Page 53 of Tormented Diamonds

“Right, and how many would you say are milling around this club?”

He blinks. “Uh, five?”

More like ten, but I’ll give him a pass. I havea feeling math isn’t part of his skill set.

“So, wouldn’t being surrounded by thirteen armed men make this one of the safest places for me to be?” Before he can answer, I quickly add, “Safer than say, an isolated estate where your boss has me stashed away like Rapunzel?”

“Yes?”

I pat his chest. “Good answer.”

He looks so flustered I don’t bother asking him to help me find Gianni. After a quick wall-to-wall scan yields no sign of him, I push my way toward the bar and take a seat.

“What can I get you, doll?”

I glance up to find a busty blonde dressed in what can only be described as cellophane and fishing wire. I give her a tight smile. “I’m fine; thank you.”

“Are you sure?” She cocks her chin and grimaces as much as her Botox will allow. “No offense, but you kind of look like you could use a drink.”

My smile fades.Fuck.I forgot all the stitches and bruises make me look like Frankenstein’s stunt double. That’s why it felt like a record skipped when I walked in. Gianni’s men weren’t stalking me. They were wondering what wild animal I’d pissed off. “Any beer you have on tap will be fine, thanks.”

She tosses a cocktail napkin in front of me, then disappears toward the other end of the bar. Once alone, I scrub my hands down my face. I’ve never been much of a drinker. In fact, the last time I found myself at a bar I did little more than shuffle a deck of cards and trade insults with my father.

Look howthatturned out.

Sighing, I reach inside my purse, the knot in my chest loosening the moment the card is in my hand. Without a word, I tuck it between my index and middle fingers and begin to flip.

Over. Under. Over. Under.

It’s a cognitive glitch I could self-diagnose yet choosenot to. So I pretend like it’s a perfectly normal habit, and not at all cloned from my patient-turned-husband. Because that would be the complete opposite of being in control.

And I’mtotallyin control.

I’m on my fourth rotation when the bartender reappears and slides a frothy mug toward me. “Didn’t take you for the gambling type.” At my blank stare, she nods at the card trapped between my ring and pinky fingers.

“I’m not.”

“Then why carry a playing card?”

Because it’s not just a card. It’s the ace of spades Gianni tucked into my dress along with the key to my freedom. A smart woman would’ve destroyed the damn thing weeks ago, but logic and I parted ways at the New Jersey state line.

But I can’t explain any of that, so instead, I cradle the card in my palm and offer a more palatable explanation. “I keep it with me as a reminder.”

“To never risk what you can’t afford to lose?”

Half the contents of my mug sloshes onto the bar as I take a tight grip and sling it to my mouth. “Something like that.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Gotta say, I don’t see many women hanging out in a strip club alone.”

I shrug. “I’m looking for someone. I don’t suppose you’ve seen?—”

“It seems my wife has a hard time following directions.”

The bartender’s face turns the color of dirty dishwater.

Never mind.

Sighing, I turn around to find the man in question coiled like a viper ready to strike. He looks disheveled in a ruler-of-the-world-after-hours kind of way. His usual black suit and tie looks run through a wind tunnel. His tie hangs loose around his neck, one side much longer than the other, his shirt unbuttoned much further than I’d like, especially consideringhis hair looks like it’s been assaulted by ten acrylic nails. But it’s his face that keeps my attention.