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When she made her way back out into the foyer, Sean immediately corralled her.
“There you are! Listen, Ryland is all done with his con… Sophy?” Sean bent and peered at her, looking concerned. “Are you all right?” He hesitated and cast a meaningful glance at the ladies’ room. “If you’re not feeling well…”
Sophy looked unseeingly at him. She touched her hair, turned slightly. Her movements were absent; she wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“Um,” she said. “I don’t – I think…”
“Here; come and sit down,” Sean said at once, urging her toward a pair of priceless Regency armchairs that probably weren’t intended as actual seating.
“Sean.” She faltered. “Your workmates… Jen?”
Sean came to a dead halt, his face changing rapidly. He suddenly looked at least five years older and considerably more competent, the playboy persona temporarily shelved.
“Jennifer Nolan?” he asked sharply. “Sophy, did Jennifer say something to you?”
“No.” Oh God. She didn’t know whether to turn and bolt or turn and grab the witch by the hair. “No. She just… She…”
“Whatever Jennifer told you…”
“Jennifer?”
Sophy’s heart dropped somewhere around her toes.
She swung around and walked into a storm of turbulent grey. It was the first time she had witnessed the deconstruction of all Mick’s careful control and reserve. He looked absolutely furious.
His mouth was almost white as he glared at Sean, biting out, “Jesus, did you –”
“No –” Sophy began hastily, and Sean spoke over her.
“Of course I didn’t tell her,” he snapped. “I think Jennifer ambushed her.”
“No –”
“What?” Mick turned on her incredulously. “Did she –”
“She didn’t say anything,” Sophy burst out, her fingers knotting and unknotting nervously. “Not to me. I…I overheard…”
“Fuck.”
Mick’s fists were balled. She wasn’t sure which emotion was dominating his expression: the anger, the defensiveness, or the bone-deep mortification.
He was so hurt. She wanted to cry.
“Mick, did she… Did they… I don’t…”
The last vestiges of his control snapped.
“Jesus Christ.” The words stabbed out like shards of broken glass. “I know that we’re friends, Sophy,” he said, and the sarcasm was awful, “but we hardly know each other. This is none of your fucking business.”
For the second time in that hotel, she couldn’t breathe.
“Mick.” Sean was sharp, urgent. He reached out a hand toward her. “Sophy…”
She could hear him swearing as she turned and fled.
She didn’t look back at Mick.
When she got home and let herself into the house, her fingers were still shaking around the key.
