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That sneer came on to his face again. “You think the cops are going to believe the word of some whore who works here in the club?”
“I’m not a whore!”
“No. You’re my fiancée. Far more credible than some escort. Neither of us know why the hell she came up here, or who killed her. Got it?”
I was shaking my head, but he stilled me by gripping my chin again. Hard.
“No bastard is going to get away with framing me for murder,” he said harshly. “And you will do exactly what I say if you want to find out who killed your friend. And until we do, little bird, you’re my prisoner. Don’t forget it.”
Chapter 9
BETH
“You’re my prisoner.”
Those words rang through my ears all throughout the police interview. They arrived within minutes of Marco calling them and escorted us both to a police station to separate interview rooms.
I had left the club with my colleague’s gazes burning into my back. Soon the news would spread that Dolly was dead. Would they hate me? Would they think Marco and I had something to do with it?
My instinct was to tell the police everything. That Toby sent me up to that room. That I had found Marco standing over Dolly’s body.
But the small interview room was so claustrophobic. And the two police detectives were being so strangely nice to me. Telling me they were desperate to help me. Lying.
In their eyes, I saw they thought I had helped Marco kill her, my best friend. I was scared.
I twisted Marco’s ring on my finger and told them exactly what Marco had told me to say.
They had barely begun grilling me before the expensive solicitor Marco had called arrived and got us both out of there.
As they watched me and Marco walk out of the interview rooms, the police were furious, their faces stormy. My hand tightly gripped his for dear life. I was wobbly on my heels because I was still too stunned to even walk straight.
This couldn’t really be happening.
I felt exhausted all of a sudden. Ready to drop. Tears pushed behind my lids, threatening to pour out. But I would not cry. Not here in front ofthem.
I saw a mixture of pity and anger for me on a young policewoman’s face. Her eyes went to Marco and lingered on him. I couldn’t tell if she thought he was a beauty or a beast, and for a moment felt bitter indignation on his behalf.
Outside, a chauffeur driven Bentley with darkened windows was waiting for us. Marco handed me in, and took a couple of moments outside the car to exchange quiet, terse words with his solicitor.
He got into the car. “Home,” he barked at the driver.
“I live in Whitechapel,” I said. “I can make my own way if you can’t drop me off.”
“No.”
I gave him an exasperated look. “I’m tired. I’ve done everything you asked. Please. I just need to get home.”
He took my hand, his fingers stroking the brilliant diamond ring meaningfully. “Not yet, darling,” he said smoothly.
I shot him an incredulous look. Was he really going to carry on with this façade?
But it was clear he did not want to discuss things in front of his driver, an older man in a suit, head shaven and still muscular, like he doubled as security. He was clearly well versed in giving his boss privacy. His eyes were firmly on the road, with traffic still fairly busy in London even past midnight.
I settled back against the extremely comfortable seat, refusing to look at Marco. The drive was short. The car pulled up in front of a beautiful London townhouse in Mayfair, bright flowers in its window boxes even this late in the year.
I looked out the car window in confusion. This was a neighbourhood more associated with the aristocracy. Not to mobsters.
Clearly I was wrong, because the front door opened immediately and Marco took my hand and led me to it.
