My breath hitched as Rhys wrapped a strong arm around my waist and pulled me to his side, almost possessively. I was assuming that was supposed to be code for “a place to make out.” Which we kind of had. Rhys really made sure to sell it too, his body curving toward me, his hand hard against my hip. I was definitely selling it with the way my face flushed and my head shyly dipped. Though that wasn’t an act.
“Aidan, what would your father think?” Blackwell folded his arms and stepped slowly toward us. “It’s not like you to do such things. Especially when you’re here on duty.”
“Not my fault your party’s boring.”
“Sorry, we won’t do it again.” Grabbing his wrist, I pulled him away from the desk. “We’re going now.”
Blackwell’s eyes never left me as I scurried out of his study with Rhys in tow.
? ? ?
“Are you okay?” Rhys asked once we were back upstairs in the hallway with the other patrons. Probably because I was tugging at the stupid band around my itching neck.
“Yeah, sorry. Hey, do you think you can you get me out of here?”
Blackwell was going to find Crane in the closet tucked underneath all his smoking jackets. If he didn’t, someone else would. I didn’t have an excuse for that. “Like, can you drive me back to the facility?”
It didn’t take Rhys more than a second to surmise the situation. Without asking questions, he nodded. “We can take my brother’s car. Just stay here while I get his keys.”
He disappeared back into the reception hall. I waited in a corner, avoiding the stares of the patrons in their little circles, peering over one another’s shoulders to make sure it was me before whispering to each other. Really. For a bunch of high-powered politicians and businesspeople, the way they conducted themselves was startlingly similar to the kind of stuff I saw at Ashford’s last school dance.
“Ms. Finley,” a reporter said, walking up to me. Damn it. I should have waited outside. “I’m Jonathan Headey from the Sun. Do you have a minute for a quick interview?”
“Well, I—”
“Sorry, but we’d like Ms. Finley to come with us.”
The security guard had spoken politely enough, despite his intimidating frame, but his partner had shoved the reporter aside rather roughly.
Crane’s revenge. Blackwell had found me out. I was done for.
One grabbed my arm and pulled me along, though I shot one last frantic look toward the reception hall. I didn’t suppose I could just set him on fire without anybody noticing.
“Blackwell sent you, right?” I asked as we squeezed through dignitaries. “Hey, stop!” I pulled myself out of his grip and stopped in my tracks. “I asked you a question.”
“Blackwell didn’t send us,” said the taller one.
It was hard to gather anything from either of their faces since both guards were wearing shades.
“Then what’s this about?”
“It’s Mrs. Prince,” one said. “The director’s wife would like to see you inside Mr. Blackwell’s office. It’s an urgent matter. Please come with us.”
Rhys’s mom? Curious, I followed them through the corridors until the patrons and reporters thinned out and we were standing alone outside a lonely door at the end of a hall.
My phone vibrated against my hip. It was Rhys.
“Miss,” a guard said before I could answer it, putting his hand on my phone. “If you please? We’re here. This really is urgent.”
I looked at the two men towering above me and wondered how much effort it would take to knock them both out if this turned out to be some kind of trap. If Blackwell really was waiting to try something behind the doors, I knew I could take him easily, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try with all the people running around the house.
Discreetly, I answered the call, but only after I’d placed my phone back in my bag. “So this is Blackwell’s office in the east wing?” I spoke loudly enough for Rhys to hear, but restrained myself so I still sounded natural. “Mrs. Prince is really waiting for me in here? Are you guys sure?”
“Yes,” one replied after an annoyed grunt.
I slipped my hand back out without turning my phone off, leaving my bag slightly open so it could pick up any surrounding sound. It was a precaution—one they didn’t notice.
The shorter security guard knocked on the door. “Ma’am, she’s arrived.”
“Maia?”
I heard the woman’s voice call for me through the door, but something was wrong. It was less a call than a whimper, a pleading question suddenly muffled into silence.
Whipping around to glare at the security agents, I burst inside the room. Mrs. Prince was inside Blackwell’s darkly lit office, standing behind the large wooden desk that shimmered in the moonlight streaming from the grand, arched window behind it.
And next to her was the tiny red-haired server girl I’d bumped into earlier, holding a gun to Mrs. Prince’s temple. With her other hand, she held a finger to her lips.
“We’re going to do this quietly, sweetie,” she said in an accent she hadn’t had before. Australian. This voice I recognized. “Or you’ll see Mrs. Naomi’s brains splattered across all this fine furniture.”
18
NAOMI. NATALYA’S NAOMI? I LOOKED at the woman, who was deathly still, though her eyes screamed for help.
A rough push from one of the security guards sent me stumbling farther inside the room. The other shut and locked the door behind him with a soft click. Quickly, I lifted my arms, feeling the heat rush through them.
“Nuh-uh-uh! Hands down.” The server waved her finger at me. “No powers. Neither of us wants things to get messy here.”
“Jessie, right?” I said. She looked completely different from the picture I’d seen on the screen, but I couldn’t forget that mocking, singsong tone.
“Ooh? Did Aidan tell you about me? I’m touched that he remembers me.”
“Aidan,” Naomi hissed quickly. “Tell Aidan—”
Jessie’s hand covered the woman’s mouth. “Qui-et, please.”
Discreetly, I lowered my gaze, checking my bag to make sure it was still open, picking up the sound.
“Jessie Stone, right?” I repeated as loudly as I could without arousing suspicion. “Yeah, I saw your picture once. Kind of a different girl when you were thirteen.”
“I got a little work done in my off time. Wanted to look pretty for my big comeback, you know. I haven’t seen Aidan in so long.” She leaned in, pressing her gun closer to her victim’s temple. “What else did he tell you about me?”
“That you’re a psychopath.”
“Really?”
“No, but I can gather. Otherwise, why would you have a gun to his mother’s head?”
I shifted slightly, feeling my open bag swivel against my hips as Jessie giggled. “You talk tough. Ain’t too bright, though.” Her wild eyes traced a path down my face to my neck before rubbing the back of her own.
The security guards stood almost perfectly still, like soldiers waiting for orders. “Jessie, it’s getting late, and they still haven’t called,” one said. “He should be out by now.”
“Yeah, I know that, Anderson. Damn it,” she cursed, glaring at her pants pocket. “What the hell is the holdup?”
“What exactly do you want from me?” I gripped the bag’s chain around my shoulder. My feet itched to launch me forward, but Jessie’s finger was too firmly on the trigger of her gun. “Just let Mrs. Prince go!”