He was still glaring when his telephone rang. I made out the word interrogé in his reply.
“Well, it appears that someone has arrived to collect you,” Inspector Jerk-off said.
My heart lodged in my throat, seeing that first glimpse of Ryan being led through the office doors by several men in dark suits, followed by Mike, Trish, David, and Aaron. I had heard his raised voice arguing and insisting to see me and I knew he was going to take one look at me and be livid. My head dipped in shame.
“Taryn? Are you all right?”
Ryan dropped down on his knee next to my chair. His eyes were wide as he took my chin in his fingers, trying to be gentle in his angered state. “Sweetheart, what the hell happened to you?”
Only sputters came out first. “I tried to tell them who I was, but they said I was resisting arrest. My passport . . . I forgot it in our suite.”
I managed to tell Ryan how I was followed, surrounded by fans, shoved over a barricade by angry women, and then dog-piled and slammed by the police.
Shock, concern, and a whole lot of fury crossed Ryan’s face as he assessed my injuries.
The inspector attempted to give his version of the circumstances but Ryan abruptly cut him off. He stepped right up to the edge of the inspector’s desk.
“Four grown men against one woman?
She’s like a hundred and twenty pounds, for Christ’s sake! You needed four men to fucking subdue her?”
“I understand you are upset—”
“No! You have no fucking clue how upset I am. She’s sitting here bleeding! And what if she were pregnant? Did your men consider that while they were assaulting her?” A very distinguished, slender man in a dark blue suit and tie placed a heedful hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Monsieur Christensen, please, allow me.” The man pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket and flashed his ID. “Gérard Bertrand, Personal Attaché to the Prime Minister. I am here on his direct orders regarding this matter and I have heard enough. Let me have the file and remove those handcuffs from her at once.” My breath stuttered with overwhelming relief. Ryan brought the freaking cavalry with him. I guess the prime minister fully expected us to attend dinner with his family tonight, after all.
So many people packed the small office, all speaking at once in a blur of French and English. The handcuffs were removed, much to my relief. Ryan continued to fuss over the blood on my chin. Trish’s phone was fused to her ear.
I knew he was angry. “I’m so sorry,” I pleaded desperately, hoping they both would find the grace to forgive me. As social errors go, this was way beyond using the wrong fork at dinner or mispronouncing a translated word.
“Shh. Everything is going to be okay,” Ry-an whispered, pressing my hair back from my cheek to wipe a new tear away.
A tall man with a thick mustache and wiry gray eyebrows approached.
“Monsieur Christensen, Mademoiselle Mitchell. Please accept our most sincere apologies for this misunderstanding.”
Ryan blocked the hand outstretched to me. His own hands balled into tight fists again.
“Misunderstanding?” he growled at the audacity. “Look at her! You call this brutality a misunderstanding? How about I beat the shit out of one of your boys like this—”
Mike pressed a hand into the center of Ry-an’s chest.
The man tucked my file under his arm, unabashed. “I assure you, I will personally investigate this matter. You have my word.”
“Your word means nothing to me,” Ryan spit out angrily. “Your investigation can’t possibly begin to right this wrong.” I stood and interrupted, wanting nothing more than to get Ryan and myself out of this potentially explosive situation. “Excuse me. Am I free to go?”
The man’s eyes darted to mine and a faint smile crinkled his lips. “ Oui, mademoiselle. You may depart. No charges will be filed.” I nodded, brushing my fingers over the numerous scrapes on my face as if that would hide them better. “Can someone please take me back to the hotel?” I was done being humiliated and scared out of my mind.
The need to grab my passport, dark sunglasses, and an airplane ride out of hell was driving me toward the door.
Ryan covered me with his jacket and with his hand pressed low on my spine, guided me outside and into the backseat of a waiting sedan.
Trish was busy, calling in favors and sending texts to God-knows-who to cover this up.
I wanted to curl up into a ball and die.
David was obviously distressed. He glanced at this watch. “We need to get you back to the Hotel Britannique for your photo call, Ryan. There’s still time. We can put this setback behind us and still stay on schedule.”