quickly, her sharp eyes sweeping over his physique, his stony expression, the immaculate cut of his tux. The ring of women around us dissolved. People floated toward the waiters, eager to see if the hors d’oeuvres were truly gold-leafed.
Finally deciding he was not someone she wanted to cross, she turned to me. “I can’t believe you missed the funeral, Hal. People talked.”
“We felt strongly it wasn’t safe for Miss Thorne to travel so far away,” Ransom’s silky voice taunted, pressing on all of Hera’s sensitive points. “She’s a high-profile persona.”
“My sister can speak for herself.” Hera reddened. “And anyway, who do you think I am?”
“A nurse, right?” he asked, knowing damn well she was a doctor, and that she would find the question insulting. “Very admirable.”
Hera’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. I had the good sense to push myself between them. No part of me wanted to see World War III starting.
“Do you have any idea what room I could use to freshen up my makeup before we take pictures?” I asked her. Hera liked to be reminded that she knew this house much better than I did.
Reluctantly, she ripped her gaze from Ransom. She waved a hand behind her. “You can take this one. Craig is technically supposed to use it, but he’s staying upstairs, in my room.”
I slipped into the guestroom. Ransom shut the door behind us.
Numbly, I sat at an oak vanity desk and began brushing my hair back. The thickness in the air signaled a looming disaster. Nothing good ever happened when I was under the same roof with Hera and Craig.
Ransom pulled a book from a floating shelf, scowling. “The Visual Display of Quantitative Information,” he read out loud. “The fun just never ends with you Thornes.”
“You didn’t have to be so terse with Hera.” I glowered at him through the mirror, ready to pick a fight.
“No, I didn’t, but it was enjoyable. She needed to be taken down a few notches.”
“You baited her,” I accused, stuck on a knot the brush couldn’t untangle.
“She survived.”
“I don’t need to get into more trouble. What if she thinks you’re my mouthpiece?”
“No offense, but no one in their right mind would ever think I’m the puppet and you’re the monster in this relationship,” he retorted smoothly. “Stop giving a shit about Hera. She doesn’t extend the courtesy to you.”
Sighing, I dumped the brush onto the desk, picking up a pair of scissors. I grabbed a handful of my hair, snipping the tangled part. A sudden urge to chop off all of my hair hit me. It would piss off my family so much. But as much as I wanted to hurt them, I ridiculously also wanted to be accepted by them. It was pathetic, yet the truth.
“I’m going for a quick piss. Don’t go anywhere.” With those romantic parting words, Ransom treaded out of the room, as darkly and quietly as he’d entered. I pressed my forehead against the cool surface of the desk. Only a few more hours to go. The wedding was tomorrow. After that, I could run back to Los Angeles. Leave the Thornes behind for a few more years.
Deciding a small nap wouldn’t hurt, I closed my eyes.
The whine of the door opening announced Ransom’s return. I didn’t lift my head to greet him.
A glass of something—liquor, by the sharp scent of it—was set by my elbow. He hovered behind me, breathing down my neck.
“You can step back now. As much as I enjoy the creeper vibes, I’m okay,” I mumbled into my arm.
A palm pressed against my shoulder. Warm and pudgy. My head immediately shot up. This wasn’t Ransom’s touch. Everything about Ransom was sinewy and rough.
Our eyes met in the mirror as he stood behind me.
Craig.