| BOOK FOUR | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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I don't know the woman in the mirror. She's unrecognisable, unidentifiable, beautifully incognito.
Her mother's timeless rhinestone hairpiece embellished her lightly plaited feminine updo.
Diamond pear-shaped halo earrings, a gift from her fiancé, dangled from her ears, the exquisite design akin to the scintillating halo of dazzling bead-set diamonds and stunning tear-shaped ring on her fourth finger.
Heather, the unqualified beautician, applied minimal makeup to the bride's face. Nude glossed her lips. A soft glow highlighted her defined cheekbones. Natural eyelashes accentuated her glassy, hazel-coloured eyes.
Her sophisticated mermaid-cut gown, designed to hug her figure in the right places, falls behind her in a chapel train of floral elegance and lace, beneath the semi-transparent tulle, white Aveline sandals, decorated in fascinator bows.
"You look incredible, doll." Modelling an ice-grey three-piece suit and a white, slim-fit shirt, Grayson, his hands casually laid on my hips, met my eyes in the mirror. "And you smell divine. I could eat you."
Spending six hours in the hotel's spa will do that to a woman. The female aesthetician performed an array of cosmetic treatments; skin rejuvenation, recent facial, body-wrap and waxing. My skin is softer than warm butter and smells like pungently embedded pomegranate. I sparkle, too, which irritates the eyes. Body glitter spray was hardly necessary, but Grayson insisted. In fact, he's the culprit for many unfavourable outcomes. He importuned me into a hotel slumber party last night to drink lethal cocktails, to wear novelty pyjamas, to slap on a mint-infused face mask and to sport edible cucumber eyes. He forced me to wax every inch of my skin this morning, shoved chocolate-coated strawberries into my "objecting" mouth at breakfast and had the audacity to call me "Immature" for requiring pain killers for an unceasing headache. I mean, call me a grousing mare, but this man's too eccentrically expectant at times. And high maintenance.
He's incorrigible, too.
Yet, I wouldn't change him for the world.
Grayson's intervention guaranteed a successful bachelorette party. Well, if you can even call it a celebration. I am friendless, specifically on the girl front, but he made sure I had a night to remember, a crazy morning to laugh about in the future, and memories I shall treasure forever.
"Oh, Lord." Heather's antique-rose formal coat matched her Mariposa knee-high dress and Roseville twist fascinator. "I might cry."
I sent Heather and her partner, Ivor, an invite to the wedding, hoping for their attendance, but received no correspondence. Imagine my stunned ebullience when the innkeeper who welcomed us with open arms, who took care of us, Jace and me, back when reality debilitated and shattered us, knocked on the room door two hours ago, dressed in royal fabrics, a cosmetic case in hand, a bottle of fizz in the other hand, iron-curlers and cosmetics sticking out of her handbag. "Don't cry," I said, laughing lightly. "You'll ruin your makeup."
