The Player and the Pixie
Page 77

The last month had been torture without her easy smile and teasing laugh. My only reprieve had been the daily text messages.
I sought to hold fast to my anger, yet I couldn’t manage it. Raw, swelling sorrow choked me as I halted my approach and studied her profile.
Fuck.
I hated this.
She’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy, her lips swollen and abused, the tip of her nose red. The rest of her typically glowing skin was white and drawn. Observing her misery didn’t help. Rather, it fueled a sudden desperation to ease her discomfort. Unthinkingly, I began closing the remainder of the distance between us, intent on taking some action.
But then she did something rather unexpected and it brought me to a full stop. She picked up a three-pack of expensive golf balls and slipped them into her handbag. Afterward, she stood frozen for several seconds. She then proceeded to pick up four more three-packs—the obnoxious neon yellow kind—and placed those in her bag as well.
Then she darted for the exit.
I gaped at her, unable to fathom what I’d just witnessed.
Unless she’d developed an insatiable penchant for expensive golf balls in the last forty-five minutes, Lucy was shoplifting to soothe acute emotional distress. I’d only witnessed her habit once—months ago now—and I’d brushed it off as a harmless, meaningless diversion.
Two hundred euros in golf balls was not a diversion. It was a compulsion.
She’d nearly made it to the perimeter of the shop when I shook myself from the grip of stupor and charged after her, not wanting to lose her in the lobby of the hotel. But then my stomach dropped, because the shop alarm gave a loud whoop whoop. A previously unseen detector flashed red and white, alerting all within that someone was trying to escape with fancy golf balls.
I quickly glanced around, horrified to see the man I’d interrogated about socks just minutes prior jogging toward a paralyzed Lucy, his expression thunderous.
“You there! Empty your bag.”
She mouthed the words, Oh shite. Her eyes closed as a scarlet flush of mortification spread up her neck and cheeks. He reached Lucy before I did and yanked her bag away, the same bag I’d mocked at the restaurant after I’d spotted her shoplifting the first time. He then unceremoniously turned it upside down and shook it.
Rescue her, an impulsive voice insisted in the recesses of my mind. Rescue her as she’d rescued you.
Possessions rained from her purse, clattering on the shop’s marble slab floor. Four containers of golf balls fell along with her phone, purse, and other sundry items.
When her phone collided with the marble, an unmistakable cracking sound of the screen shattering reverberated like a gunshot between my ears. It was the final straw that spurred me into action.
“You’ve broken her phone,” I said, charging forward, drawing both Lucy’s and the store clerk’s attention to me. I felt her eyes like a physical touch. I didn’t need to see her face to know I’d shocked the hell out of her.
He backed up a step at my approach, lifting his chin to meet my glare, and responding with haughty impatience, “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. But I’ve just caught a thief.” He gestured to Lucy, either misunderstanding or mishearing my complaint.
“No you haven’t,” I insisted, stepping in front of her protectively and crossing my arms.
Delay, my mind insisted. Bluff. Threaten. Improvise. Fix this.
The man’s mouth opened and closed, working to sort through my words.
“Do you know who she is?” I gained another step forward, towering over him and glaring menacingly.
“Sean,” her soft voice pleaded. “Don’t.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he set his jaw. “I don’t care if she’s the Queen’s sister, she’s a thief and I’m calling the police.”
“You’ll lose your job,” I threatened, pleased to see his eyes widen with a moment of hesitation. “She’s Ronan Fitzpatrick’s sister, captain of the Irish rugby squad.”
“I don’t care for rugby,” he said, sniffing self-importantly. “I prefer golf.”
“Well, you ought,” I growled, both irritated and perversely pleased he wasn’t a rugby fan. “He’s getting married here tomorrow. What do you think management will say if you call the police on his little sister after he’d spent thousands of euros on his special day?”
He frowned, a deep V of consternation forming between his eyebrows. A sound to my right caught his attention and I allowed my gaze to stray for a brief moment. We’d drawn a crowd. Gawking passers-by had stopped to watch the exchange.
Unfortunately, their presence seemed have the effect of reinforcing his resolve. He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin higher. “As I said, I don’t care who she is. Nothing negates the fact that she’s attempted to steal several hundred euros of valuable merchandise from my store. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to the authorities to make.”
Unthinkingly, I placed a hand on his arm to stay his movements, “Wait—”
“Unhand me, sir!”
“You have the wrong person.”
He wrestled his arm from my grip. “I certainly do not.”
“You do,” I seethed, seeing intimidation of the normal kind would get me nowhere and, scrambling for a solution that would see her free and safe, I announced, “I put the balls in her bag.”
“Sean!” Lucy was at my side, her hands wrapping around my wrist. “Stop this.”