Emily’s pulse roared in her ears. She scanned the room, searching for exits, for cameras, for Jace. Where was he?
A moment later, the side door opened and Jace sauntered in—thank God. He took the sixth chair.
She moved toward him at once and offered him a glass, the crystal glasses clinking from her trembling. He took one and rose, putting his body between her and the leering men, playing his dual role—interested buyer and human shield.
“I noticed you in the ballroom,” he said smoothly. “You’re even more stunning up close.”
Emily lowered her lashes, if she could have forced a blush, she would have. “Why, thank you, sir,” she said with a hint of a smile.
A tall, thin, squirrelly looking man rose from his seat and rushed over to Enzo. He spoke too softly for her to hear but gestured toward her and Jace, agitated.
“Stay close,” her protector murmured. “Something is about to go down.”
As Enzo crossed the room, his two thugs fell in step behind him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr…”
“Reynolds,” Jace supplied, reaching into his jacket. Enzo tensed, and both thugs pulled their guns.
“Whoa, now! I’m just getting my invitation,” he said, raising his hands.
“The hell you are,” the jumpy man blurted. “He’s no guest—he’s a cop. I recognize him from court.”
Shocked, Emily backed up, hands shaking. The champagne flutes on Emily’s tray clinked louder. Was the squirrelly man a judge? Holy crap.
“What? No,” Jace protested. “You’re mistaken.”
“Search him,” Enzo ordered.
His burly, scary men grabbed Jace and slammed him against the wall, the muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple.
Instinctively, Emily’s hand went to her waistband searching for the panic button. Enzo noticed and turned on her. “You two seem awfully chummy. You a cop too?”
“No,” she said, backing up more. “I work for the caterer.”
He yanked viciously on her arm, tipping her tray and sending the glasses crashing to the floor. She cried out as his fingers dug into her flesh and pain shot through her wrenched shoulder.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” he hissed.
“Nothing,” she cried, struggling to get free.
His grip only became more vicious. His other hand slid over her waistband and closed on the small, flat disc clipped inside. He yanked it out and held it up. “What’s this? A wire?”
Enraged, he dropped it and crushed it beneath his heel. The next instant, his knuckles connected with her cheekbone in a stunning backhand. Her head snapped sideways as blood bloomed in her mouth.
“Fucking bitch. Who’s listening on the other end?”
“He’s wired and packing, boss,” one of the thugs called, having searched Jace none too gently. He tucked the gun into his belt and, like Enzo, destroyed the transmitter with a stomp of his heel. It left them with only one device keeping them connected to the team—in her bra.
Enzo reached for her again, but instinct—and Alec’s training—took over. She twisted, driving her elbow into his gut. He folded with a harsh wheeze, and she pivoted, her knee crashing into his face. His head snapped back, and for one fierce, thrilling beat, she savored the shock on his face before he crumpled with a grunt.
One of his goons lunged for her. She ducked, but he caught her hair—always a weapon used against her—and yanked. Her scalp burned, and her eyes watered, but she didn’t let that stop her from raking her nails across his arms and jabbing her thumbs in his eyes.
A crackle sounded. Then pain exploded through her body. She hit the floor, convulsing, her limbs refusing to obey.
The room blurred.
Enzo stood over her, breathing hard. “Little bitch has claws.”
