“No,” I admit.
“Same,” he says.
I look up at him now, paying close attention to the fear in his sharp hazel gaze. What must this be like for him? A man used to being in control?
In the dining room ahead of us, dozens of tables are arranged around an elegant ballroom. Waiters in black and white attire serve women adorned with jewels and the men who wear them on their arms like trophies.
A woman wearing a black cocktail dress and a bright smile steps in front of us. “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, we are so happy you joined us for dinner. Table for two?”
“They’re headed to Creed’s private dining room,” the guard behind us says.
The woman’s smile falters, but I barely pay it any attention as the fear in my gut turns to a full-blown panic attack.
Creed? As inLucian Creed?
The very man we’re trying to avoid?
Shawn’s hand leaves my back, and he grips my hand as he looks to the left and right. Is he trying to find an escape?
“Don’t even think about it,cop,” the guard behind us says after he moves in closer. “I’ll put a bullet in her before you take a single step.”
Shawn goes completely rigid, his gaze sharpening, jaw tightening.
This is all my fault.
He warned me.
And now we’re going to die.
Anger momentarily burns through the fear. Did Lauren do this? Does she hate me so much that she’d deliver me into the hands of a man prepared to make me disappear?
“You shouldn’t have come here.”Her words echo in my mind, and as horrible as our interaction was, I find it hard to believe she would have turned us over. Not when she wanted our help.
Unless—is it possible this was all planned?
“Right this way,” the hostess says, her gaze lacking all the warmth it held only moments ago, as she turns away and leads us through the dining room and toward a large set of double doors across the dining hall.
“Shawn?” I whisper, not using his fake name. If they already know who we are, what’s the point?
He casts me a look and smiles, though I note the strain behind the fake emotion. “It’s going to be okay,” he says and gently squeezes my hand in his.
The woman opens the doors, and we move inside. As we do, a man wearing a white suit stands and smiles at us.
White suit.
“Mr. and Mrs. Andrews—or should I call you by your actual names?” he asks.
I recognize him from the picture in the file Jemma gave us, just like I recognize that suit from the same photo that brought me here.
Tall and slender, Lucian Creed is exactly what I would have expected. His salt-and-pepper hair is gelled on top of his head and shorter on the sides, and his dark eyes watch both Shawn and me intently. His smile is curious, but I’ve no doubt it can turn cold and cruel in a matter of seconds.
Neither of us speaks. What’s left to say? I won’t plead for my life, and I doubt Shawn would plead for his. Not that our begging would mean much to a man like Lucian.
“Please, sit,” he gestures toward the chairs, and the heavy doors close behind us.
I jump and turn, noting that both the guard and the hostess are gone. We’re in this room alone with a man who has managed to escape every single attempt at unveiling what it is he’s actually involved in.
A man who likely knew Paul.
