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  “We’re on final approach to the hotel,” he states in a voice as pleasant as a tour guide’s. “Everyone in place and ready to oo-la-la this shit?”

  “Damn straight.” Sawyer responds first, as I expected. “Everyone, remember the goals on mission. One: protect the fuck out of Chase Richards since he’s still in the dark about all this. Two: assess and evaluate the team surrounding Papa Bear Richards for hints about their SOP. Number three, the big golden ticket: capturing one of them means we’ll possibly have a lock to pick about this shit. Capturing two means we can play them off each other in questioning.”

  “Everyone roger that?” Reece jumps in again.

  “Roger.” As expected, the first response comes from a grim Tyce.

  “Roger.” From the driver’s seat, Max adds a new thumbs-up.

  “Roger.” Mitch Mori’s voice this time. “Everything’s cool and calm so far in the dining room—though these waiter uniforms are uncomfortable as fuck.”

  “Roger.” Loud clanks and hissing sounds punch the line behind Kane Alighieri’s voice. “Kitchen’s a beehive of nervous—but the waiters look fine as hell in those cutaway tux uniforms.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, asshole,” Mitch grouses back.

  “Counting on it, hot stuff,” Kane returns.

  “Ahhhh, the smell of young love in bloom.” The next voice on the line takes me aback a little. I’m ready to hear Alex Trestle, normally the third musketeer to Mitch and Kane, but as the most technically savvy of Team Bolt, he’s stayed behind in LA to help Wade and Fershan get up to speed and—apparently, in his free time—help design an electricity-conducting necktie. In his place is Dan Colton, a mutual friend of Sawyer and Reece, who apparently likes leading a double life more than Reece ever did. In the eyes of the world, Dan’s the dashing CEO of Colton Steel and a passionately devoted husband to his gorgeous wife, Tess. But in his guy-bonding time, he likes hanging with Sawyer and, in his words, “kickin’ ass and taking names” of bad guys who eat their young. “And roger, by the way,” he adds. “Quieter’n flat beer in the back of the lobby, though the banquet staff is bustling in and out of the ballroom. I expect we’ll have some action back here soon.”

  “Good news,” Sawyer responds. “Because that’s where I’m headed with the tank.”

  Reece rolls his eyes. “It’s just an SUV, man. A Mercedes, at that.”

  Before he’s done, Sawyer’s well into a resounding grunt. “I feel like Mother Hubbard driving a fucking oversized boot.”

  “Well, you sound like the whiny wench too,” Kane cuts in, backed by more kitchen clangs.

  “Says the guy who irons his socks?” Sawyer rejoins.

  “Guys!” I’m the one who breaks in on them, channeling Mother Hubbard-meets-Natasha Romanoff in the same syllable. After their second of cowed silence, Reece speaks again.

  “Foley, I need you in the rolling boot tonight, man,” he reasons. “If this shit goes sideways and we need to cut and run fast, we can’t all speed away on Ducatis—and you’re our best driver.”

  “Hey!” Max throws a scowl over his shoulder.

  “Because I usually ride a Ducati,” Sawyer gripes.

  “Make friends with the boot, buddy.” Reece’s hardened tone enforces his subtext. It’s not a casual suggestion. “And stay alert and close to the back entrance, in case we all need to suddenly pile in on you.”

  “With our pretty ironed socks,” Kane quips.

  “Don’t get those fuckers in my face, and we’ll be good,” Sawyer volleys.

  “Yeah, that’s what she said.” Though Reece’s one-liner earns him subdued chuckles from everyone on the line, he’s still robot rigid next to me—an incongruity I wouldn’t believe if not for sitting right next to him. For all anyone knows from his easy tone, he’s simply escorting his woman out for a night of romance in the City of Light.

  God, if that were only true. Though the two of us have seized every opportunity to get at each other for the last seventy-two hours, we’ve been more like animals than lovers, our mating more acts of desperate passion and urgent lust—as if recognizing our need to mark each other as much as possible before the inevitable…

  I squeeze my eyes shut to block my musings from trailing into the realm of brooding, but when Max turns the car right, about half a mile short of the Place de la Concorde, I realize my effort isn’t needed. The sheer magnificence of the building in front of us is reason to forget even my own freaking name.

  “Fuck me to the moon and back.” Max’s exclamation about says it all—and thank God, because I’m still slack-jawed as we approach the Virage’s entrance. It’s lined by water fountains that are a breathtaking mix of classic and modern Paris, interspersed with crystal statues modeled after the dancing angels on the Palais Garnier’s proscenium. Everything is lighted from underneath by gold, blue, and red LED bulbs. Just before the porte cochere of the lobby, there’s a more modern sculpture in gold crafted by one of France’s hottest young sculptors. The piece is called Décalage, which loosely translates to Shift. Everything is designed to support the hotel’s bigger theme, representing the beauty of the city “then and now.”

  Wow. Just wow.

  Get your shit together, Em.

  I’m not here to gawk. More importantly, I’m arriving here with knowledge that arms me more than most against all this flash. No. Not knowledge. Awareness. A higher understanding of exactly what kind of “financing” is behind this magnificence. Money that’s dripping in blood and bones and flesh. The lives of all three Richards brothers sold into a fate worse than slavery by their own father.

  I swallow down bile from my normal nauseating follow-up thought to that. I actually let Lawson Richards help me set up the Richards Reaches Out organization. He stood in our New York offices and told me how proud he was of Reece and me for turning RRO into reality. That he was so honored to be part of a movement helping deserving kids break free from the shackles of their lives—when the whole time, he was planning to turn his own sons over to the Consortium and their shackles.

  He’s the worst kind of a human being.

  No. I’m wrong again. And Reece is right.

  Lawson’s not a human being at all.

  But there he is, strolling out to the Virage’s main entrance like a damn king welcoming his cherished prince back to his castle.

  Cocksucker.

  I can practically hear the word roaring from Reece’s mind as Max slows the car in front of the hotel’s entrance. Though we’re still holding hands, I compress my fingers around Reece’s with a little extra force. When that makes him glance up, I openly wince—not at him but for him. Though he’s still suave, sophisticated, and complete French GQ on the outside, I can feel the annihilation he’s enduring on the inside. This open acknowledgment from his father, for which he’s dreamed of for so long, is a sham. A “treat” waved like a dog bone in front of the stray son who’s gotten nothing but his father’s emotional scraps since he was a boy.

  And this gleaming palace?

  Welcome to the doghouse.

  Okay, so it’s a fancy doghouse. Both of the Virage’s massive front doors are open, with the clear glass frame around them lit from within by LED lights in the same colors as the entrance fountains. Carved into those wide glass columns are designs in the ornate Beaux-Arts style. Beyond the entrance, the huge lobby looks like the inside of a swimming pool—not surprising, since the entire floor is clear and built on top of a manmade lagoon. Lights beneath the water act as projectors, making the whole scene feel otherworldly.

  I’d even add enchanting and mesmerizing to that adjective—in any other circumstance than this. I’d be free to be dazzled instead of ordering myself not to vomit as Reece exits the car and then turns to help me out. We could be arriving here at the start of a thrilling date instead of my poor guy having to help me stay balanced as I rearrange the poufy layers of my tea-length skirt. And hell, I’m not even wearing crazy spaghetti noodle shoes tonight. I’m simply that nerv
ous, even in a pair of conservative kitten heels. The navy satin shoes are an appropriate match to my vintage-inspired dress, with its square-cut neck accented by paisley-patterned bows and a wide, fitted waistline tapering into the full drama of the skirt.

  “Emma!”

  My world tilts for a second. I’ve been so ready to jump into the acting job of my life with Lawson, not the woman who sweeps me into her happy embrace. I have to pause and reset my mentality. Of course we’ve rehearsed every scenario in which Trixie could be involved with tonight’s events; they were just all rehearsed with the contingency that she’d be inside, greeting us well after arrival. Yet weirdly, the twist helps me relax by a degree. Even if Trixie is complicit in Lawson’s plans—and for the little it’s worth, every instinct in my psyche protests otherwise—there’s a good chance they wouldn’t let the Consortium try a swipe at Reece out here with both of them present. So for the next two minutes at least, I’m free to sign my body’s may-I-function-normally permission slip.

  Too soon.

  The second I allow myself a full breath, Lawson yanks Reece away for a hearty man-hug. The action aligns with Trixie’s mama bear squeeze, meaning Reece and I have to let go of each other for a second.

  It’s only a moment.

  I can live with that. I think. Or at least I order myself to while giving Trixie a solid return on her effort.

  “Bon soir,” I manage to laugh out. “You look trés belle, madame.” And she does. Trixie’s dark-green eyes have a perfect match in her refined sheath dress, which hits her just below the knee with a subtle hint of lace.

  “Merci beaucoup.” She dips a demure curtsy. “But honestly, you and I need to meet up for something that requires no heels, hose, or makeup.”

  “Agreed.”

  I tack a smile onto that, but it fades as soon as Lawson hooks an arm around Reece’s neck to pull him into the hotel ahead of us, with his free hand waving through the air to point out how the soaring crystal “waterfall” from outside seems to penetrate the glass roof of the atrium and then “splashes down” into the exposed part of the lagoon at the far side of the lobby. Though I’m relieved to spot Dan Colton not too far back from that, still undercover as one of the extra security guards hired for tonight’s “festivities,” I’m not going to be even halfway back in my element until my hand is firmly back in Reece’s again.

  “I…ummm… Reece is holding on to my purse, so we’d better catch up.” Not a lie. Reece is toting my clutch, having elegantly taken it off my hands while I stepped out of the limo. Like the stud he is, he rests the thing easily in his grip, as if it’s just another part of his ensemble. Yeah, there really are some things only a true alpha stud can do. I have no idea how I got lucky enough to land one like him.

  And right now, I’m determined to hold on to that goodness. In every damn way I can.

  I won’t leave your side, Reece. I promise.

  “Dear heavens, how adorable you are.” But damn it, Trixie has other plans. Determined ones. “But I promise you, the boys are going to be fine without us for a few minutes.” She states it in that suggestion-but-not-really voice all mothers seem to have, linking her elbow with mine as if we’re about to play Red Rover for the Olympic gold medal. “Besides, Tyce and Chase are already here. Brother bonding time is what the three of them need.”

  Bonding time. Shit. They’re going to have lots of that if all the hamsters fall off the damn wheel tonight…

  I won’t leave your side, Reece…

  Air starts sawing my lungs like they’re a pair of nasty tree stumps. My balance wavers. My pores ice over. What now? What now?

  Relief crashes in as Trixie pulls me past the huge check-in area—overlooking gardens that give Luxembourg a run for its money—and right past Mitch, with his lavender hair slicked back and his bright eyes boring into me. With one subtle motion, he motions a finger at his ear—reminding me of the communications node glued inside my lobe.

  As soon as I push at my earlobe and hear the click that opens the connection to the guys, I prompt Trixie, “Wh-Where are we going?”

  “Not far,” she chirps. “I just know you really have to see the garden atrium that Law is having them put in. It’s not done yet, so it won’t be part of the tour for tonight, but I thought you might gain inspiration for your new place too. Atriums are such a smart idea for bringing more light into a home, don’t you think?”

  But by this point, I’m on autopilot with my mmm hmmms and head nods, because the reopened comm line—and my only link to Reece at this point—is where all my focus funnels. While my face feigns all the right awe in all the right places for Trixie, my head is still at Reece’s side, listening to what’s going on with him and Lawson—and now, with Chase and Tyce too.

  “Well, there he is.” Since the smooth baritone is the only voice I don’t recognize at once, I attribute it to Chase. “Nice threads. Once again, little brother, you may step into some real shit piles, but you clean up real well.”

  Yep. Definitely Chase. The insult-couched-in-a-compliment technique is a trait he’s picked up from his father—the asshole who now harrumphs out an uncomfortable laugh and sounds like he’s moving in for the man-hug with his eldest. Though I’m just listening to the whole thing, my stomach painfully knots. This is like watching a horror movie, only worse. The psycho isn’t in the woods or the closet—he’s standing in a fancy dining room, now offering his victims pricey French aperitifs.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” It’s Tyce this time, obviously morphed back into the mask of physical perfection everyone expects. I give him a mental high five, knowing he’d like nothing more than to drink some of his edge off, especially after leaving Angelique back at the apartment to haul the ditzy model-for-hire on his arm instead. Maybe ditzy is a little harsh. I only met her when we vetted her, but after the third time she asked us to be “more pacific” about our needs, I’d been really glad Reece and Tyce were conducting the interview.

  “Same here.” Reece’s concurrence is delivered in his charming-as-hell-because-I-have-to-be voice. I’d know the tone anywhere after the countless reception lines and red carpets to which I’ve accompanied him, just as I know the gruff thumps that follow are his hand patting his torso. “If I’m compromising the clean regimen, I’ll do it when my girl can indulge too.”

  A sarcastic grunt. I’m guessing Tyce again. “Little fraternal unit, isn’t your girl part of ‘the regimen’?”

  I press my lips to hold in a snort. Yep. Typical asshole Tyce. Or, more accurately, the asshole formerly known as Tyce. Spending a lot of time near the guy over the past few days has shown me the real truth of the man—the hero he started to become even before the Consortium brought its truth out in the crucible of their torture. Fortunately for us right now, he still remembers a lot about being a jerk—and Reece still has the game for an appropriate response.

  “Inappropriate as hell, party of one, Ricey?”

  “Screw you.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Guys.” Chase again, bringing it with his older-brother-law-enforcer boom. “Don’t make me get out my own little Lucille.”

  As Trixie and I leave the half-finished garden, I let my gaze bug for a second. Perfect timing, because it’s easier to let Trixie think I’m awed by the daffodils in fleur-de-lis planters instead of being horrified by the idea of Chase Richards, in all his Wall Street sleekness, with a spiked baseball bat in hand. No. Just no.

  But an even worse no?

  Following Trixie into the hotel’s private dining room just as Lawson is informing Tyce’s model and Chase’s wife their men will be back right after he shows off the hotel’s custom cigar room.

  I won’t leave your side…

  Then wrenching free from Trixie and attempting to get across the room before they leave completely.

  I won’t leave your side…

  Then failing at that because two more men are suddenly in my way. They seem like simple burly security members moving a pair of thron
e-like chairs, but I’ve never witnessed hotel security guards give off such daunting vibes. Their chests are like hangar doors. Their jaws are like engine blocks. They growl like a pair of revving plane engines.

  Shit.

  Jet engines.

  Holy freaking shit.

  Like at airports.

  Like the one where these two followed the bidding of their bitch mistress, Faline Garand, to keep watch over Lydia and me…

  Oh God, oh God, oh God…

  “Reece! Tyce!”

  Screw tapping on the comm link. I yell as loud as I can while lunging at the two goons, but these giants are shockingly agile for their size and machismo. They swing the chairs in and shove them together like rodeo clowns shifting corral fences. As I climb on top of one and shove its backrest to tip it over, my instinct screams with louder fear and my belly twists with darker dread. These jerks are working damn hard to keep me from catching up to the men, to the point that as I topple over with the chair and land on my butt in a puddle of fabric and crinoline, the other chair just happens to end up falling on top of me.

  “Ooofff.” It’s only a chair, but it feels like a baby elephant. For a long second, all I’m able to do is stare at the ceiling and attempt to regain the air that’s been slammed all the way out of my chest. But as soon as it returns, I’m ready to use it all up again, screaming at the face that fills my vision—until I recognize kind, keen eyes and slicked-back lavender hair. Just as swiftly, Mitch’s face is joined by a bigger visage. Kane’s chunky face appears next to his husband’s and is scored with matching grooves of apprehension.

  “Fuck,” Kane grunts, hurling the top chair away like it’s a toothpick. “You okay, girl?”

  “No.” I’m fast and loud about it, especially because the hand I attempt to lift to my comm dot is a nonstop shriek of pain. “No!” Helpless tears tumble out as I stare down at my fingers, now bent at hideous angles. “And I can’t get word to Reece.” I dash a terrified gaze between them both. “I think they might be in trouble. I think the cigar room might be a tr—”