CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Eric thought he was secure. Might even have thought he was invincible—for a second there. Now he sat restrained in Carlson’s suite with Jordan limp at his side. At least Jordan wasn’t bleeding, but he’d talked, and Carlson had simply waited. His thugs apprehended Eric in the woods north of the castle.

Angry at his arrogance and what this mistake would do to Shea, Eric lowered his chin to his chest. His cellphone had to be nearby. It enabled his earpiece.

“Murphy? Can you hear me?” Eric whispered as quietly as he could. Carlson might be listening—but he might not.

“Copy that,” Murphy replied. “We’re moving.”

“No,” Eric hissed. “Stay put.”

“Sorry, son. You’re compromised. Once they give you whatever they gave Jordan, you’ll give us up. I can’t let that happen.”

“Don’t bring her—”

The adjoining door burst open, and Hugh Carlson strolled in. Alone. Shit. “I understand you have something to say to me.”

Eric swallowed hard, hoping Murphy was listening in. “You picked the wrong man to mess with.”

“You must be talking about your boss. Stewart does spew a good line of B.S., doesn’t he? But no, it’s you I wanted. You’re the one who got away from Dungarvin, something my men have yet to explain to my satisfaction.” Shoving his suit jacket back, his hands sank to his hips, and he widened his stance. “You have one chance to tell me where Finn and his computer are. You were the last to be seen with him. Where did he go?”

Had this guy’s thugs not seen Finn’s remains sprawled all over Rosie’s kitchen floor? Or were they just that dumb they couldn’t put the fat suit and the sudden appearance of a woman together and come up with Shea?

“I’ll tell you on one condition,” Eric ground out, praying to hell Murphy was still online. “Tell her I love her.” He stiffened his spine, prepared for the smack down headed his way.

Carlson cocked his head. “Tell who what?”

“Copy that,” Murphy’s voice came through soft and sad.

Carlson waved one of his guards into the room. “Show this fool I mean business.”

“You again, eh?” the Frenchman’s lip cured into a snarl. Worse—he held a hypodermic in his hand.

“You can’t leave him!”

Murphy caught her hands before she could yank the truck door open. “I’m only moving to keep us safe. We’re not leaving Eric behind. No sirree, Bob.”

“We’re not?” Shea stuttered. He’d passed on Eric’s last words, and she should’ve known he wouldn’t desert his men. She swallowed hard and tried to listen better, which was difficult with her mind pinging from one bad scenario to another like a wrecking ball. After what had happened to Phoenix, Gordie, and Professor Grover, Eric and Jordan’s chances were so slim.

“When’s that dance begin?”

Shea saw his lips move, but it took her a second to understand what he’d said. What dance? Oh, the masquerade ball? Freeing her hands from his grasp, she raked her fingers over her head as if ruffling her hair would help her brain to work. “Umm, let me think.” Now I remember. “One pm! Today!”

Murphy slanted his shoulders to face her. “Now, you listen here, Shea. We’ve got two men to rescue, maybe more if I can figure out where Carlson’s holding your friends. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to settle down. You’re no good to Eric if you’re hysterical.”

She focused on Murphy’s tired, blue eyes. “I know, but…” She said the obvious, “We have to save him.”

“And we will, but first, I need to get you to a beauty salon. I brought along some high heels and some make-up, but I don’t think you’re in any condition to apply blush much less all that shadowy, smudgy stuff you women like to paint on your eyes. And glitter. You’ll need glitter.”

Shea bobbed her head, willing to do anything.

“You and I are going to the ball, and we’ll be early.” Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “I need you to focus, Shea, because the rest of this day will depend on you wowing every last man at Ashford. I need you to be radiant and giddy. Maybe even flirty. If a little buzz will get you there, tell me now, and I’ll buy a bottle while I’m shopping, because you’ll need to turn every man’s head at that ball.”

“No. I’m… I’m sober. I don’t drink, but I can pretend.” I can do anything to help Eric.

Murphy cupped her cheek, a tender light glimmering in his eyes. “You’re one rare woman, you know that?”

No, I’m not. I’m scared.

Releasing her, Murphy stowed the laptop, muttering about needing fake identification and an invitation. A classy ride. A bigger expense account.

When the truck engine turned over, Shea clenched her fingers into a fist, sick at having to leave. “Hurry. He might not have much time.”

“Don’t worry,” Murphy said as he maneuvered them out of the forest glade and onto the road. “Eric’s been in tighter spots than this. Besides, Carlson probably used Sodium Pentothal to make ’em talk. Maybe Scopolamine.”

“Are you serious?” That sounded so bad. Shea ran her fingers over her head again, her imagination providing all the worst-case scenarios Eric might be living through.

“Sometimes it’s bad, yes. Sometimes, no,” Murphy said calmly. “It all depends on the operator, but Eric’s smart. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he knows drugs.”

The truck jostled and bounced as it wound along the country road, and Shea knew Murphy wanted to keep her talking, but she knew better. Truth serum was the least of Eric’s worries. No, no, no. Not torture.

She hadn’t yet detected the black-robed assassin, but he might have tracked her to Ireland. Everyone else had. Think! Who wants me dead? Who besides Bagani and Carlson could’ve sent that killer after me?

Murphy was headed south to Cashel when the answer struck. The assassin and Carlson both wanted Finn. Bagani only wanted Shea—if he’d linked her to his missing money. The chances of that happening were an incredible long shot, but it made no sense that he would’ve tracked her to Ireland. She wasn’t Shea when she’d boarded the flight at Heathrow. Shea hadn’t resurfaced until Dungarvin. The shooter on the bike couldn’t have been Bagani. That meant…

Grrrrr! I don’t know what anything means anymore! Eric’s in trouble! That’s all that matters!

Finally back in the village of Cashel, Murphy scanned the busy main street until he caught sight of a hair salon that boasted unisex hairdos. He parked at the curb and handed her several euros along with his jacket. “This is the plan. You’re going in there and tell them you need a killer hair-do, make-up, and a manicure. I’ll be back in less than thirty minutes.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Sliding his right hand under his left arm, he retrieved a small pistol. “Keep this with you. I doubt you’ll need it, but if you do, don’t be afraid to use it. Got that?”

“Okay.” Swallowing hard, she took the jacket, weapon and the money.

Murphy rested his chin to his forearm over the steering wheel, squinting at the busy street. “Thirty minutes, Shea. That’s all the time you’ve got. Tell ’em you want to sparkle with red and gold glitter when they’re done. And extra-long nails. Red. It’s a masquerade ball, remember.”

He meant to leave her. Alone. With a gun.

Shea steeled her nerve and eased the passenger door open. Dropping to the street, she glanced back. Murphy winked and headed south, leaving her to fulfill her part of the mission.

Turning to the salon’s front window, she gathered her courage. A redheaded woman with her head half-shaved and the other spiked, greeted her with at the receptionist desk with a cheerful, “May I help you, doll?”

“I need, umm, a shampoo, and a cut and…” Shea ran her fingers over what scant hair she had to work with. “Never mind. Do you sell wigs? Hair extensions?”

“We do!” the woman all but squealed. “Right this way, lamb.” Her steady endearments were more than a little off-putting, especially since Shea felt already like a lamb to the slaughter. Nonetheless, in two seconds, she found herself in a brightly lit room with a table of Styrofoam heads wearing all fashion of hairpieces on one side, a wooden chair that looked more like a throne facing the table, and a mirror the length of the wall behind the table.

She nearly turned back at the sight of all those body-less heads. Flashbacks of poor Phoenix lifted the bile up the back of her throat. What was I thinking? I can’t do this.

“Is everything okay, love?” Again with the sweet talk.

“Yes,” Shea hissed, dizzy enough to pass out, but determined. This was about saving Eric and Jordan. She could do it. It’s just Styrofoam and hair.

“Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll just see which version of lovely you prefer today, shall we?”

We shall. Shea sat in the throne with Murphy’s jacket folded on her lap. The familiar smells of perm solutions and hair sprays calmed her nerves. There was no brute with a scimitar in the shadows. It’s just Styrofoam and hair.

“So what’s the occasion?” Miss Redhead lifted a blonde wig off its wig holder. “A wedding? A vacation?”

“No. It’s just a party.” Of sorts.

Miss Redhead chattered like they were old friends as color after color and style after style topped Shea’s already shorn head. The blonde was just plain no. It bleached her already pale skin tone to pasty-gray. Purple? Green? No, but the coppery red was interesting. Shea flounced her fingers through the shoulder length curls, canting her head in the mirror, not sure. But no, it wasn’t her, either.

Black? No, too stark. A sable brown pixie-cut? Already have that, thanks.

“I know just what you need, Princess.” Her helpful salon artist reached to the far end, and, just that fast, she turned Shea into the longhaired brunette she once was. Having that particular shade, her own natural hair color, falling over her shoulders and down her back filled her with confidence and a touch of sex appeal. She shook her head, tossing the mass of spiraled curls along with it. “This one. I’ll take it.” It’s me.

Miss Redhead beamed and told her, “That’ll be a hundred fifteen euros, love.”

Bless Murphy. He’d given Shea a dozen €20 banknotes, more than enough. Her confidence ratcheted-up another notch. “I need my nails done, too. And make-up. Do you have anyone on staff who can do my make-up, so I look, umm…” Like someone else? “…glamorous?”

Miss Redhead’s smile grew larger. “Honey, by the time you leave, you’ll be a brand-new woman.”

Shea could only look at herself in the mirror and think, I already am.