The Reunited

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 clothing wasn’t her forte. Finding scum, deadbeat dads, runaways, that was what she did.

But why was she . . .

Behind her, a door opened and she turned, staring at the woman with wide eyes.

“Amelie, you’re not even dressed.”

“Mama . . .”

Mama?

“Darling, you must get dressed. We’re off to the picnic today, you know. You’ll be seeing Richard before he leaves on his trip. He expects an answer . . .” The woman paused, her eyes, pale green, hesitant. “Have you decided?”

“Richard.” She closed her eyes and turned away. Who was . . .

Marrying Richard—

Cold, lifeless eyes.

Patrick’s eyes.

Richard. Hard, cruel hands.

Another pair of eyes flashed through her mind. You’ll come away with me, won’t you, Amelie?

Dark, dark eyes . . . a weathered, laughing face.

And hands that touched her so gently.

Don’t let him take you away . . .

* * *

JERKING upright in her bed, Dru caught her breath.

She was on the floor.

Still wearing her dress, although it was rucked up over her thighs.

If I ever knew you, I’d remember.

“Not if you weren’t supposed to . . . He hit you before . . . and he killed me. After that, I don’t know what became of you. But I think you do. If you’ll let yourself remember . . .

Let yourself remember . . .

“Richard,” she breathed out. “Patrick . . .”

But those weren’t the names that mattered the most.

Whether his name was Mike Sellers now, or Joss whatever, once he’d been called Thom. Thom Brady. And she’d watched as Richard shot him. Watched as he died. Watched as Richard threw the man she loved into the lake. Nobody will miss him, you know. Now come along. We have a wedding to plan.

I will not marry you.

Oh, but you will. Because if you don’t, I’ll tell the sheriff I saw your father shoot that man.

They’ll never believe you . . .

Yes, they will. He threatened Brady to stay away from you before, didn’t he? Your father is already teetering on ruin. You can marry me . . . and save him, your family. Or refuse . . . and I’ll ruin all of you.

Dru shivered, rolling to a sitting position with her back braced against the bed. I get what I want, Amelie. You should remember that.

Bile churned in her throat as she rested her head back against the bed.

“I do believe I’ve gone rather mad.”

* * *

“YOU’RE not doing well.”

Taylor sat across from him at a crowded Starbucks. It was a little too noisy for the two of them, but they couldn’t keep meeting at the same restaurant. Stupid doing it more than twice.

And Joss could use about fifty espressos, give or take. He was on his second. It hadn’t touched the fatigue. Not doing well. You think?

He’d done something that had left him ill. He had left her there. Yeah, it was her choice, but he’d left her there. With that monster. She was safe . . . for now. Safe enough, was the knowledge as it had come to him, and that made him puke his guts up once he’d gotten far enough away from the estate.

He’d stood there, shaking, sick with fury . . . and a clear burning knowledge in his mind.

Yes, Dru knew what Whitmore was doing.

And she was trapped. He didn’t want to know why or how she was in those circumstances, but somehow she felt trapped. He wasn’t sure he could ever forgive her, though. People who danced with the devil ended up in bad situations, and that was what had happened here.

Still, leaving her there, trapped, had left him ill. He could have gone up those stairs, found Dru. Saved her. And others would have died. The women he was trying to save. He could hear their screams, even thinking about it . . . screams that haunted him.

Walking away, leaving Dru in Patrick’s hands, was another thing that would haunt him. But with that clear, burning knowledge, he knew she’d live through this. Patrick didn’t want her dead. That gift that was trying to drive Joss crazy showed him that she’d live through this.

Of course, when it was said and done, he didn’t know how he would live with himself. The woman he’d lived his whole life waiting for . . . and she was living with a man like Whitmore.

Too aware of Jones’s intense gaze, he focused on his coffee. “Quit staring at me, damn it. I’m not a bug on a slide. My head is a mess, but I’ll live through it. Any luck on my Latina girl?”

“Yeah.” Taylor nodded shortly. “She’s an amplifier, so this won’t be too hard on her, although hopefully we can keep physical contact between her and Vaughnne to a minimum.”

“An amplifier . . .” Joss sighed. Touching the cut inside his lip, he said, “The last thing I need is anything in my head amplified, Taylor. Do me a favor—tell her to wear long sleeves and keep her head locked down when we’re working.”

“Like I said . . . you’re not doing well,” Taylor repeated.

With a scowl, he said, “I’m doing what I have to do, right? Not like anybody else can do this damn job.” Reaching into the bag at his side, he pulled out the wrapped glass he’d lifted from the party. “I need a favor. There are prints on this . . . probably several of them. A server’s—most of them were male. But the prints I need are female. She’s British. Hopefully, there’s a fairly recent passport. I need info on her and I need it fast.”

Taylor’s gaze dropped to the bag and he took it, slid it over. “I have to give you a message. Jillian said she’s been trying to get through to you and you’re blocking her out.”

“And that would really stop her?” Joss muttered, taking another swig from his coffee.

“No.” Taylor shrugged. “She could probably plow through whatever shields you have and leave you a crying, whimpering mess, if she wanted. But I doubt she wants that.” He paused, blew out a breath. “The kid wants you to stop the ice. I don’t know what that means, but I assume you do. She says you’re not going to feel things you need to feel if you keep up the ice.”

Joss clenched his jaw. “Tell the kid I got this.”

“Crawford . . . I don’t think you do.” Taylor’s blue eyes searched Joss’s face. “It’s only been a few days and you look like hell. You’ve done harder jobs.”

Curling his lip, Joss hunched over his caffeine. “Don’t count on it.”

“Joss—”

“You got any idea what that kid is capable of?” he demanded, shooting Taylor a narrow look. The fury bubbling inside him had to come out, and it was better to focus it on anything other than what was really hurting him.

Storming out of the coffee shop, he headed for the stolen car he had to use. Even the car hurt to use now. All the screams, they were like ice picks, in his ears, in his skin, in his soul. The ghosts were colder, hanging on more heavily than they ever had.

And Dru . . .

For f*ck’s sake . . . he felt his heart tremble. Shatter. How was this happening? After all this time, how was it even possible that it would happen this way? Finding her . . . like this . . .

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 . . .

Dru . . .

He had to get away from her. Stumbling toward his car, he reached into his pocket. Dug out his keys. But a few feet away, he realized Jones was trailing along behind him. Veering off to the right, he circled around the restaurant. Once Jones caught up with him, he wheeled on him, the agony, the pressure, the pain spilling out of him.

“It’s almost like she’s got every gift I’ve ever had shoved in my head and it’s cranked up to the max,” he growled out, turning around to face Taylor. “And some shit I didn’t even know was possible, I bet. The only thing I don’t think she’s got is this mirror thing I do. I bet she can even see some of Dez’s ghosts.”

“She sees their echoes,” Taylor said quietly. “She saw them when she was just a kid. But they don’t speak to her, not the way they do to Dez.” Taylor studied him. “Do we need to pull you out? We know where they have Vaughnne. We can send word to her, let her prepare and—”

Joss swore. “No. One person on the inside isn’t enough.” He groaned, some of that knowledge flooding his head. Blood. So much of it. Screams. They’d break more bones, but there wouldn’t be a slow, subtle enjoyment this time. They’d dispose of the bodies as quickly as possible, because they wanted all traces gone. And hell, if they pulled him out, who would take care of Dru?

“If we try to rush in, people are going to die. He’s prepared for that. He can’t get rid of the evidence, even though he thinks he can. There’s too much of it, but we don’t want anybody else dying.”

Jones continued to watch him. “Can you hold it together?”

“No choice.”

A heavy sigh came from Taylor. “If I’d known Jillian and Dez together would hit you this hard, I wouldn’t have paired both of them on you. I just . . . shit. I knew there’d be ghosts, and it felt like it was the way to go. I miscalculated. I’m sorry, Joss.”

Guilt churned inside him. It wasn’t Jillian and Dez that had him so twisted up. It was Dru. Ella . . . Amelie . . .

A whisper of her voice drifted through his mind.

A name he hadn’t heard . . . not from her . . . in far too long.

Thom . . .

Hissing out a breath, he spun away. In a clipped voice, he said, “Get word to me about the next plant.” Then he took off, running for the car, before his head exploded. Once he was there, he leaned back against it, lifted shaking hands to his face.

Thom . . . Now you remember, he thought bitterly.

Now. When he discovers she’s been shacking up with a guy who had his hands in some of the worst crimes known to man.

He could have accepted a lot of things.

But Joss didn’t think he could live with that.

More . . . he just didn’t want to.

Briefly, he opened his mind, just a little.

Stay out of my head, Dru. I don’t want you now.

There was a faint pause. Followed by, You sodding bastard. As if I’d let you near me. Stay the f*ck out of my head, my dreams, my life.

He curled his lip. Sure thing, duchess. He wouldn’t be doing that. Unless she was actively engaged in what Whitmore was doing, he didn’t want to see her going down with the others. He . . . hell, maybe he was getting soft, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t let her go down over this, not unless she was involved in it. But he could walk away. That much he could do.

I’ll see you around your sugar daddy’s place sometime, but don’t worry, I’ll keep my distance.

If you had half a brain, you’d keep your distance from him entirely, you wanker. Now stay out of my head.

He distinctly felt a snap fall between them. Like she’d shut a door. Curious, he pushed against it, but it was a pretty solid wall. Not as good as those who’d gone through the kind of training he’d had, but she wasn’t green the way he’d been when Jones had found him.

Self-preservation, he figured. She’d have to develop decent shields to stay sane around Whitmore.

Groaning, he slammed his head back against the SUV.

Life was such a bitch. She could sucker-punch you right after you thought she was giving you one hell of a gift.

Traitorous, ugly bitch.

* * *

DRU ran harder.

Hitting the control on the treadmill in Patrick’s private gym, she inched up to seven miles an hour, the muscles in her thighs screaming. She’d been pounding away at the miles for a good forty minutes and she’d thought she was done.

Then she’d heard him whispering into her mind.

I don’t want you now . . .

Like she was the dirty one?

Sodding bastard.

If she could just get her—

“You look like you’re feeling better.”

Caught off guard, she stumbled and went flying backward.

Ending up on her ass at Patrick’s feet, she sat there, panting, dazed from the pain, her chest aching from the exertion, her heart pounding.

And as Patrick crouched down, fear exploded inside her.

The monster in his eyes . . . it was thirsting for blood, she thought.

“Hello, Ella. As I said, you look to be feeling better.”

Swallowing, she tried to calm the racing of her heart. Had to keep her calm here, now more than ever, even though she was oddly more terrified than she’d ever been. And she didn’t even know why. “Yes. I guess I just needed some rest. Champagne and I never did get along very well, although I never thought a half a glass would do me in like that.”

“A half a glass,” he murmured. He reached out, caught her wrist, stroking his thumb along her skin.

Flash, flash, flash.

Slut, little whore . . .

She saw herself through his eyes, and whether it was her fear or the sheer power of his fury, the connection was clear, too clear. It flooded through her and she saw the events of last night the way he had perceived them—her drunk, throwing herself at his guests, flirting with Joss . . . Mike, whoever the bloody hell he was, even the doctor who hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her tits, before she passed out in a drunken slump.

Then she saw more . . . and it left her almost ill.

Whore me out, will you? She stared at him, shaking with a fury of her own, and this time, she failed to do the simplest thing . . . Dru didn’t give him the meek, mild face he wanted to see every time he looked at her.

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Then he tumbled her against him.

Dru sensed it coming and she moved with him, twisting her wrist and jerking away at the same time. She was on her feet and moving, her mind working furiously. She could get away from him; there was no doubt of that. The question was what to do about those who didn’t have an escape net.

But then somebody moved out from behind one of the columns. Dru came to an abrupt stop, staring at him for a blink.

It gave Patrick the split second he needed to catch her. She struck back with her head, smashing it into his nose. She heard him howl with fury, and hot, savage satisfaction burned inside her. She’d wanted to bloody him for so long, so, so long . . .

“Help me, damn it,” Patrick demanded.

Minton went to grab her.

Dru processed everything she could feel coming from Patrick—he had plans for her, big ones. They didn’t involve her being harmed; that was good. She could do a lot of damage if they were trying to keep from leaving marks . . .

But then Minton had his hands on her and flash, flash, flash. She didn’t even have time to process what he was going to do before it was happening. Seconds later she was flat against one of the decorative columns, face first, something thick and sturdy entrapping her.

“You really shouldn’t have tried to cross me, Ella. Did you think I wouldn’t find out what a little whore you were under the skin?”

Patrick stroked his fingers down her cheek, down her neck, over whatever it was Minton was using to bind her in place before coming to rest against her hips. “Know what happens to whores, Ella?”

* * *

TERROR. Blind.

Rage. All-consuming. It seemed to suck him in and he was lost, forever.

Run, have to run—

It was a scream inside him and everything was fear, determination and terror. But not his—even as lost to this fear as he was, he knew it wasn’t his.

Dru!

He couldn’t break free from it. Couldn’t break away from that choking, consuming fear. It tore into him and destroyed him—

“Damn it, you son of bitch! Come out of it!”

Icy water doused him.

Choking, sputtering, Joss shoved against the hands holding him. Long seconds passed as he struggled against them. He was on . . . the floor of the hotel where he’d been staying with Jones. Soaking wet. And on the floor.

In the hotel? What the hell? He’d just been in Starbucks.

“I found you in the parking lot,” Taylor said, kneeling down beside him, eyes grim. “You were out. Tasing you didn’t help—we had to douse you with water. You’ve been out of it for almost thirty minutes. I had to have Morgan help me haul your ass up here.”

Joss closed his eyes, trying to process those words, but even as he tried, something awful and sick swelled inside him. A scream, trapped inside his mind, while a sense of wrongness grew and grew. Fear—terror—

Sitting there, water puddling around him, he blocked everything out and focused.

“Joss, what in the hell is wrong?” Jones demanded.

Ice.

. . . stop the ice . . . you’re not going to feel things you need to feel if you keep up the ice . . .

Slowly, he eased back on some of the shielding he’d built in his head.

And fury slammed into him.

Shoving upright, he snarled. “Phone. Need my f*cking phone, now . . .”

Just the little glimpse . . . that was all he’d take, but still. Couldn’t reach out to her. Couldn’t take that grief again. But this wouldn’t happen.

“You’re being an ass,” Nalini said as she pushed the phone into his hands. Then she looked at Taylor. “We need to move up the schedule. Fast.”

Ignoring her, he did a quick check, made sure he was secured, and then pulled up another image. Sent it. Sent another. Then a message.

Ever had the feeling your house of cards is about to come toppling down?

* * *

PATRICK stroked a hand along Ella’s ass, digging his fingers into her rump. “I should let my boy here take a turn at you. And I might . . . later on. Maybe I’ll let all of them. When I’m done.”

Blood lay heavy on his tongue. His nose throbbed, but he didn’t think it was broken. If the auction wasn’t so close . . . f*cking cunt. One more thing she’d suffer for. After.

Reaching down, he pulled a condom out of his pocket, put it between his teeth. Peering up, he made sure Minton had her secured. She struggled against the leather that held her, struggled hard, but it was useless. Minton was the best at restraining them in a way that would leave no marks.

Reaching for his zipper, he said, “This is the first of many, many lessons, Ella . . . remember it.”

His phone chimed.

He ignored it.

It chimed again.

He dragged his zipper down.

It chimed a third time.

When it rang, he swore and grabbed it.

* * *

SHOVING the phone at Taige, Joss glared at her.

She fumbled and then picked it up, swearing in silence even as she caught his mental line.

You really should have covered your tracks better on the blonde, Joss prodded, his voice a ragged snarl in her mind.

Good thing about telepathy. Made this a lot easier.

Taige’s eyes sparked fire as she said into the phone, “Hey there, slick. You should have covered your tracks better on the blonde.”

The panic she saw in Joss’s eyes gutted her.

The panic, the urgency.

Fortunately for him, she’d let herself take a few walks into the gray over the past forty-eight hours and she’d figured a few things out.

“Who in the f*ck is this?”

“Now, now, Whitmore,” Taige drawled, smiling a little. “You really should have paid your boys better . . . might have kept one of them from crossing sides.”

Heavy, ragged panting. “Who. Is. This.”

“Oh . . . now that is going to make me talk, that snarly mean growl. She was a pretty girl. Hell, maybe she still is, but how the hell do I know? Hard to talk to her, seeing as how she’s kind of indisposed . . . over in Dubai. Gotta go . . . having a chat with somebody you know very, very well in just a few. Ta-ta!”

Disconnecting the phone, she hurled it at Joss. He didn’t even seem to notice, covering his face with his hands, groaning.

“You crazy-ass idiot. Are you trying to screw this up or get yourself killed or what?”

“I’ve got to get out there.”

Nalini was behind him. “I’m going, too.”

“No. It’s too soon for me to take another girl out there.”

She snorted. “Hell, he’s going to get suspicious no matter what, and that’s why you need me out there.” She smiled thinly. “Trust me . . . this is my specialty.”

“No,” Joss growled. The fear continued to grow, beating and growling inside him, a pacing, caged beast. “Damn it, he’s going to begin his stupid ‘protocol’ to cover his ass, which means he’s going to start getting rid of people.”

“That’s why you need me,” Nalini said gently.

“Listen to her,” Taylor said.

“F*ck you,” Joss bit off. They didn’t know—

“She’s going,” Taylor said, his voice icy. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll have your ass arrested before you leave the city limits. You’re walking an edge, Crawford, and you’re not going out there solo. Too much is riding on this. Lives on the line, have you forgotten that?”

Joss glared at him.

A hand touched his side.

A rush of calm flooded him and he looked over, found himself staring into Nalini’s eyes. For a moment, just a brief moment, those large, dark, compelling eyes . . . all he could see. “We got this, Crawford. Just trust me,” Nalini said, smiling at him.

With a terse nod, he headed out of the room.

* * *

AS the door closed behind him, Taige started to swear. “If he figures out what she just did to him, he’s going to blow a gasket.”

“He’s close to blowing anyway,” Taylor muttered. “We need to get ready. I think this is going to hit boiling point sooner than we’d expected.”

Sighing, Taige turned away and headed toward the bag she had stashed on the couch.

Cullen was over there, arms crossed over his chest, waiting quietly.

As she passed by him, she avoided looking at him. “I’m in this now,” she said flatly. “Doesn’t matter if you like it or not. I’ve heard their screaming. Women are suffering. Girls are dying. People need me. It’s what I am.”

His hand touched her arm.

Despite her decision not to look at him, she was unable to stop herself, swinging her head around and meeting the impossible blue of his eyes. Blue that stared at her with so much love. So much heat. So much need. He touched her cheek gently, slowly, tracing his finger down to stroke it over her lip. “I know, Taige. I know who you are . . . and although I hate how much you suffer for it, I wouldn’t change who you are.”

A knot rose in her throat. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No.” He eased in, pressed his lips to her forehead. “You do what you have to . . . and then come back to me. Come to me, so we can go back home to our baby.”

* * *

AWARE of the quiet scene taking place behind him, but distancing himself from it, Taylor continued to check the information they’d managed to amass over the past few days. They hadn’t been sitting around idly. No, thanks to Taige, they’d been rather busy, and she’d made connections that just didn’t seem possible.

Including tracking down a man in Dubai. One who had a woman in his house who really shouldn’t be there.

Whitmore’s last girlfriend.

Other bits and pieces were coming through. Enough, Taylor knew, just barely to wrangle a warrant. Just barely. And he was going to put a rush on it.

His phone rang.

He almost ignored it. He didn’t care about the fingerprints Crawford had wanted the other day. But something wouldn’t let him ignore it totally.

Five minutes later, he hung up.

Without saying a word, he crossed over to his desk and flipped through his files. “Taige . . . did you by chance get a look in Crawford’s mind?”

She looked up from the bag, her shoulder holster in hand. “Not much. He’s gotten too good at shielding. Shielding. Denying. I caught random glimpses but . . .”

Picking up a picture, he flipped it around and showed it to her.

Taige stared at the picture.

And if her husband hadn’t been standing right there, she would have hit the floor.

As it was, Cullen was caught off guard and he damn near ended up on his ass as he caught her limp form.

“You son of a bitch,” he snarled, shooting Taylor a dark look.

Taylor looked at the image of the woman.

According to his files, her name was Ella Castille.

English-American citizen. Engaged to marry Patrick Whitmore.

According to the fingerprints . . . somebody else entirely.

And there was no way she could have managed a cover this complete on her own.

* * *

STRUGGLING against the leather, Dru braced herself. This was going to happen. She’d live through it. Then she was falling back on plan B. Escape. She’d contact Tucker. Regroup. Because she couldn’t stop this hell if she got pulled into it herself.

But first, she had to live through it—

Retreat . . . blank out . . . is that what I do?

No. She’d damn well fight. She’d retreated, acquiesced, changed, sold herself enough. She’d fight . . . and she’d survive.

Snarling and fighting against the leather, she kicked backward as best as she could, connecting with his leg. It wasn’t much, but every mark she left on him was a victory. He swore and punched her, right in the kidney. Pain lashed her but she ignored it, shoved it down, shoved it back. Kicked him again as she struggled against the leather and glared at Minton.

“You bloody monster,” she snarled at him. “Sodding cocksucking coward.”

He grinned at her. “I’ll show you sucking cock, cunt. When I get my turn in a few months.”

“I’ll bite it off,” she promised, curling her lip at Minton. “I promise you, whatever you stick in my mouth, I’m going to bite it off. I don’t care what happens to me because of it.”

A flicker of something that might have been caution showed in his eyes.

It wasn’t enough. She wanted to see him terrified.

A harsh jerk stripped her running shorts down to her ankles and Patrick came up behind her, kicked her legs farther apart. “Be nice to him, or when he gets his turn, he’ll tear you apart. I’ve seen him do it.”

“He’ll be lucky if I don’t carve his dick off and feed it to him like a sausage.”

A chiming sound filled the room, oddly out of place. Patrick grunted, moving in closer. It came again . . . followed by the ringing of the phone.

It happened so abruptly, it caught her off guard, but Patrick moved away.

Seconds later, over the sound of her own panting, she heard him speak.

“Who the f*ck is this?”

His next words were filled with . . . well, if Dru didn’t know better, she might have thought it was fear.

Minutes passed.

The call ended and she braced herself. She’d caught her breath, she could fight longer. Harder—

“Let her go. We need to go to the city,” Patrick said.

The leather holding her restrained fell away and she sagged, falling to the floor.

He touched her, and it was a shock as the flash, flash, flash came. He was scared. Damn scared. And pissed. Somebody knew . . . For a second, she was scared as well. But he didn’t know about her.

Who the f*ck knows—

Going to kill—

Terror flooded her and she thought of Tucker.

But then sanity hit, realigned, as the flash settled into her mind. Patrick had spoken with a woman. Dru was safe . . . or safe on that front, at least. He didn’t know about her, about Tucker.

And he was leaving . . . she could get the hell out.

“You’ll be staying here, Ella,” Patrick said. “And don’t think of leaving. I’ll just find you . . . and you’ll be sorry.”

“I think I’m rather done with this engagement bit,” she said.

“Oh, no.” He knelt in front of her, stroked a finger down her cheek. “No, you’re not. But go ahead. Try. Run. I’d enjoy it. I can’t wait to break you, Ella. I really, really can’t.”

She spit in his face.

When he hit her, she moved with it, just at the last moment, enough to lessen the blow so she wasn’t completely dazed.

As he left, she remained on the floor, pretending to cry.

Their time was up.

They had to move, and now, before he freaked and took actions to eliminate all evidence . . . which meant he’d kill his hostages.