Page 67 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
Brook served her papers this morning.She’s fired.I’m suing her.
This isn’t the office.I brought my little rabbit to a fundraising gala.
Clarity stabs through me.
The face in the crowd behind Brook’s father was Ms.Lynn’s boyfriend.
He’s Chad Prescott’s stepson, Dustin Prescott.
Brook’s stepbrother.
My brother Angelo’s new business partner.
This cannot be a coincidence.As Ms.Lynn pulls me away from the wall, I fight through waves of weakness and push her away with sluggish arms.
“Get off me,” I slur.
The woman with perfectly coifed white hair emerges from the bathroom.
“Sir?There’s no one in there.I checked all the stalls and—”
I push past her and shoulder through the door to the women’s room.Adrenaline clears away the worst of my symptoms.After kicking in each stall and confirming the room is empty, I dart back out into the hall and glimpse the tail of Ms.Lynn’s dress as she hurries around the corner.
I push through the haze of whatever drug they slipped into my drink—our drinks—and run down the hall after her, cursing myself for not being suspicious before now.There were only two glasses left on the tray.
I should’ve recognized Dustin Prescott from the photo.Ms.Lynn has worked at my company for over a year and a half, but I never suspected she was a spy for my brother.Angelo was always a sore loser, and even though he won the right to inherit my father’s company, he wouldn’t be happy with my success.
I failed Brook.She’s in danger.I must find her.Now.
Desperation lends me speed.
Not even the devil can help those who dare touch my little rabbit.
Brook is mine.All mine.
Only mine.
Chapter 17
Brook Simons
Lights twinkle and streakacross my vision.My legs move as the hard body pressed against my side urges me forward.
Cologne sours my stomach.A door shuts.Deafening silence loosens my control, and I retch from the bottom of my empty stomach.
I already threw up in the toilet.My body didn’t want to, so I stuck my finger down my throat and purged.It was wholly unpleasant, but the worst of my symptoms went away.
My head still spins and my eyes refuse to focus, but my blood no longer feels like sludge in my veins and numbness doesn’t creep up from my toes.
Cruel hands shove me.I stumble and hit my hip on either a desk, table, or counter before crashing to the floor.
“Fucking hell, that’s gross.You’re lucky you missed my shoes, bitch,” a man says.
I don’t know him.Panic pounds through me as I strain my eyes.Nothing but darkness greets me.
A lock clicks.
“Were you followed?”
