Heinrich moved through the VIP section with the unstoppable momentum of a glacier. He didn't look at Nate. He didn't look at the bouncers. His entire existence was focused on the woman slumped against the bar.
He stopped behind her. He reached out, his large hand tangling into the hair at the nape of her neck. He pulled gently but firmly, forcing her head up.
Look at me.
Calleigh's eyes fluttered open. She struggled to focus. The face hovering above her was familiar-sharp jawline, eyes the color of the North Atlantic, a mouth that rarely smiled.
Fear spiked through the alcohol haze. She tried to pull away, sliding off the stool.
Heinrich's other arm shot out, catching her around the waist before she hit the floor. He hauled her against his chest. She smelled like expensive scotch and despair.
How much? Heinrich asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
Enough to make her forget she belongs to you, Nate said, stepping forward. Take her out the back.
Heinrich finally looked at Nate. His gaze was dismissive. Put it on my tab.
He bent down and swept Calleigh up into his arms. She was light, too light. She felt fragile, like a bird with hollow bones.
Calleigh panicked. She started to struggle, her fists hitting his chest with weak, uncoordinated thuds. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out-the habit of silence was too ingrained, even in drunkenness.
Stop moving, Heinrich ordered. Unless you want an audience.
He turned and marched toward the exit. His security detail formed a wedge around him, clearing the path.
They reached the heavy steel door. One of the guards pushed it open.
The night exploded.
Flashes of white light blinded them. The alley, which should have been empty, was swarming with paparazzi. Someone had tipped them off.
Mr. Lloyd! Who is she?
Is that your wife?
Look this way!
The noise was deafening. Shouts, camera shutters clicking like a thousand mechanical insects.
Calleigh went rigid. The flashing lights triggered a memory-headlights, screeching tires, the smell of burning metal. Her breath hitched, turning into a hyperventilating wheeze.
Heinrich felt her seize up. Without breaking stride, he pulled the lapel of his trench coat open and shoved her face into his shirt. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, shielding her completely.
Close your eyes, he commanded, his voice surprisingly close, vibrating through his chest into hers. Breathe.
It was an order, but it felt... protective.
The bodyguards shoved the photographers back, creating a narrow corridor to the waiting car.
Back off! Move!
Heinrich ducked into the backseat of the Maybach, shielding Calleigh with his body until the door slammed shut.
Go, he barked at the driver.
The car lurched forward, tires spinning on the pavement as it accelerated away from the mob.
Inside the car, the silence was sudden and heavy. Heinrich hit the button to raise the privacy shades, plunging them into semi-darkness.
He didn't let go of her immediately. Calleigh was still shaking, her face pressed against the crisp cotton of his shirt. He could feel her tears soaking through the fabric.
Heinrich stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. He reached up and loosened his tie, ripping it off and throwing it onto the seat.
He pulled his phone out and dialed his PR chief.
Kill the photos, he said. I don't care how much it costs. If you can't kill them, blur her face. No one identifies her. Do you understand?
He hung up and looked down at the woman in his arms.
She had stopped struggling. She was limp now, either passed out or pretending to be.
Explain, he said to the top of her head.
Calleigh didn't move. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, feigning unconsciousness. She couldn't face him. Not now.
Heinrich looked at her messy hair, the tear tracks on her cheek that were visible when she shifted slightly. He raised his hand, hovering it over her shoulder as if to comfort her.
Then he curled his fingers into a fist and pulled his hand away. He rubbed his temple, a gesture of profound exhaustion.
He shifted her weight, settling her more comfortably against him, but his body remained rigid. He was a statue holding a storm.
