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 calls, 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