The Reunited

NINETEEN





"HMM. I guess I should have mentioned it was black-tie.”

Joss gave Patrick a narrow look and then glanced down at the khakis and polo he’d unearthed. He’d thrown a sport coat over it and wasn’t overly surprised when he was checked for weapons at the door. He’d surrendered them, because they hadn’t found most of his weapons. Whitmore’s men weren’t as good as they’d like to be.

Plus, Joss also had a very powerful weapon crammed inside his brain—his hijacked psychic skills.

“Well, I left the tux back in storage,” he drawled, shrugging. “Don’t worry. I can’t stay. Work to do and all of that.”

“But you did so well on this one. You can take the evening off.” Patrick guided him over to the side, an inquisitive look on his face. “Perhaps you have images . . .”

Rage bristled Joss. “I can e-mail some if you want. I took a few.”

“No.”

You prick. Can’t take the bait that easy, huh?

Shrugging, Joss tugged out his phone and pulled up the photo album. “I figured you’d want to see, so I snapped a few on my phone, but I’ll be deleting them soon.”

He displayed one of the pictures he’d taken of Vaughnne in the mall. “I met her at the food court. She’s here on vacation. Was supposed to come with a friend, and the friend had to cancel. Nobody will be looking for her for the next ten days.” He smiled and let some of the dark, ugly anger he felt seep into that smile, knowing the menace would show. “And better yet, she’s in between jobs . . . needs to go for a training thing in a few weeks, but you know how that goes. If she doesn’t show . . .”

“Perfect . . .” Patrick murmured. He swiped a finger across the phone, studying the next picture. “She looks like the girl next door. Family ties?”

“Estranged mother. They maybe talk at Christmas, if she can’t get out of it. No boyfriend. Some friends she sees back home, but it doesn’t sound like there’s anybody who’d raise an alarm for a while when she doesn’t come back.”

Patrick nodded. “Was there a car?”

“Yep.” Joss slid him a sidelong smile. “We took her car. It’s en route to the Everglades. I traded a favor.”

“A favor.” Patrick studied him.

Joss lifted a hand. “Hey, I know my business, trust me. This sort of thing will go smoother if they are looking for her elsewhere. Her car will be there, along with maps and shit. Like she was going on a day hike.”

“And nobody can place you with her?” Patrick continued to watch him, those flat blue eyes icy, dead as a shark’s.

Joss sighed, shaking his head. “Look, do you think I started doing this line of work yesterday?” He deleted the pictures of Vaughnne, tried not to think about how she was doing. The woman had promised she’d reach out to him if she was in imminent danger. He could keep a tenuous link established with her, although keeping up with everything was straining his brain to the breaking point already and he’d just gotten started.

Keeping his face blank, he met Patrick’s stare dead on. “You hired me for a job, right?” Then he smirked and added, “Besides, if I get placed with her, it’s my ass. Not yours, yeah?”

“Hmm. We should really talk about what happened the last time one of my men crossed me.” Patrick smiled. “Not that you would. But you seem interested in being informed.”

“Well, seeing as how my . . . livelihood is at stake, I figure being informed is the wise thing to do, don’t you? Only stupid men and trusting fools operate in the dark.” Joss paused. “I’m neither one.”

“So I see.” Patrick glanced past him, an odd light entering his eyes. “Hmm. Would you care to meet my fiancée, Mr. Sellers?”

Joss swallowed the automatic response that rose to his lips. There was either a bitch dumb enough or greedy enough to marry this shark . . . which was it? He was betting on greedy. Even the brainless had survival instincts and this man was dangerous.

Tucking his phone away, he stepped aside. “I’d be delighted.”

He glanced around, eyeing the thick crowd. It wouldn’t be that hard to lose himself in this mess, he figured. In the next twenty minutes or so, he could break away from Patrick. Work the crowd a little, although—

His spine heated.

His breath hitched without him even realizing it and his heart started to slam against his ribs.

Oh, f*ck, no.

She couldn’t be here.

But even as he thought it, he found himself remembering that godawful fear he’d felt coming from her. The way she’d looked at him . . . You can’t help me.

If any group of people spelled bad news, it was the people that Patrick Whitmore ran with. But how had she gotten involved . . .

Patrick was slowing to a stop near a long, leggy brunette. She was facing away from them, but at his touch, she turned.

If Joss hadn’t had years, years upon years, of schooling his every emotion, he would have lost it.

Just plain and simply lost it.

No.

Just . . . no.

I’m spoken for.

The soft sigh in her voice as she said, Damn you, why couldn’t you have come into my life a year ago? Two years ago? Why now? I can’t have you now.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, and he saw her lips part.

“Darling, this is a business associate of mine,” Patrick said, sliding an arm around her waist. “Mike Sellers.”

Something darted through her eyes. He almost heard the words forming in her mind.

Stepping forward, he caught her hand. “I’m charmed,” Joss drawled. “Patrick, your fiancée is absolutely lovely.”

“Isn’t she?” Patrick stroked a hand down her arm, the way he might have stroked a beloved cat.

And all the while, Dru just stared at him, her pale green eyes locked on his face. Like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

* * *

JOSS . . .

Patrick said his name was Mike—

Oh, like that wanker would actually tell the utter truth if he knew it.

But Joss . . .

Swallowing, she extricated her hand from Joss’s, although just then, she was almost desperate for his strength. “Business associates, are you? Have you worked together long then?”

No. Not his strength . . . not his. Not if he was working with Patrick. What had he said? His job. Complicated. The slimy, evil wanker.

“Just starting out, love,” Patrick said. He patted her shoulder. “Nothing you’d be able to follow, though.”

Of course not. I can’t comprehend kidnapping—

Flash, flash, flash.

A delivery . . .

Images of a girl, the light, creamy brown of a woman of mixed heritage. Freckles sprinkled across her nose. A charming smile.

And . . . most gut-wrenching of all, Joss’s voice . . . I met her at the food court. She’s here on vacation. Was supposed to come with a friend and the friend had to cancel. Nobody will be looking for her for the next ten days. When he spoke, there was an ugly, menacing hate in his voice.

She stumbled and slammed a hand down, bracing it by the curving wall of the stairwell at her back as the memory burned itself into her brain, followed by another. And another.

First there was a picture of a girl smiling at the camera. Then another, bound, gagged . . . and glaring at the camera.

The girl next door . . .

Patrick picturing the girl in a formal. F*ck . . . bloody f*ck. Dru knew that dress. It was the one he’d selected for her bridesmaids. Of course, she didn’t have any. He’d said he’d see to it . . .

This wasn’t happening.

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 f*cker.

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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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 the crowds, he fought to hold on to the threads of his sanity, to his control, but as rage spiraled tighter, spun even higher, it became harder and harder.

Pain snaked in, grabbed him by the throat. His shields shuddered more, and in his mind’s eye, he could see hairline cracks forming in those solid, stone walls.

Bad. This was bad.

He was almost shaking from the cold now, and the howl of the ghosts was more like a banshee’s wail than anything.

Finally, he broke free of the people.

Finally, he was alone.

He went to the ground, one hand fisting in the grass as he slammed up another stone wall in his mind. Stone. Encased in ice. He had to take a page out of Whitmore’s book, it seemed, and ice it down a few notches. Ice it down, Crawford . . . ice it down.

The voices receded bit by bit as he built up the stone wall in his mind.

But still, the pain that gripped his chest, all but threatening to rip his heart out, that . . . that remained.

Just f*cking had it ripped out—

The stone wall cracked.

“Not now . . . not now.” His fingers sank into the dirt and he squeezed his eyes shut. Stone. By stone. Ice encasing each one.

The pain didn’t recede, but the voices eventually did. They faded to a dull murmur by the time he had the wall halfway built. It glittered in his mind’s eye like a cobbled road slicked with black ice.

But the louder voices remained.

Help me . . . help me . . .

The cold, shivery trail of a ghost’s touch along his spine. He could see her shimmering just ahead of him, too. Almost fully formed, her eyes locked on his but barely aware. “I can’t help you yet,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

Help me . . . please help . . .

As he continued to build the wall in his mind, she faded away, still sobbing, begging for help.

He’s one of them . . .

The whispers faded as he sank the last stone in place, and finally, he was alone in the peace of his own mind.

No ghosts.

No whispers.

Just the ache of a broken heart that somehow managed to keep beating inside his chest.

“How the f*ck did this happen?”

* * *

“THIS isn’t happening.”

She’d kicked off the ridiculous four-inch heels she’d been wearing with her equally ridiculous dress as she suffered through that dull party, waiting, just waiting for the moment. It would happen, she knew it. Something would happen.

And then something did.

“This isn’t happening . . .”

Her skin continued to prickle and burn, alternating between hot and cold chills. Her chest ached like somebody had ripped her open and carved her heart out using a rusty old shovel.

And still, all of that adrenaline crashed through her.

It wasn’t over him, though.

Not him . . .

Traitor.

She wanted to scream it at him, at this man she didn’t know, and how utterly absurd was that? She didn’t know him. He didn’t know her. He didn’t owe her anything, yet it felt like he’d betrayed her.

Doesn’t betraying mankind and decency and humanity count?

Except she dealt with people who did that sort of thing all the time, and none of it felt like this. Like a raw, personal betrayal.

“Oh, God . . .” Dru sank to the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to her belly, the other covering her mouth and trying to hold back the sob. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be.

There was a knock.

She barely managed to wipe the emotions off her face before the door opened.

“Ella.”

Patrick stood there. But he wasn’t alone.

Rising, she automatically smoothed a hand down her dress. “Patrick . . .”

“Darling.” He came over. “You should be resting.”

“I know. I was going to change, but I . . . well.” At least, she didn’t have to fake feeling a bit off her stride. “I haven’t quite worked up the energy just yet to get ready for bed.”

He gestured. “This is a friend of mine, Dr. Lewis Badger. He offered to take a look at you.”

Inwardly, Dru wanted to scream. Outwardly, she managed an embarrassed smile. “Oh, that’s hardly necessary, is it? I just need to rest, I’m sure.”

“He’ll look at you nonetheless.”

Judging by the look in his eyes, Dru knew there was no point in arguing. She gave the doctor a weak smile. “Shall I change?”

“No, you’re fine.” As Patrick moved past them, the doctor’s eyes rested briefly on her breasts. She managed barely to resist a 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 f*ck-’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 f*cker 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 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 f*cked 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 f*ck are you?”

Two seconds later, another message came up.

I look forward to making your acquaintance, Mr. Whitmore.