Hardy's arm jerked. He pulled away from Izabella so abruptly that she stumbled, her white heel catching on the carpet.
"Hardy?" Izabella's voice wavered, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second.
Hardy didn't look at her. He adjusted his cuff, a sharp, irritated movement. He crossed the three feet separating him from Ellyn in a single stride.
He blocked her path.
The room went silent. Sloane stopped laughing.
Hardy extended his hand, palm up.
"We're late," he said, his voice low and rough. "Grandmother Rose is waiting in the VIP suite."
Ellyn stared at his hand. It was large, calloused from rowing crew at Yale, capable of hurting her and holding her.
"Hardy..."
"Take my hand, Ellyn," he commanded, though there was a strange urgency in his eyes.
She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers instantly, tight, almost crushing. It wasn't a romantic hold; it was a grip. An anchor.
He pulled her to his side, turning his back on Izabella.
As they passed Sloane, Hardy stopped. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Sloane," Hardy said. His voice was quiet, lethal. "If you speak to my wife with that tone again, I will freeze your access to the family trust. You'll be begging for a job at a diner by Monday."
Sloane paled, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Hardy didn't wait for a response. He marched Ellyn through the crowd, his grip never loosening. They entered the private corridor leading to the VIP suites, the heavy velvet curtains cutting off the noise of the party.
The moment they were alone, Hardy dropped her hand.
Ellyn rubbed her knuckles. "Thank you," she said softly.
"Don't," Hardy snapped. He loosened his bow tie, pacing the narrow hallway. "I didn't do it for you. The Burnett name doesn't tolerate public discord. You looked weak out there."
The relief Ellyn had felt evaporated. "I looked weak because you walked in with your ex-girlfriend."
"She needed help," Hardy said defensively, though he wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'm not going to leave a woman stranded on the sidewalk."
"You left me stranded in this marriage three years ago," Ellyn shot back.
Hardy stopped pacing. He looked at her, really looked at her, his jaw working. For a second, something raw flashed in his eyes-anger? Guilt? Desire?
"Mr. and Mrs. Burnett," a sharp voice croaked.
Grandmother Rose sat in her wheelchair at the end of the hall, her cane tapping rhythmically on the floor.
Hardy's mask slammed back into place. He grabbed Ellyn's hand again.
"Smile," he hissed. "Showtime."
