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12
A voice tempts me with the promise of comfort, the familiar rhythm carrying each syllable through the highs and lows, inflections hitting my ears in a melody of calming music. That magical voice urges me to leave the cloak of nothingness behind, to tiptoe toward the light and listen.
“She’s still sleeping. The doctor said it’s normal after the type of drug she was given.” Footsteps sound back and forth, each step a heavy landing. I know that gait. It’s his signature walk when he’s wound too tight.
“It was a rough night, but she’s okay. It’ll be a few days before she’s up to traveling home.” Another pause, and that’s when I rise into full consciousness. Opening my eyes is a struggle, my lids dry and gritty, weighted with exhaustion.
“We hired a private security team. They’re still looking for him,” Sebastian says into the phone.
Security team?
Confusion blankets me as my surroundings come into focus, and I recognize Sebastian’s penthouse bedroom, although the blinds are drawn to block out the sun.
He paces the floor, phone to his ear. “That isn’t necessary.” With a sigh, he listens to whoever is on the other end. “I figured as much.” He drags a hand through his hair, turning to face me, and his gaze meets mine. “I’ve gotta go. She’s awake.”
Without another word, Sebastian ends the call and hurries to my side, his weight depressing the mattress as he looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. His attention scours my face, searching, though for what, I’m not sure.
“Hey,” he whispers, cupping my cheek.
“What happ—?” I swallow hard, trying to clear my dry throat. “Water, please.”
He jumps up, strides across the room to a carafe on a table, and returns with a full glass. I push myself upright with shaky arms and take a sip.
“What happened?”
“What do you remember?”
“Um…” Why is my mind blank? I shutter my eyes and take stock, honing in on the satin sheet beneath me, the muted sounds of the city, the cadence of Sebastian’s breathing. All of it grounds me, reminding me I’m in Los Angeles with him and Tatum for the fashion show.
The fashion show.
Memories flicker like disjointed movie clips.
“Anya got sick, so I had to take her place. I remember seeing you and Tatum, and then—” With a gasp, I fold my arms around my knees, and Sebastian takes the glass of water from my weak grip.
But that action of his, so helpful and gentle, makes my heartbeat gallop too fast.
“The party,” I whisper, anxiety crushing my windpipe.
“Do you remember what happened there?” His question reeks of fear, as if he’s just as scared as I am to venture into such territory.
More snapshots hit me. An elaborate mansion in the hills, statues and art, a stunning redhead…
My memory sharpens, comes into focus, and I stare at Sebastian. “You were talking to a woman by the bar.”
He nods, those kissable lips sloping into a frown. “I was getting us a drink when I ran into her. It was only a few minutes, Novalee.” His tired, hooded eyes watch me. “I’ve done work for her in the past, and she wanted to talk about your clothing line…and then I looked over and you were gone. So was he.”
Acid burns in my throat. I tremble, unable to stop. “Oh, God.”
“Baby,” he murmurs, gathering me into his arms. “You’re safe.”
“Did he…?”
“No. The fucker didn’t get a chance.”
Too many emotions blast me all at once, and I cling to him, sobbing into his chest, purging my sorrow and confusion on his soft cotton shirt. I don’t know how long we sit like that.
Minutes.
