She couldn’t imagine what had been done to him.
And this was the anniversary of when he’d gotten ambushed while traveling.
Such a shame, the whole thing. South America was one of the most beautiful places in the world with delicious food, fantastic landscapes, and an amazing history—she and Edward had always joked that they would retire down there on side-by-side estates. The kidnapping and ransoming of business executives was one of the travel advisories for certain areas, but that was no different than someone being told not to go through Central Park at three in the morning: Bad elements could be found wherever you were, and there was no reason to condemn an entire continent because of a minority of bad actors.
Unfortunately, Edward had become one of the victims.
After all this time, she just wanted to see him with her own eyes. There had been a couple of blurry photos that had been in the press, and they had certainly not set her mind at ease. He had appeared so much thinner, his body hunched over, his face always turned down and away from the cameras.
To her, he would still be beautiful, however.
“Miss Smythe, we’re ready if you are?”
Shaking herself into focus, Sutton saw that the one thousand person crowd was seated, picking at their salads, and ready to hear her speak—
Without warning, a sudden roar of dreadful energy pounded through her, bringing sweat out across her chest, over her forehead, under her arms. As her heart leaped into a snare-drum rhythm, waves of lightheadedness caused her to reach out and steady herself on the wall.
What was wrong with her—
“Miss Smythe?”
“I can’t,” she heard herself say.
“I’m sorry?”
She pressed the index cards she’d so carefully written out into the hands of the assistant. “Someone else needs to—”
“What? Wait, where are you—”
She put her palms up and backed away. “—give the speech.”
“Miss Smythe, you’re the only one who—”
“I’ll call you on Monday, I’m sorry, I can’t do this—”
Sutton had no idea where she was going as her high heels clipped a retreat over the marble floor. In fact, it wasn’t until a wave of heat hit her that she realized she’d left the building via a fire exit and had emerged on the west side of the complex, out in the humid night air.
Far from the parking lot where her chauffeur was waiting.
Collapsing against the museum’s stuccoed wall, she took deep breaths that did nothing to relieve a crushing sense of suffocation.
She couldn’t stay out here all night. More to the point, she wanted to run fast and far away, run until this feeling of ambient terror worked its way out of her system. But that was crazy … right?
God, she was losing her mind. Finally, the pressure of everything was getting to her.
Or maybe it was, once again and always, Edward Baldwine.
Time to get moving. This was ridiculous.
Shucking her stilettos and holding them by the ankle straps, she started out over the grass, staying close to the pools of illumination thrown by the security lights. After what seemed like forever, the parking lot she was in search of appeared when she turned yet another corner—except then she was confounded by the number of cars and limousines parked in the open-air space.
Where was her—
By some stroke of luck, the black Mercedes C63 found her, the large sedan drawing up in front of her, its passenger-side window going down soundlessly.
“Ma’am?” her chauffeur said in alarm. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“I need the car.” Sutton walked around to him, the headlights flaring brilliant white against her silver gown and her diamonds. “I need the car, I need …”
“Ma’am?” The uniformed man got out from behind the wheel. “I’ll drive you wherever you have to go—”
She took a hundred-dollar bill out of her tiny evening bag. “Here. Please get a cab, or call someone, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I need to … go—”
He shook his head at the cash. “Ma’am, I can take you anywhere—”
“Please. I need the car.”
There was a short pause. “All right. Do you know how to drive this—”
“I’ll figure it out.” She put the money against his palm and curled his hand into a fist. “Keep this. I’ll be fine.”
“I’d rather drive you myself.”
“I appreciate the kindness, I truly do.” She shut herself in, put the window up, and looked around for the gear shift or the—
At the knock on the tinted glass, she put the thing back down.
“It’s there—to the side of the wheel,” the chauffeur said. “That’s where your drive and reverse are. There you go. And the directional signal is—yup, that’s right. You shouldn’t need the windshield wipers, and the headlights are already on as you can see. Good luck.”