“Fuck,” Royce snarled a second before wrapping his hand around Marc’s elbow and pulling him toward the entrance.
“Wait!” Marc attempted to dig his heels into the marble floor, so Royce couldn’t tug him along. “I can’t. I have to get the other people out of the gallery first.”
“And you swore to follow my every command. I say move. We have to get you somewhere safe.”
“But—”
“Everyone to the exits in an orderly fashion!” Royce said, lifting his deep voice to be heard over the blaring alarm. There was no way he was going to get Marc out of the gallery with his patrons still there. “Everyone, please exit!”
“Marc, what’s going on?” Lilah demanded as she hurried over to Marc’s side through the crowd. Richard and Gabriel were following on her heels.
“I don’t know. This could be someone’s idea of a joke.”
Marc’s siblings looked less than pleased with his response—as if it was unacceptable that he didn’t have an appropriate answer for everything.
“Please, go outside. The fire department and police are already on the way. Help your brother.” Royce wanted to say more, but he bit his tongue. Marc’s family looked as if they couldn’t believe his suggestion, but they started for the exits all the same. Royce hesitated, his hand still clamped on Marc’s arm to keep him close while scanning through the remaining crowd. Garrett couldn’t be seen, but the tall black man might have left while they were in the office.
“Everyone toward the exits, please.”
Royce’s heart nearly skipped a beat at the sound of the familiar voice. His head whipped around to spot Rowe’s red head near the entrance. Rowe Ward and his boyfriend, Noah Keegan, had taken the shift after Garrett. They’d arrived just in time for the alarm, which raised a new set of questions.
“Come on,” Royce said, not sure Marc could hear him, but he started pulling Marc toward the entrance. As he reached Rowe, his boss lifted his phone but didn’t look directly at Royce. He got the message. He was pulling his own cell phone out of his pocket as they hit the cold night air. There was already a message waiting for him:
Black SUV on Ruth Lyons
It was a narrow alley that ran parallel to the theater just down from Marc’s gallery. A safe place to stash Marc while they sorted things out.
People were milling around in a number of small groups, looking at the building. But in the darkness and open space, it was easier for anyone to approach Marc. Easier for an unknown attacker to get close. Marc was too vulnerable, and the alarm was too convenient.
Royce didn’t give Marc a chance to fight him but quickly moved him along toward the waiting SUV. He saw Marc’s assistant Darla hurrying over, looking confused that Marc wasn’t staying.
“His heart,” Royce quickly said. “I have to get him out of here. Take care of this.”
Marc’s mouth fell open in obvious horror, but one look from Royce had him shutting his mouth with a mutinous glare.
It took only a couple of minutes to reach the idling SUV, but it felt like much longer before he could push Marc into the back seat and then follow him inside. Noah turned in the driver’s seat, his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a queue, his grin lit by the interior lights. He was wearing a suit as well, but it appeared to be a wasted effort as the show was over for the night.
“Was this you and Rowe?” Royce demanded, slamming the door shut. He could easily see Rowe or Noah pulling the fire alarm to shake up Marc’s would-be attacker, or even to stop an attack, but he would have preferred to have gotten some kind of warning beforehand.
“Not us,” Noah said. He paused and scratched his newly-shaved chin. “Though, it’s not a bad idea. Something to keep in mind for the future.”
“What’s going on? Who did this?” Marc asked, shifting to the edge of his seat.
“Marc, this is Noah Keegan,” Royce introduced. “He’s a security agent for Ward Security.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“Not yet. Rowe sent me ahead to secure the car, so we’d have a safe zone for Marc. Rowe will be along in a minute.”
Marc reached inside his pocket to reveal that his brother was calling his cell phone.
“Turn off your phone,” Royce ordered.
“But—”
“We can’t trust anyone. You need to turn off your phone, so your location can’t be traced,” Noah explained.
“Your assistants will handle the gallery,” Royce added.
Marc frowned at his phone for a second before he wordlessly turned it off and sat back in the seat. Royce knew this was not how the gallery owner had envisioned the night progressing. He would have to try to salvage the lost couple of hours and possibly find a way to spin the fire alarm to his advantage. But Royce couldn’t bring himself to care about the lost sales. He’d gotten Marc out safely. That was all that mattered.