A cruel hand gripped her arm, so at odds with Patrick’s gentle voice as he inquired, “Ella, are you feeling unwell?”
Swallowing back the bile that churned in her throat, she said softly, “The champagne, Patrick. I think it’s gone to my head. Perhaps I should lie down.”
Moments later, one of the house servants was at her side to escort her up the stairs. Just before she reached the top, she looked back, found herself staring down at Joss.
He was one of them.
Damn him.
The betrayal, the deep, gut-wrenching sense of pain, all but blinded her.
Damn him straight to hell.
* * *
“IT seems your little bimbo doesn’t hold her liquor well,” Joss drawled, reaching over to pluck up the glass Dru had been holding. He grinned sardonically at Patrick, ignoring the fury biting there.
Hell, he should stop pulling the guy’s chain, but he’d never been good at the subservient role anyway, and right now, he was spoiling for a fight.
Dru was here.
Dru was going to marry this fucker.
And she knew.
He saw it in her eyes, felt it in her mind . . . she knew and she was going to marry Whitmore anyway.
Well, no. No, she wasn’t, because Joss damn well wasn’t going to let it happen. He’d turn kidnapper himself and find a way to have her fine ass deported. By the time she got done untangling the red tape he could wrap around her, Whitmore would be in jail and she could kiss whatever money she’d hoped to get from him gone, gone, gone . . .
He glanced up and caught her looking down at him. There was ice in her gaze now, a cool disdain that left him feeling meaner than a snake. And he already felt pretty damn mean.
He smiled and toasted her with his glass.
Then, as Patrick looked up, he watched her face go void and blank, that inner spark in her eyes dying, all the life, the anger . . . it was as if a doll’s face had replaced the woman who’d been looking at him a minute ago.
Hell.
What the fuck did he care?
Amelie . . .
It’s Amelie. Dru.
He couldn’t fool himself, not even out of pride.
“Please watch how you speak of my fiancée, Mr. Sellers. We’ll do business together . . .” Patrick said, pulling Joss’s attention back to him.
As the other man took a step toward him, Joss lowered his shields enough to catch some of those iced-down thoughts. “But if you cross a certain line . . .”
Joss smiled as one of Patrick’s thoughts filled the silence in his head.
I need him for the next few weeks, but if he continues to be such an ass, he’s not going to work out. A pity . . . he’s certainly the fastest I’ve ever worked with. Although it could be luck . . .
Joss winked at him. “I cross plenty of lines, Whitmore. Afraid I can’t help it. But here’s the thing . . . you’ll never work with anybody quite as good at my job as I am.” A waiter circulated by and Joss swiped a canapé, popped it in his mouth, and then glanced around. “I’ll let you go do your host thing. Thanks for the invite . . . boss.”
Revising the plans, Joss lost himself in the crowd, waiting until he found the right moment before he dumped Dru’s champagne and then pocketed the flute. Needed to get more information on her background, seeing as how she went by one name for Whitmore. Told Joss another.
Seeing as how she was engaged to a fucking human trafficker . . . rage boiled in his gut, low, ugly, seething. The walls of his control shivered.
Voices barreled inside his brain.
He’s one of them . . .
He’s one of them . . .
Hot in here.
Uppity bastard, always got to show . . .
How can I tell her I lost my job . . .
I wonder if I can get Saul to leave a few hours earlier on Friday . . .
And under it all, there were tortured, tragic moans. Loud and demanding. Louder than before, and with the moans came a bone-rattling cold.
Help me . . .
Get me out of here . . .
He’s one of them . . .
Lost my job. Twenty-nine years . . .
“Hey . . . don’t I know you?”
Snarling, Joss glanced around, half-desperate, and shoved through a nearby set of doors.
He found himself in a garden, but it was far from dark, far from quiet. Shouldering his way through