call her husband

Joan gulped and nodded. "I . . . I need to call Michael."

Seto frowned. "Who is Michael?"

"Her boyfriend, dumbass," Mokuba said.

"My husband," Joan corrected.

"Shit!" Mokuba said.

"Who's the dumbass now?" Seto gloated. "All right, what's his number?"

"I don't have it memorized . . . and my purse . . . it's back at the club."

Seto grabbed his collar and spoke into it. "Roland, I need you to get the whore's purse . . . Roland? Roland?"

"He probably got arrested," Mokuba said.

"Fuck!" Seto exclaimed.

Mokuba slid his phone out of his pocket. "Joan, I have Marc's number. Can I call Marc for you?"

"Ah ha! It's Joan," Seto said.

Mokuba rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Seto?"

"Marc has Michael's number," Joan said softly. "Call him."

Mokuba dialed his contact and got a busy signal. "Damn! Laura was in that club too. I bet she's his priority right now. No way he's going to answer a call from work."

"Yeah," Joan agreed. "He doesn't even know I'm out right now, let alone with you."

The limo pulled up in front of the Hyatt. "Let's get inside and figure this out later," Seto said as he took off his iconic white trench coat. He helped Joan into it and buckled it tight, tucking her wayward breast out of sight.

The moment they stepped out of the limo, they were blinded by a barrage of camera flashes. Joan's knees weakened at the sound of the mob and the brothers each slipped an arm behind her waist for support. She gripped their broad backs as if her life depended on it. Microphones appeared in their faces as they attempted to push their way through the reporters sans Roland.

"Let them pass!" Mokuba pleaded, "I'll tell you everything."

A narrow break in the mob allowed Joan and Seto to slip through.

"It was all a joke gone horribly wrong," Mokuba began.