Page 27 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

“Whoa, there,” he says, lifting that hand, holding it up, palm out. “Easy there, baby girl.”

His words are warm, his smile wide.

But the ice in his eyes tells me enough.

Fuck.

I back away from him.

He follows.

I’m just five feet from the door.

Then four.

“Why’re you scared, doll?”

His voice is faintly accented. French maybe? But I file that away for later and keep inching closer to the door. Three feet. Two.

“I don’t mean you any harm.”

Liar.

“If that’s true,” I say, “then back up and leave me alone.”

His smile disappears. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

I hear the quiet rumble of an engine, and stomach twisting, my eyes flick to the side just in time to see a black sedan pulling to a stop behind him, the driver and its two passengers’ eyes coming to me.

Not the man.

To me.

Fuck.

I spin on my heel.

If I can get inside, the security team will help.

I slap my key fob against the wall, but before I can make contact with the sensor, my arm is grabbed and I’m yanked back.

“I need you to come with me,” he says.

“No,” I growl, fighting his hold but not getting anywhere. “Let. Me. Go.”

Spoiler alert: he doesn’t. He just starts dragging me to the car.

Then I realize I’m not doing the most obvious thing I can—using my voice.

“Help!” I scream. “Help me! He?—”

The backhand to my face stoppers up my voice and I fall to my hands and knees, scraping them in the process, sending stinging pain up my palms, my legs, my arms, matching the throbbing in my cheek.

“Get up,” the man says.

“No, I?—”

“Now.” He grips my arm, my hair, and yanks me roughly to me feet. “Walk,” he orders coldly, nudging me toward the car.