Patrick stood there. But he wasn’t alone.
Rising, she automatically smoothed a hand down her dress. “Patrick . . .”
“Darling.” He came over. “You should be resting.”
“I know. I was going to change, but I . . . well.” At least, she didn’t have to fake feeling a bit off her stride. “I haven’t quite worked up the energy just yet to get ready for bed.”
He gestured. “This is a friend of mine, Dr. Lewis Badger. He offered to take a look at you.”
Inwardly, Dru wanted to scream. Outwardly, she managed an embarrassed smile. “Oh, that’s hardly necessary, is it? I just need to rest, I’m sure.”
“He’ll look at you nonetheless.”
Judging by the look in his eyes, Dru knew there was no point in arguing. She gave the doctor a weak smile. “Shall I change?”
“No, you’re fine.” As Patrick moved past them, the doctor’s eyes rested briefly on her breasts. She managed barely to resist a snarl, and when he looked back at her face, he had a strange expression in his eyes.
Gesturing back to the bed, he said, “Why don’t you sit down?”
Her skin felt tighter. Hotter.
No. Not now—
As he reached into a briefcase she just now noticed, Dru fought to control the anger, the self-loathing burning inside her. The sense of betrayal, too. She’d found a reason . . . to keep going, to keep fighting.
And now it was gone.
Damn him.
Damn Joss straight to hell. Joss. Mike. Whoever in the hell he was.
So caught up in her rage, she was barely aware of it at first as the doctor laid the stethoscope against her chest. “Breathe in for me.”
She did so, staring straight ahead. Her heart felt raw. Ripped straight open. And now, instead of being able to deal with what had happened, she was sitting here, letting some stranger put his hands on her and ogle her—
Cool, dry hands touched her neck.
Flash, flash, flash.
Pretty girl, dressed all in red . . . long dark hair flowing down her back . . . skinny, but he’d take care of that.
Hands wrapped around her neck. Feet drumming against the floor as he choked her.
Eyes bulging.
Flash, flash, flash.
She swayed, then flew back under the impact of a hand.
“What’s wrong with you, Ella?”
Looking up at the doctor, she reached up, closed a hand around his wrist. He’d been there . . .
Flash, flash, flash.
A road, winding through brush and trees, shielding them. Patrick glancing over. “We can’t take much time, I’m afraid. If we’re gone too long, my . . . fiancée will notice . . .”
Flash, flash, flash.
A woman, dark blond, pretty hair, and pretty face, fawning over Patrick. Laughing in delight over a kitten. Stupid little bitch—
“She won’t wake up anytime soon, will she?”
“No.” The doctor smiled as he straightened over her body. “This will keep her out for quite a while.”
Dru groaned as hands jerked her back.
“. . . what is your problem . . .”
Dazed, she stared at Patrick’s face, into coldly furious eyes.
She barely even heard him barking at the doctor.
Sagging under the influx of information, she went boneless in Patrick’s hands, despite her attempts to claw her way back into awareness. Terror followed her into the darkness.
Terror . . . and dark, ugly dreams.
* * *
JOSS ignored the press against his shields.
No point in thinking about her now. He’d deal with her once he had more information.
Just leave already, he told himself.
That’s what he needed to do.
Get some distance away from this hell. Get his head screwed back on straight so that when he came back out here, he was in fuck-’em-up shape. He could tear Patrick’s enterprise apart and leave nothing but shreds in his wake, but he had to have his head together.
Yeah.
That was what he’d do.
Just get out.
Get his head together.
Start scraping together the remains of his heart and maybe get wasted. He’d done that a little too often lately, but hell, it was one way to silence the cacophony in his head, and now, it just might dull the pain in his chest.
Shouldering his way through the crowd, he focused on the front door. Some of the security types eyed him warily. He gave them a friendly smile back. It wasn’t friendly enough, apparently. A few of them backed away. Two started talking to each other. One reached inside his coat.
Joss kept heading to the door.
And he was almost through.
Almost.
A sudden, gut-wrenching knowledge exploded through his mind, though.
He couldn’t leave here without making sure that Whitmore didn’t find something to . . . occupy himself with.
Images slammed into his mind.
And even though he wanted to tell himself he shouldn’t care, he knew that was just shit.
Dru . . . Ella, whatever her name was, caught in Whitmore’s hands, her face white, eyes glassy. Her body all but limp. Patrick looming over her. The intent to hurt all but etched on his features.
Another image slammed into him.
Dru sitting on the edge of the bed, Patrick a few feet away. She looked up at him, and when he said something, she responded—halfway through, the fucker backhanded her.
Hissing, he stopped in the middle of the hall.
What in the hell did he do?
* * *
GLARING down at Ella’s limp body, Patrick opened and closed one fist. Over and over.
She’d humiliated herself.
Getting drunk like that.
Did she think he hadn’t seen how she’d been eyeing his new broker?
Little slut.
Drinking, passing out.
Drunk little whore.
He’d seen how flushed she was when he’d come in here with the doctor. Glassy eyes. The pulse in her neck had been racing as well.
Not feeling well?
Stupid bitch, did she really think he’d buy something as lame as that?
She’d gone and gotten her ass drunk, all but thrown herself at one of his men, then she’d done it again when the doctor had come in here . . .
“You hid that whore’s side of you well,” Patrick said softly, kicking her in the side. He didn’t put much behind the blow. He didn’t want her harmed, not with the wedding so close.
Still, she moaned, curling up in a ball and trying to roll away. She didn’t wake, though.
Disgusted, he turned away, his mind racing. What now? He had a very major event riding on this entire wedding. So much business, so much money. It would lead to more money as well, because he was bringing in potential customers. Blind bidders who didn’t realize the women he’d brought in were already spoken for, but he’d promise that he could get more . . .
An idea sparked in his mind and he glanced down at Ella.
Badger had asked earlier, mostly in jest, if he could buy her away.
At the time, it had left him infuriated.
But . . . narrowing his eyes, he ran his thumb across his cheek. He’d selected Ella as his own because she was refined. Elegant. Many of the bitches he brought weren’t quite the same quality as she was. A few had been close, but Ella with the cool accent, her natural elegance . . .
Combine that with the inner slut she’d been showing lately, well, she could be quite the moneymaker.
Perhaps in a different manner, though.
He’d have to keep up appearances. People were expecting a wedding. He needed to go through with it—too much money was riding on it, and it had been such a challenge to arrange.
And she needed to see what happened when you fucked with him.
It was, all in all, a clever way to handle it, he thought.
He’d have to make a few cal
ls, he decided. He could start on that—
His phone buzzed. Scowling, he reached for it and pulled it out. This was his private line. He had a cell phone that he used for work, a number he had to give out, but this number was the one he used for his more . . . private pursuits.
The caller’s number was blocked. Narrowing his eyes, he tapped on the screen and watched as the image enlarged.
For just one second, his hands went icy and cold. For that very same second, his heart started to race and blood roared in his ears.
It was Grace.
A picture of her from before . . . they’d been dating. He could see himself, the back of his head, likely bent over his phone as he worked. Grace was facing him, bent over the table and smiling. The image was zoomed in, focused mostly on her.
She was the focus.
There was no doubt of that.
Rage tripped through him, but he stifled it. This was nothing. Probably her new keeper . . .
The next message came up.
She was a pretty girl. Why did you have to destroy her life?
He stared at the bar along the top. Private number.
“Who in the fuck are you?”
Two seconds later, another message came up.
I look forward to making your acquaintance, Mr. Whitmore.
TWENTY
THERE were times when she dreamed.
She understood dreams.
But this . . . this was more than that.
Dru felt lost in it.
Staring at the mirror before her, she didn’t even recognize herself. Except for her eyes. She recognized her eyes. She went to lean forward, but it was awkward—the awful contraption of steel and cotton around her ribs didn’t want to let her move the way she should. Scowling, she dropped her gaze to it, touched the boning of the corset, and smoothed a hand down her hip.
“Not my hips.” Then, startled, she jerked her gaze up and stared once more at her reflection. “Not my voice.”
It was a slow, almost lazy drawl, rich with the drawl she’d come to recognize as the Deep South. Lazy, soft, easy. The cadence was a little different than what she normally heard.
And her voice sounded nothing like her own. Not just the accent, but even the very sound was different.
Nothing seemed right. Like those tits. Those weren’t her tits. She eyed the lush white breasts rising above the lacy bit of fabric she wore under the corset. A chemise, she thought it might be called. And pantaloons. Historical clothing wasn’t her forte. Finding scum, deadbeat dads, runaways, that was what she did.
But why was she . . .
Behind her, a door opened and she turned, staring at the woman with wide eyes.
“Amelie, you’re not even dressed.”
“Mama . . .”
Mama?
“Darling, you must get dressed. We’re off to the picnic today, you know. You’ll be seeing Richard before he leaves on his trip. He expects an answer . . .” The woman paused, her eyes, pale green, hesitant. “Have you decided?”
“Richard.” She closed her eyes and turned away. Who was . . .
Marrying Richard—
Cold, lifeless eyes.
Patrick’s eyes.
Richard. Hard, cruel hands.
Another pair of eyes flashed through her mind. You’ll come away with me, won’t you, Amelie?
Dark, dark eyes . . . a weathered, laughing face.
And hands that touched her so gently.
Don’t let him take you away . . .
* * *
JERKING upright in her bed, Dru caught her breath.
She was on the floor.
Still wearing her dress, although it was rucked up over her thighs.
If I ever knew you, I’d remember.
“Not if you weren’t supposed to . . . He hit you before . . . and he killed me. After that, I don’t know what became of you. But I think you do. If you’ll let yourself remember . . .
Let yourself remember . . .
“Richard,” she breathed out. “Patrick . . .”
But those weren’t the names that mattered the most.
Whether his name was Mike Sellers now, or Joss whatever, once he’d been called Thom. Thom Brady. And she’d watched as Richard shot him. Watched as he died. Watched as Richard threw the man she loved into the lake. Nobody will miss him, you know. Now come along. We have a wedding to plan.
I will not marry you.
Oh, but you will. Because if you don’t, I’ll tell the sheriff I saw your father shoot that man.
They’ll never believe you . . .
Yes, they will. He threatened Brady to stay away from you before, didn’t he? Your father is already teetering on ruin. You can marry me . . . and save him, your family. Or refuse . . . and I’ll ruin all of you.
Dru shivered, rolling to a sitting position with her back braced against the bed. I get what I want, Amelie. You should remember that.
Bile churned in her throat as she rested her head back against the bed.
“I do believe I’ve gone rather mad.”
* * *
“YOU’RE not doing well.”
Taylor sat across from him at a crowded Starbucks. It was a little too noisy for the two of them, but they couldn’t keep meeting at the same restaurant. Stupid doing it more than twice.
And Joss could use about fifty espressos, give or take. He was on his second. It hadn’t touched the fatigue. Not doing well. You think?
He’d done something that had left him ill. He had left her there. Yeah, it was her choice, but he’d left her there. With that monster. She was safe . . . for now. Safe enough, was the knowledge as it had come to him, and that made him puke his guts up once he’d gotten far enough away from the estate.
He’d stood there, shaking, sick with fury . . . and a clear burning knowledge in his mind.
Yes, Dru knew what Whitmore was doing.
And she was trapped. He didn’t want to know why or how she was in those circumstances, but somehow she felt trapped. He wasn’t sure he could ever forgive her, though. People who danced with the devil ended up in bad situations, and that was what had happened here.
Still, leaving her there, trapped, had left him ill. He could have gone up those stairs, found Dru. Saved her. And others would have died. The women he was trying to save. He could hear their screams, even thinking about it . . . screams that haunted him.
Walking away, leaving Dru in Patrick’s hands, was another thing that would haunt him. But with that clear, burning knowledge, he knew she’d live through this. Patrick didn’t want her dead. That gift that was trying to drive Joss crazy showed him that she’d live through this.
Of course, when it was said and done, he didn’t know how he would live with himself. The woman he’d lived his whole life waiting for . . . and she was living with a man like Whitmore.
Too aware of Jones’s intense gaze, he focused on his coffee. “Quit staring at me, damn it. I’m not a bug on a slide. My head is a mess, but I’ll live through it. Any luck on my Latina girl?”
“Yeah.” Taylor nodded shortly. “She’s an amplifier, so this won’t be too hard on her, although hopefully we can keep physical contact between her and Vaughnne to a minimum.”
“An amplifier . . .” Joss sighed. Touching the cut inside his lip, he said, “The last thing I need is anything in my head amplified, Taylor. Do me a favor—tell her to wear long sleeves and keep her head locked down when we’re working.”
“Like I said . . . you’re not doing well,” Taylor repeated.
With a scowl, he said, “I’m doing what I have to do, right? Not like anybody else can do this damn job.” Reaching into the bag at his side, he pulled out the wrapped glass he’d lifted from the party. “I need a favor. There are prints on this . . . probably several of them. A server’s—most of them were male. But the prints I need are female. She’s British. Hopefully, there’s a fairly recent passport. I need info on her and I need it fast.”
Taylor’s gaze dropped
to the bag and he took it, slid it over. “I have to give you a message. Jillian said she’s been trying to get through to you and you’re blocking her out.”
“And that would really stop her?” Joss muttered, taking another swig from his coffee.
“No.” Taylor shrugged. “She could probably plow through whatever shields you have and leave you a crying, whimpering mess, if she wanted. But I doubt she wants that.” He paused, blew out a breath. “The kid wants you to stop the ice. I don’t know what that means, but I assume you do. She says you’re not going to feel things you need to feel if you keep up the ice.”
Joss clenched his jaw. “Tell the kid I got this.”
“Crawford . . . I don’t think you do.” Taylor’s blue eyes searched Joss’s face. “It’s only been a few days and you look like hell. You’ve done harder jobs.”
Curling his lip, Joss hunched over his caffeine. “Don’t count on it.”
“Joss—”
“You got any idea what that kid is capable of?” he demanded, shooting Taylor a narrow look. The fury bubbling inside him had to come out, and it was better to focus it on anything other than what was really hurting him.
Storming out of the coffee shop, he headed for the stolen car he had to use. Even the car hurt to use now. All the screams, they were like ice picks, in his ears, in his skin, in his soul. The ghosts were colder, hanging on more heavily than they ever had.
And Dru . . .
For fuck’s sake . . . he felt his heart tremble. Shatter. How was this happening? After all this time, how was it even possible that it would happen this way? Finding her . . . like this . . .
Damn you, why couldn’t you have come into my life a year ago? Two years ago? Why now? I can’t have you now . . .
Dru . . .
He had to get away from her. Stumbling toward his car, he reached into his pocket. Dug out his keys. But a few feet away, he realized Jones was trailing along behind him. Veering off to the right, he circled around the restaurant. Once Jones caught up with him, he wheeled on him, the agony, the pressure, the pain spilling out of him.
“It’s almost like she’s got every gift I’ve ever had shoved in my head and it’s cranked up to the max,” he growled out, turning around to face Taylor. “And some shit I didn’t even know was possible, I bet. The only thing I don’t think she’s got is this mirror thing I do. I bet she can even see some of Dez’s ghosts.”
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