still cocky, still determined. And still greedy. She felt the rush of it all through his touch, saw the memories. A body lying dead at his feet. “You’re certain he didn’t say anything?”
Minton shaking his head. “As certain as I can be. He’s a pussy. Would talk if you paid him or hurt him. I just hurt him.”
Hurt her—
The flash ended with that thought. That was what he wanted to do.
Hurt. Her.
“Are you awake, Ella?”
Lifting her head, she stared at Whitmore.
“Good . . .”
By the car, Joss stood there. Unconcerned. Like he wasn’t bothered by a damn thing in life. If she didn’t have the warm feel of his thoughts present in her brain, the burn of his anger, she just might have been a little disturbed by the very apparent lack of concern on his face.
“Let me go,” she snarled, jerking against Minton’s hands.
Whitmore came up to her.
She knew what he was planning. As he drew near, she sagged in Minton’s grip, forcing him to adjust how he was holding her. When he did, she managed to smash her foot on his instep—under her booted foot, she heard the crunch of bone and it made her smile. His bellow was almost like a chorus of angel song, and when she drove her elbow back into his gut, she loved hearing the way his breath gusted out of him in shock.
She didn’t get away, but she didn’t intend to.
It was the need to fight.
Even as Minton dragged her toward the house, sucking in air, some of the bones in his foot broken, she continued to jerk against him. “Let me go, you twat.” She shot Whitmore a glare. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Yes. I can.” He gave Joss a narrow look. “We’re done now, Sellers.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Joss continue to stand there.
She thought, maybe, she heard a car engine over the rush and roar of blood in her ears. Jerking against Minton, she twisted again, trying again to get away as he dragged her over the threshhold. “Let me go,” she snarled.
“Not in a million . . .”
Minton’s voice trailed off.
She saw him from the corner of her eye as he turned to look at her. But he was looking past her.
“What . . .”
“Let her go,” Whitmore said, his voice soundless.
Minton didn’t respond.
“Let her go now.”
She hit the floor so suddenly, the hard marble was biting into her knees. With a serene smile, she stared up at him. “Too late,” she said softly.
Then, swinging out with her legs, she kicked his own out from under him, knocking him down before she scrambled outside.
Minton reached for her.
“Don’t,” Whitmore snapped.
As she scrambled upright, she watched from the corner of her eye and saw the black cars driving in through the gates. Five of them. Wow. She was kind of curious about the time.
Had it been five minutes?
She looked back at Whitmore, letting all the rage she felt show on her face. “I told myself I’d see this through, you know. No matter what. It was a promise I’d made myself.”
Hatred flashed through his eyes. But as he rose to his feet, his face was calm, his voice cool. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but nothing will come of it, Ella. Nothing.”
She smiled as she stood.
“Want to bet?”
TWENTY-NINE
AS she walked away, Patrick stared at her.
Walking away . . .
To him.
No. Fucking no.
As the cars came to a halt, Whitmore walked quietly over to the elegant writing desk and pulled open a drawer. The baby Glock tucked inside fit neatly in the palm of his hand. He’d used it a few hours ago to kill Lydia. Now, he’d use it to kill Ella.
That fucker . . . his name wasn’t Sellers. He knew that much.
But his name didn’t matter.
Minton glanced at the gun, then at him. “What are you going to—”
It was the last thing he ever said.
As he fell lifeless to the ground, Patrick positioned himself at the door.
All this time, he’d known Ella was the one for him. The only one. And now she was walking away—
Did you really think I’d let you leave—
“No,” he murmured. “You won’t leave.”
“Drop the gun!”
The voices came bellowing at him from everywhere.
Oddly, he was aware of a strange sensation of cold, too. Very cold. Drifting along his spine, crowding into his mind.
You won’t leave, he thought, pointing the gun at Ella. She turned, staring at him.
The big, rough-looking bastard was rushing for her.