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“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to pay a little visit to Adrien Reed. And this time, I’m driving.”
Chapter Twenty-one
FRANKLY, SENTINEL
He didn’t give me time to argue, tattle, or grab Brody. In order to keep Ethan from going alone, I had to settle for sending Luc a message as I climbed into Ethan’s Ferrari and he squealed out of the basement parking garage and onto the street, just missing the gate by a hair.
“What, exactly, is the plan here?” I asked as the engine hummed through Hyde Park.
“I want to talk to him. I want to talk to him about Balthasar. I want to talk to him about Navarre. I want to talk to him about the hell he’s put us and our friends through for the last week. I want to talk to him about attacking my Sentinel and attempting to use her as a hostage.”
“All good questions,” I said, nodding my agreement. “But keep in mind that we don’t actually have any evidence he’s done any of that.”
“Frankly, Sentinel, I don’t give a damn about evidence right now. I care about this unmitigated asshole having the stones to admit what he’s done so I can begin planning how to destroy him.”
“So this is just going to be a light social call to a millionaire in the middle of the night, then.”
When Ethan growled, I decided this wasn’t the time to mitigate tension with sarcasm. Seeing as how I didn’t have much else to contribute, I settled back and began to answer Luc’s panicked messages.
* * *
The front door was locked, no welcome party tonight, no cadre of limousines in line to drop off visitors. Ethan pressed the security panel beside the door.
“May I help you?”
“Ethan Sullivan for Adrien Reed.”
“One moment please.”
There was a pause, then a beep, and a woman in a dour black dress opened the door, gestured for us to come inside. The moment we did, two guards stepped forward, scanned us with handheld wands.
Metal detectors?
Looking for weapons and, more likely, recording devices, Ethan said.
When they decided we were clear, they gestured us forward. “Mr. Reed will see you in his study. I understand you know the way.”
“We do,” Ethan said through clenched teeth. “Thank you.”
The house had been stripped of its Venetian party decorations, but hadn’t diminished the excessiveness. Every nook and cranny was still stuffed with objects, art, furniture.
“Is he a hoarder?” I asked quietly.
“One wonders,” Ethan said. “That would certainly explain his criminal interest in accumulating more of it.” His voice was dry as toast.
We traveled the ballroom, the stairs, the gallery, made our way to his office. A new guard stood by the door, hands clasped in front of him, gaze suspicious. After a look-over, he nodded us in.
Despite the hour, Reed sat behind his desk, pen in one hand as he scanned a sheath of papers. “I’m a busy man, Mr. Sullivan,” he said, without looking up.
Ethan walked into the office, his gaze on everything in the room except Reed, his stride dangerously blasé. He walked to the bar cart, poured a finger of liquid into a glass, finished it.
So our Master vampire intended to toy with his prey a bit. If I wasn’t supposed to focus on his safety, I’d have pulled up a chair to enjoy the show.
Reed’s eyes widened at the move, but the facade snapped quickly back into place. “Help yourself.”
“Done,” Ethan said, putting the glass on the cart, bottom up, with a heavy thud.
