"Help!"
The middle-aged woman's voice on the phone was laced with panic.
"Mrs. Luther, please save me!!"
Sinclair's refined brows arched almost imperceptibly, his expression icy and detached.
Camilla nestled in her husband's arms, her crimson lips curling slightly.
"What seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Tamara?"
Though she asked the question, her beautiful eyes already held complete understanding.
"There—there's someone following my car," Tamara stammered, her voice trembling with fear.
"The road ahead is a dead end."
"If you're being followed, you should call the police for help,"
Camilla remarked coolly, placing her slender, porcelain-white hand against her husband's palm in playful comparison.
A hint of amusement laced her indifferent tone.
"Mrs. Tamara, perhaps you've dialed the wrong number?"
After all, Tamara had been quite firm when she rejected her before.
