The Reunited - By Shiloh Walker Page 0,17

dark places. Unraveling sticky threads . . .

Dru sat at the table across from Patrick and fought the urge to scream. Her head pounded. Her gut was a quesy, roiling mess. Nothing like a hangover and her murderous, slaving fiancé to make for a lovely breakfast.

He’d shown up while she was still in the shower, and when she’d come out to find him in her bedroom, she hadn’t had time to brace herself, shield herself, before he touched her.

And the memory flash was just . . . a blow.

Heavy, solid, almost completely formed. He’d looked at her as she came out of the bathroom, and something had made him think of the first time he’d seen her.

Now she had that in her head, and it had triggered her own memories.

“Are you all right?”

Looking up, she met Patrick’s gaze and smiled. “Yes, I’m quite lovely . . . I was just thinking of the time we first met, actually.”

“Hmmm.” He continued to study her, that critical, dark look on his face, like he was measuring everything about her. Measuring and something about her was lacking today. “Did you sleep well?”

Dru reached for her tea and took a sip. “Yes. It took a while to fall asleep . . . the fireworks.” She gave a deprecating smile. “I’d forgotten about the fireworks.”

“If you need other accommodations, let me know. You need to have your rest.”

“Not necessary, Patrick.” She set her cup down and said, “I’ll just see about buying some earplugs or perhaps one of those little machines that make white noise. I used to have one, but it broke and I never got around to purchasing a new one.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He rose from the table and came around to stand beside her.

She lifted her head to gaze up at him, pasting that fake as hell, demure smile on her face. I hate you, you sodding bastard. He cupped her chin and stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “Will you be running today?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I might just take a lazy day or call your assistant about setting up the spa day. I haven’t decided.”

He nodded. “The fitting is coming up. Don’t forget about it,” he reminded her as he dipped his head.

And as his mouth brushed hers, her breath locked up in her throat and her heart slammed hard against her ribs.

Flash, flash, flash.

“The disposal is complete?”

“Yes, Mr. Whitmore.”

She felt his satisfaction. Not pleasure. He wasn’t pleased, Dru knew. He was irritated over the loss of money. There . . . an image floated through his mind, a woman, as she’d been before she died.

Dru locked on it, froze it in her mind.

He was satisfied that his point had been made, even as he was disgusted by the loss of merchandise. But he was willing to admit sometimes a loss was needed to make a point.

A point—as she tried to puzzle that through, the memories she’d taken from him were revealed to her.

“Make sure the others see the recording. This should make sure everybody understands what happens when they cause trouble.” Patrick, again. Recording . . .

And just like that, the connection severed.

Dru couldn’t hold it any longer, because she was fighting the urge to puke her guts out, fighting not to let him see as he pulled away and then said something else. Through the rush of blood, she heard his voice, but the words didn’t connect.

All that mattered was that he was leaving.

Once the door clicked, she wiped her lips on a napkin and rose.

Even though her knees were shaking, even though she wanted to scream, she walked carefully, slowly, sedately into the bathroom. Once there, she went to her knees in front of the toilet. If the cameras or audio devices outside the bathroom caught the sound of her puking, so what? She’d lie and say she had a stomach virus.

Maybe it would get her out of Patrick’s tender charms for a few days.

* * *

“CAN you describe her any better than that?”

Dru glanced around, keeping it subtle.

She’d swiped the phone. It was one of her best tactics for making untraceable phone calls. But she still had to get off the phone before one of her babysitters showed up—they’d follow her into the loo if she took too long, public or not.

“Not much. They’d worked her over rather bad,” she said. “Young, early twenties, I would think. Brown and brown, hair was straight and short, looked like that style where it was

readonlinefreenovel.com Copyright 2016 - 2024