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