Where Winter Finds You (Black Dagger Brotherhood #18)- J.R Ward Page 0,33

been properly serviced by her male, and not only was he in absolutely no hurry to share that glorious sight with anybody, he didn’t want people to judge her, either.

His reputation preceded him, especially with his staff and the working girls. They all knew the way he had been, and would never believe that he hadn’t restarted his philandering.

Trez took her hand. “Follow me.”

When she tugged at him, he stopped and looked down into her face.

His female smiled in a shy, secret way. “I… ah…”

Trez found himself smiling back at her. Then he gave her a quick kiss on that mouth. “Yes,” he whispered. “I feel the same way.”

CHAPTER TEN

Therese stuck close behind Trez as they made fast time down the corridor. Part of her was still back in the sex they’d had, reliving the moments that had been too quick, yet vivid enough to last a lifetime. The other part of her was in a panic over her bag.

All that tip money. Ten hundreds in cash.

What were the chances that, even if they found her purse, any of that load hadn’t been lifted? Nil. But that wasn’t the only thing that had been in there that she hated to lose.

She tried to recall the sequence of events. Arriving with Emile, losing him in the crowd when the fight broke out, and then…

“I can’t remember where I dropped it.” She shook her head as they hurried along. “I’m trying to think…”

Abruptly, Trez stopped in front of absolutely nothing—except then a panel slid back. As he dropped her hand and turned to the side to squeeze his big body through the relatively narrow exit, she had the feeling that he didn’t want to be seen holding on to her. Why, though?

Except maybe she was just being paranoid, and like that wasn’t understandable? She’d almost been shot, had lost her purse, and capped all that off by doing the deed in that corridor with a male she was convinced she’d seen in her dreams. As if things were going anywhere close to normal tonight?

A bar, she thought as she emerged into the club proper. They were behind the serving counter of a bar, by the liquor bottles and the stacked racks of glasses.

The lights were on in the huge warehouse space, and as her eyes adjusted, she got a clear shot of medics working on a man who was down on the floor—and it was not going well. The patient was pissed off and physically combative, batting away the nitrile-gloved hands that were attempting to diagnose and treat him. Meanwhile, in an opposite corner, human police had someone in custody, the handcuffed guy likewise arguing. There were two other people who appeared to be injured, although not critically so—and there were no dead bodies under sheets.

How that was possible, she hadn’t a clue.

There were also a number of men wearing “STAFF” polos, as well as—

Oh, my God, Therese thought. That was the savior who had taken the shooter down.

With all the chaos, she’d assumed the figure in the muscle shirt had been a male, but that was not the case. The female had a short haircut, as well as a broad set of shoulders and well-muscled arms—and those details, along with the even harder look on her face, had led to some conclusion jumping.

“What does your purse look like?” Trez asked as he held open a break in the counter.

Therese stepped through. “It’s nothing special. It’s a Coach knockoff. It’s brown? With some black patterning.”

“Let me ask Xhex. If it’s still here, it’s been collected. Whenever there are big fights, there are always dropped wallets, purses, watches, other things—only some of which are legal.”

“So this happens a lot? Jeez.”

“Not the shooting part.” He raised his hand as they started walking across the scuffed floor. “Yo, Xhex?”

The female looked over. And did a double take.

“Actually, why don’t you stay here,” Trez muttered.

Before Therese could ask him why, the female strode to them, her heavy boots making a loud sound in the wide-open cavern of the club, like a squadron of marching males. As she came to a halt, her dark gray eyes locked on Therese with such directness, it was like being cross-examined.

Therese glanced around. Took a step back.

“Who are you?” the female asked her.

Or demanded. Depending on how you took it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Trez said tightly. “None of this matters. We’re looking for her purse. It’s a—”

As he glanced over for some descriptive backup, Therese filled in, “A Coach knockoff. Brown and