Abandon The Night (32 page)

Good fucking grief. What the hell had she ever done to deserve this?

Zoë couldn’t decide which was more uncomfortable: the nuked up shoes that lifted her heels four inches off the ground, making her constantly feel like she was going to tip onto her face, or the dress her body’d been forced into by a shy but determined maidservant. A crapping
maidservant
! Zoë could hardly believe some chick she didn’t know had seen her naked. And helped her dress. She’d thrown the woman out while she was bathing, but the bashful little thing had found her way back in and then manhandled her into some horribly tight underwear.

And this thing she was wearing, she was afraid if she took a breath, the seams would split and it would all fall away. The dress was so damned tight it showed every single bulge and curve and the neckline was fucking cut down to her belly. She had no damned underwear on and the stupid zipper dug into her skin. There was no back. And the skirt was so long it practically dragged on the floor, despite her heels. She was going to trip and fall on her ass.

And she didn’t have her damned bow over her shoulder, which made her feel even more vulnerable. At least she’d been able to hide it in a corner behind one of the waterfalls, along with her quiver. But the weapon she’d made for digging out crystals was back in the room with her clothing. Hidden of course, but damn if it wasn’t a pain in the ass the way things had happened.

I should have just nailed the bastard when I had the chance.

But she hadn’t had the chance anyway, because no sooner had she mentioned her compensation than there’d come a knock on the door. Someone had rushed in to tell Fielding something that apparently shocked the hell out of him, for he’d sat unmoving for at least a few minutes. His face had gone white and his hands still, and damn her for not acting in that moment alone, servant or no. And then he’d sent her off with one of the many servants he kept in the red-tiled house, giving clipped orders that brooked no argument.

At least at that time.

Apparently, Fielding wasn’t exaggerating when he said she needed to change. He expected his assassins to be as uncomfortably dressed as the hordes of women and men who seemed to fawn all over him. She was going to have to have a word with the ass-wipe and explain that assassins needed to actually be able to
move
—oh, and to breathe—in order to get their job done.

But that wasn’t going to happen any time soon, for she’d entered the dining room and had yet to even see Fielding. There were at least fifty people, some with crystals blatantly glowing on their shoulders, milling about, talking, laughing, eating—and that didn’t count the people wandering to and fro with trays of food and drink. She’d seen parties like this in movies, where everyone was dressed in fancy clothes, looking like they had sticks up their asses, and they all crowded around and ate and drank and sometimes there was music.

Ass-crap boring. And ridiculous.
How the hell did anyone fucking walk in these damn things? Now the toe next to her big one was starting to hurt, along with the back of her heel. She was going to be limping tomorrow. Just damned great for her getaway plan.

She had to give Fielding credit for the food, though. She’d never had such a variety at her meals, nor food that tasted so delicious—even though she didn’t know what half of it was. But it was beautiful and elegantly presented, sometimes ridiculously so. Standing straight up, or garnished with bright pink and red flowers. There were odd-colored vegetables like purple cauliflower, and everything seemed to be sprinkled with something, as if it couldn’t just be served as it was prepared. If she weren’t so hungry, she’d be afraid to eat it.

Zoë found a corner and backed herself against the wall where she could watch and try to figure out how she was going to get the hell out of there. As she nibbled on a little pastry that one of the miserable-looking waiters brought by, claiming it was something called shrimp quiche, Zoë finally spotted her new employer.

At first, her heart skipped a beat, because from behind, the man looked
so
much like Quent. But his hair was lighter, and he wasn’t quite as tall, nor nearly as broad in the shoulder. But the movements, the gestures—they were so reminiscent of his son. Her throat tightened and she swallowed hard.
Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about him.

Staying in the shadows, willing herself to remain unseen, Zoë watched as Fielding stepped onto a dais where a long table had been placed. A busty blond woman who looked as if she were no more than twenty-five years old, and a redhead who seemed about the same, had their arms linked through his. Their hands were everywhere—molding over his chest, brushing hair from his face, adjusting his jacket or tie. Three other women of equally large boobs, tall hair, and low-cut dresses clustered around as well. Apparently, he didn’t have a preference for immortals over mortals, for Zoë could see that two of the fawning women had crystals, but the others didn’t.

Does he screw all of them at once? Or one at a time?
It was clear from the way they were touching him he’d done each of them at least a few times. And that each of them thought it was worthwhile enough to want to do it again. At least she was safe from his attentions, for apparently, the man preferred his women to be stacked.

Although if Zoë attempted to seduce him, she’d be able to find out where his crystal was. That certainly bore consideration—because how else was she going to get him to show her?

Not an appetizing thought, but a necessity. Although she didn’t see how she’d push her way through the posse of big-breasted women tonight.

Zoë settled back into her corner, wondering how the hell long she had to stay here, wondering why she didn’t just leave while Fielding was busy with his harem—it wasn’t as if he’d notice—when a man caught her attention. Across the room, standing with his back to her in a group of men and women.

Her stomach plummeted. Broad shoulders. Thick, tawny hair. Smooth, elegant gestures that were much too familiar. Amusing enough to send the entire cluster around him into gales of laughter.

No fucking way.

But even as her heart sank and her palms dampened, Zoë’s mouth flattened in pure pissed-offness. That damned idiot Seattle couldn’t keep Quent out of the way for a few hours?
A few hours?

She shook her head. If she got out of here alive, she was going to kill that fool bounty hunter.

And even as she thought about the way she’d like to flay the skin from the tops of his toes, or pluck out Seattle’s eyebrows and pubic hair one by one, Zoë edged deeper into the shadows. While she didn’t give a shit what Quent thought if he saw her here—she didn’t owe him any explanation—she was damned curious about how a man who professed to hate his father and want to kill him had come to be one of his guests.

Zoë’s heart sank as she realized what must have happened. He and his father had reconciled. She’d feared that might be the case, for there was nothing her father could have done that would have made her hate him, or justify killing him.

Blood was, after all, thicker than water. Family came first. She’d loved Papi, and Mami (what she remembered of her anyway), and nothing they could have done would have made her feel differently. Even Ian Marck, who’d seen firsthand what his father had done over the years, still protected him. And had stayed with him for years.

A person might despise their parents’ actions, but to actually turn violence on family? Hell, Zoë felt empty enough having taken out the man who’d killed her loved ones. A stranger. If she’d once known or loved Raul Marck, how much worse would the guilt and grief be?

And now she felt empty. Betrayed, even. Why was she so disappointed? Because Quent didn’t carry hate in his heart? Look what had happened to her. Carrying the need for revenge around for nearly a decade had made her cold and crusty and unable to settle into life and be happy.

One thing was certain: Quent was having a damned better time than she was. He appeared so at ease, so comfortable here that it made her feel even more awkward and confused. But of course he fit in. This was the world he must have lived in before things changed. A world of tight sparkly dresses and polite chatter and men who looked like they were about to choke because of the ties they wore.

Zoë didn’t know if she was staring too hard, and somehow attracted his attention, but it was only a moment before Quent turned. He looked in her direction, his eyes lighting on her, finding her too damn easily. Their gazes collided. Even from across the room his burned, all dark and accusing. All of a sudden, she was nervous and breathless—something very difficult in the damned dress she was wearing.

Screw that.

Zoë gathered every bit of composure she possessed and stared back in defiance, firming her lips. She met his eyes coolly and though every part of her knew she should flee, she remained in place.

He’d come stalking over here and demand to know what the hell was going on, why she was there. And he’d probably shove her up against the wall and kiss the damn breath out of her. An anticipatory tingle shot through her and she breathed deeply, pushing it away.

But he didn’t. He finished with his measured look, then deliberately turned. Back to his group of friends, back to the glittering, glitzy ladies, and their equally prissy men.

Well. That was damn well
that
.

Quent could hardly catch his breath, let alone focus on the conversation surrounding him. What the bloody hell had Fielding done to Zoë?

She looked like some exotic goddess, glaring at him from her position in the corner. Her dress dazzled silvery white, showing off much more of her light cinnamon skin than was decent. Her throat and delicate shoulders, her sculpted arms, a deep vee down past her breasts—so much skin for all to see. Her hacked, choppy hair had become sleek and elegant, framing her face like that of some twenties flapper. Jewels, real or fake, sparkled throughout the smooth black tresses, and makeup around her eyes made them appear even larger and more mysterious.

The look she shot him when their eyes locked made his blood run hot, then cold with anger. He had to turn away, to collect his control before he betrayed himself to everyone in the room. What was she doing here?

What the hell game are you playing, Zoë?

As much as he wanted nothing more than to stride over there and demand an explanation—along with other things—Quent forced himself to remain cool. And patient.

Fielding was surely watching him from over on the dais, and there was no need to give the man any ammunition, any insight into Quent’s vulnerability. Nor was it necessary for Fielding to introduce him as his son, for there were several Elite members in the room who remembered and recognized him from before, including Liam Hegelsen and Marvina Duprong.

So he laughed at whatever the woman next to him had said, and put on his charming persona. Effortless and easy it was to slip back into the mode he knew so well, conversing, subtly flirtatious, confident. Because here, in Mecca, back with his father, Quent was once again the man he’d been.

Powerful. Influential. Wealthy.

And now the recipient of secrets and knowledge men had sought for centuries.

Yet, as he bided his time, waiting for the chance to corner her, Quent maintained an awareness of Zoë. Where she was (still in the corner) and what she was doing (eating). She spoke to no one, she seemed to know no one. She avoided looking at him, although he occasionally felt the weight of her stare prickling on his shoulder blades.

Chafing to get to her, Quent drank red wine and ate little, limping his way around the vast white room. Ice sculptures in the shape of Chinese words lined the tables, flanked by white flowers of every imaginable variety—roses, orchids, lilies, and many he couldn’t name. Some low-key Forties big band music, played by a trio in the corner, filtered through the conversations, and the food was the only relief to a space dedicated to crystal and white.

At last he got close enough to a doorway and seized the opportunity to excuse himself. Quent set his wine-glass down and eased through the door, finding himself in a corridor that he realized led to a different entrance, right next to where Zoë stood. Mouth set grimly, he strode down the hall, his “cane” swinging unused in his hand. The space was empty of all but servants, rushing around to do Fielding’s bidding, and certainly unwilling to jeopardize their safety or happiness by questioning—or even noticing—the man’s son.

He peered around the door next to Zoë and saw that she’d edged out of her little alcove and seemed to be searching the room. His mouth set in a humorless smile, he slipped through the entrance to stand just behind her and said, “Looking for someone?”

She whirled, sort of staggering as if she’d lost her balance, and though she tried to cover it, he saw the flare of shock splash over her face. “Not you,” she said, but by then he’d already curved his fingers around her arm and was directing her back into the shadowy corner behind a tall white pillar.

Zoë stumbled and swore, half falling against him in a waft of some unfamiliar, pungent scent. “I can’t walk in these stupid things,” she said, trying to pull away even as she clutched at him with her other hand, attempting to maintain her balance. “Let go.”

Quent felt his lips twist unpleasantly. He turned her to face him, easily able to maneuver her against the wall in a little alcove, handicapped as she was in heels and a long gown.
And damn.
The shoes now made her as tall as he was. “I’m not feeling so inclined to do that, luv.”

Up close she was even more striking—a combination of his exotic, earthy Zoë with this polished, glittery being. Tiny, bejeweled clips sparkled in her sleek ink-dark hair and her skin glowed mahogany next to the blinding white gown, with some golden sheen over shoulders and throat that had not come from nature. Her mouth, crumpled up in annoyance, was the same lush pink it had always been, and now, deliciously, level with his. Her eyes had been lined with heavy dark makeup that made them look more intense. She no longer smelled of cinnamon and lemon, but of something more manufactured. Plasticky. Powdery.