The Reunited

THREE





"JUST . . . get away.” Blood trickled from his mouth as he spoke. “Get away from him, Amelie. Don’t let him . . .”

“Shhh. Hush, now. Do not fret about me. You need to save your strength,” she told him as the blood burned out of him to stain the ground beneath him red. This was her fault. Hers. If she had just left with him as he’d asked . . . “Just rest, love. Will you do that for me?”

He squeezed her hand. “You have to get away from him. Promise me . . .”

He pushed something into her hand. Whispered it again. “Promise . . .”

* * *

FROM the penthouse, she could see the bright lights of the amusement park . . . and the castle. A bit of whimsy hit her, and she remembered how she’d once stood at the base of that castle as a child, gazing up at it in rapt wonder.

She was glad that girl no longer existed, glad that girl had had the wool ripped away from her eyes a good long time ago, so she couldn’t see what was happening to her now.

Glad the girl she’d been wasn’t still sitting around waiting for her Cinderella moment. If Drucella Chapman had a Prince Charming in her future, she’d yet to find him. And if he was lurking around, well . . . he’d have to get in line. She had a job to do.

Resting her hands on the balustrade, she thought of the so-called prince who was currently in her life. He was more like a snake.

He was the villain of the piece, in truth. And she was trapped with him. For now.

Two years . . . bloody hell. How had she lost two years to this?

Sighing, she lowered her gaze, stared at her hand. It wasn’t supposed to be this damned complicated. Patrick Whitmore wasn’t supposed to be part of her life, not like this.

Yet here she was, wearing his ring. And in a few short weeks, she was supposed to marry him. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She should have been done by now, well before this travesty of a wedding. But if she didn’t find some way to end this, find some way to pull off a bloody miracle, she was going to be Mrs. Patrick Whitmore very shortly.

Backing out just wasn’t an option.

Too much was at stake.

If she had to marry the devil himself to fix things, then she’d do it.

Of course, that wasn’t too far off from what she was doing.

It made the bitter pill she had to swallow even more distasteful. The practical, cynical part of her knew she had to do it. So she pulled that practical bitch to the forefront as she turned from the window and made herself ignore what should have been a magical sight.

Patrick Whitmore was just another mark. A job. Nothing more. Nothing less. It was taking a little longer than normal to get that job done, but she’d get it done and then she’d move on . . . forget about the evil that was Patrick Whitmore.

If she could . . .

Finish the job first. Then she could worry about getting away . . .

You have to get away from him . . .

Scowling, she shoved that bit of memory back to her mind. Ever since meeting Whitmore, she’d been plagued by nightmares, nasty ones. Her dreams had never been particularly pleasant. So much worse than the typical dream, one where she’d be naked in front of a class, weirder than dreams of talking animals or nightmares where she ran endlessly . . .

There was no understanding her dreams, no understanding why they’d gotten so much worse lately.

And she’d rather not think about them if she didn’t have to. She always died in them. Why would anybody want to think about that?

The dreams got worse until she’d resorted to taking sleeping pills and hoping they’d helped. The dreams couldn’t interfere with the job. With the blasted wedding.

Dru sighed and pushed a hand through her hair. “My bloody wedding.”

At least she didn’t have to feign the interest in planning it. That was all being done for her, and all she had to do was fake interest in what they were doing. Pretend to be excited, pretend to be nervous.

And it wasn’t a far stretch for her. She was excited. Several years’ worth of work were coming down to the finish line. She was nervous, and she had every right to be so. After all, if he found her out, he’d very likely kill her. She was on her own and nobody would stop him. Nobody would care.

I could kill you . . .

She jerked her mind back to the matter at hand as those insubstantial bits of thought tried to settle inside her head once more.

He could kill her. And she knew it wouldn’t be a first for him. He could kill. He had. So she had to be careful.

The knock at the door caught her off guard.

Closing her eyes, she blew out a breath. It’s bloody well past time he let me sleep, she thought, scowling at her toes. Then she smoothed away the scowl, checked her reflection. She had a part to play. A job to do.

A job she was damn good at.

When Dru opened the door, she did it with a smile on her face.

“Hello, darling,” Patrick said, dipping his head to brush his lips against hers.

Her instinct was to flinch away. Dru had long since learned to control those instinctive little tells and she held still under the cool, dry brush of his mouth, smiling at him. “Patrick, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you so late.”

“I just wanted to see you, see how you were settling in, Ella. It’s an odd place you wanted to stay.” He made no attempt to hide his distaste.

“If this is too much, Patrick, I can find someplace else,” she said, folding her hands together, her eyes on the pale cream of the carpet. Taking a stab at his wallet was the best way to get what she wanted. He’d told her she wouldn’t be moving in until after the wedding, and although part of her was thankful for that, the other part was frustrated. What if the answers she needed were on the estate?

There were ways around that part, though, and she’d do better if she was someplace more . . . public. Not to mention that she didn’t want to be anyplace remotely private, not if she could avoid it.

It had been easy enough, giving him a convincing reason why she wanted to stay here close to the park. Although why she was so certain she had to be here, she didn’t know. “I just . . . well, I have happy memories of this place. The park, you see,” she hedged, glancing out the window at the brightly lit castle. It wasn’t a lie. Back in that other life, her parents had brought her to this place, back when she’d still had some bit of innocence to her, back when some part of her had believed in magic.

Back before her life was overrun by monsters.

Like the one standing before her. “Would you like me to stay elsewhere, darling?” she asked, giving him a demure smile.

He waved a hand. “Don’t be silly, Ella. I just fail to see the appeal.” He glanced around, eyeing the remains of her meal, her laptop. “Are you settling in well?”

“Of course.” For the past eighteen months, she’d commuted back and forth between London and Orlando—or rather, that was Ella’s story. She’d had a lovely apartment here in the States, a lovely flat back home in London. And then three weeks ago, her “employer” let her go . . . oh, the tragedy.

Patrick had been quite happy to step in and take over her life. He’d been ready to do that for quite a while anyway.

The employer was a contact of hers and the job had been real enough, another way to solidify her life as “Ella.”

She’d done this sort of deep cover work, but never for so long. Never with the risks so high. For the most part, she was on her own. She’d been treading water, though, and unable to get close enough to him to find more information. So she “lost” her job as a courier, damn all the downsizing companies do these days, although the boss had been quite nice about it and explained that they’d decided to let her go first since she’d be leaving the company shortly—she was getting married, right?

Naturally, Patrick was there to take her life over.

She wondered how he’d ever react if she told him that he was the real job.

“Ella . . . you’re distracted.”

Forcing herself to smile, she said, “I’m sorry, Patrick. I was thinking of how wonderful you’ve been, finding me this place to stay, taking care of me.”

He brushed a kiss across her cheek. “You still look tired. You should get more rest, Ella.”

Ella . . . yes. The part she played. Along with the lovely rooms, the lovely clothes. The elegant demeanor and the doormat exterior she presented him with. With him, she was Ella and she settled seamlessly into that part, smiling at him. “Of course.” Of course I look tired. You have me followed everywhere I go, and although I can bloody damn well lose them, if I do that too often, you’ll wonder how I’m able to do it.

Tired. Tired didn’t even touch how she felt. Living a lie all this time, hoping against hope . . . losing herself. It had been two years since she had first waded into this job, twelve months since it had completely sucked her in, and every day she felt like she’d died a little more inside. Bloody hell, yes, she was tired.

Stop it. Not now, she told herself. Keeping her smile plastered firmly on her face, she moved to sit on the sofa, waiting for him to join her, but he didn’t.

He chose to remain standing, looming over her, silent. Watchful. Controlling, egotistical bastard.

She didn’t react as he continued his probing stare. After nearly a minute, a faint smile curved his lips and he looked away, moving to the bar to fix himself a drink.

She let herself take a slow breath, wishing her racing heart would slow down. What in the hell was that about? No telling, really. She was terrified of the son of a bitch, but she couldn’t let him see that. It would only make him worse. Looking down, she stared at the sophisticated, elegant ring she wore.

It should be getting easier. She was getting closer. She knew she was—and her contact had even managed to show her proof. It was sealed up, tight and safe for now. But they needed more. More solid info . . . and an exact location would be nice. Something more than the few incriminating photos. That would be even better.

Could they find it soon enough, though?

Find it, she thought tiredly. She’d thought she’d find something soon two years ago, when she’d first stumbled onto this. It had been tangled threads that had led her here, and the more she’d unraveled those threads, the deeper she’d fallen into this mess.

And she was so deep now, she started to worry if she’d ever get out. If she’d survive.

Sometimes, like now, those fears got to be too much, and the weight of what she was doing crashed down so heavily. When that happened, she made herself remember why she was doing this. She thought of a girl. A poor, lost girl . . . So much time had passed that sometimes the girl’s face would start to fade. Then something would bring it back. Something . . . like Patrick’s cruelty. A touch from him . . .

She let herself think about the girl, gave herself a minute to shore up her strength, all the while projecting an outer image of calm. It was worth it, no matter what. In the end, Patrick would go down and he’d never hurt another young woman. She had to remind herself of that, even at times like this when she felt so completely stuck.

“I’ve been thinking about taking a day away at a spa,” she said abruptly, turning around and smiling at him. “I heard about a lovely one that I’d like to try.”

“I’ll have my assistant set a day up for you here. We’ve got wonderful facilities, as I’m sure you already know.”

Yes . . . someplace just under your nose. What she wanted was to be someplace completely away from his influence. Where he’d have no way of watching over her, spying . . .

Except she had to be close to him for her to get her job done.

He lifted a hand, laid it on her shoulder. The touch was light. “You’re not getting . . . nervous . . . are you, Ella?”

Nervous. Bugger all. Just his touch made a rush of cold snake through her—water, black and icy, closing over her . . . sucking her under. Brutal hands. Hard laughter.

Did you really think I’d let you leave . . .

Shaken, she forced those dark, odd terrifying thoughts aside. Have to get a grip. Suppressing the urge to shudder, she eased away from him and went to the bar under the pretense of pouring herself a glass of wine. “A bit, perhaps. A wedding is a rather important event for any bride.”

Even an unwilling one . . .

“Just think of it more as a business arrangement,” he advised, following her. Once more, he cupped his hands over her shoulders. Squeezed. A little too tight, a little cruel, until his fingers ground into her bones, but it lasted only a second. She swallowed the gasp before it could escape, knowing that any reaction would only make it worse the next time he tried to do it.

She’d learned her lesson well over the past few months.

Through her lashes, she watched as he moved deeper into the room, like he owned the place. Just as he thought he owned her. “A business arrangement,” he said again, turning to smile at her. “Thinking about it that way makes it so much easier to ignore any nervous inclinations, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” She inclined her head, smiling at him as her shoulders throbbed. One of these days, you icy piece of work, I’ll bloody you. It was a promise she’d made herself months ago.

After the first time he’d hit her.

It was a promise she intended to keep. She’d do it for herself, and for every woman he’d hurt. And there had been so many . . .

“Of course, I shouldn’t worry,” she murmured as he crossed the floor and settled on the couch, smiling at her, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. He’d hurt her . . . frightened her, even if she refused to show it. He still knew.

Hell, she suspected he liked that she didn’t show her fear. Made her that much more useful as a showpiece. That’s why he wanted to get married anyway.

It was a business arrangement, and that had never been in any doubt.

It’s time I found a wife. I believe we suit each other. Neither of us are looking for emotional entanglements, after all.

No. She wasn’t looking for an emotional entanglement. She was looking for a way to ruin his life, but that wasn’t emotional. Or it hadn’t started out that way, at least.

“So, enough with the nerves, right, Ella?” he said, eyeing her narrowly.

“Of course.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “It’s a business arrangement, naturally. But a wedding is an important thing for a woman. Easier said than done, trying to not be nervous. I’ll do better about it, I promise.”

“Glad to hear.” He studied her critically. “Worrying does you no good. It will give you wrinkles.”

Wrinkles—

It was almost laughable. If only that were the worst of her problems.

She had much bigger things to worry about . . . staying alive. Staying two steps ahead of him. Actually, ten would be ideal.