Blind Passion

by Bronwyn Stuart

  “That’s what Sophie told you?”

  “He told me that.”

  “Who? Max? When?”

  “He called earlier. I accidently answered her phone.” Brandan couldn’t believe he hadn’t picked up on Max’s words about ‘beating him to death with his blind stick’. If only he had, then he would have been able to keep Sophie safe. Something he’d promised himself he’d do.

  “You didn’t say you’d spoken to him,” the sergeant remarked.

  “You didn’t ask,” Brandan replied. He’d just about had enough.

  “What did the two of you talk about?”

  “Well the first time-”

  “How many times were there?”

  “Only twice, but that was enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Dunning asked him.

  “To know he’s crazy.”

  “And how did you come to that conclusion? Are you a psychiatrist?”

  “You don’t have to have a degree to know that man was unbalanced,” Brandan pointed out.

  “Alright, on these two occasions that you spoke to your girlfriend’s stalker, what did you talk about?”

  “He asked me if I knew that Sophie was a murderer. He said a few other things, I can’t really remember.”

  “Did you know that she had allegedly killed her unborn child?”

  “Not before he called, no. She told me the full story after he called.”

  “Hmm, very interesting.” Dunning was furiously scribbling notes again, his tone showing he didn’t believe in Sophie’s innocence.

  “Unless you’re going to charge me, we’re done here,” Brandan growled, standing up, indicating the door.

  “I do have some more questions.”

  “Too bad. I’m tired and I need to check in with Sophie. We are done,” he repeated.

  “Sure,” Dunning sighed. “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

  “Thanks.” Brandan followed the officers into the elevator and then into cars, the lights on the roof still flashing as they carried him to the hospital. He felt like a criminal, sitting in the back of a squad car. If only the paparazzi could see him now, he thought grimly. They probably already had. The situation was bad enough without him being linked to a mysterious death.

  He sat quietly and thought about what he was going to do next. How could he make her understand that she hadn’t killed anyone? As Dunning had pointed out, he was no shrink. He didn’t have any counselling or grief skills. What if he only made it worse?

  Could it get any worse?

  They pulled up outside of a hospital. He didn’t know if it was the same one they had been to earlier in the day or not. He was still trying to get his bearings now that he could see again.

  The officers led him through a set of double doors, up a few stark narrow corridors, the only familiarity he could find from his surroundings was the smell. That disinfectant hospital scent that some loved and some hated. The smell that got into your senses and made you dread being confined for any longer, made you long for the clean fresh breeze of the outdoors.

  Brandan was snapped out of his musings as they approached a locked, reinforced door. Sergeant Dunning spoke to a nurse enclosed in a Perspex lined box before she hit the release button to open the door.

  “You have her in a mental ward?”

  “Well, sort of. With the strikes, it’s the only ward that has twenty-four-hour suicide watch.”

  “She isn’t going to kill herself.” He said the words but he wasn’t sure he fully believed them.

  “Anyone suffering the kind of shock she is, needs to be monitored very carefully. Here, she can’t do any harm to herself or others.”

  “Whatever, just let me see her.”

  “You won’t have long, and she has been sedated.”

  Brandan nodded and then entered her room. It had a bed and a chair but that was the only furniture in an otherwise empty space.

  “Sophie?” he called. He didn’t want to scare her. “Sophie, it’s Brandan.”

  “What are you doing here?” Her lids opened with a flutter.

  Brandan wished they could have met under different circumstances as he looked into blue eyes hazy from the drugs they’d given her.

  “Where else would I be?” he answered softly, taking her hand in his.

  “Why would you bother with me?” she asked, her lids closing and then fluttering open again.

  “You think I would just leave you to these pariahs alone?” he said nodding his head towards the officer standing outside the door.

  “I killed him,” she sobbed, snatching her hand from his grasp and rolling away towards the wall.

  “You didn’t kill him anymore than I did,” he told her with more force than he’d intended.

  “If it wasn’t for me he wouldn’t have been there.”

  “If it wasn’t for you we wouldn’t have met.” He had to try to put a positive spin on some of the events leading up to this very minute. He had to make her see that none of it was her fault. From the moment Max had first pierced that condom, circumstances had spiralled so far out of her control that nothing she could have done would have changed anything. If Max hadn’t have snapped when he did, then it would have only been a matter of time until he lost the plot.

  “Sophie, do you remember you told me how you fell pregnant?”

  She nodded.

  “It was all Max. It was Max who betrayed you. Perhaps because of the way the baby was conceived it was actually Max who killed her? Did you ever think of that?”

  “He wasn’t the one to carry her, he didn’t have any control over my body.”

  “And neither did you.” Brandan circled the bed and squatted down so he could look her in the face, his hands smoothing her long hair behind her ear.

  “It was my body.” Her tears were leaving a wet patch on the pillow under her head.

  “Can you tell your heart to stop beating? Can you tell your lungs to stop drawing breath? Can you tell your organs to stop working?”

  She shook her head, her hair fanning across the white linen.

  “You had no control other than what you ate, if you jumped up and down or threw yourself down a flight of stairs. You had no more control than Max had.”

  “But I drank, I ate junk food. What if it was something I did in my sleep or something?”

  “Pregnant women eat and sleep and do everything that other women do. How do you think drug addicts deliver perfectly healthy babies? Even though they harm themselves they have limited control over their bodies.”

  “Even if I didn’t kill her, I still killed him.”

  “Again, Sophie, you didn’t have control. Max could have killed one of us. If he hadn’t taken his own life, he would have certainly killed you.”

  “I don’t think it would have come to that,” she sniffed.

  “That’s why you threw yourself over the edge of the balcony?”

  She placed a warm palm against his stubbled cheek. “I didn’t want him to hurt you. I thought if he got what he wanted he would leave you alone.” She yawned, her eyelids fluttered. The sedative was taking full effect.

  “So, you risked your own life for mine?” No-one had ever done anything like that for him. Ever.

  “I...I couldn’t let him...”

  “Sshh.” He pushed her over on the bed and lay down next to her, settling in, his arms around her shoulders, her head on his chest.

  She snuggled in close, no longer trying to push him away.

  “I think I love you,” she whispered.

  His mouth went dry. Until now he wasn’t sure how she felt about him. He hadn’t been sure she would accept his proposal of a holiday let alone one of marriage. Now that she’d said the words he’d been too scared to say, he was sure. Sure that everything would work out, that they could be happy.

  “I think I love you too,” he said placing a kiss on her head.

  He knew they had a hell of a way to go but at least they had a start. A beginning. A future.

/>   Epilogue

  Somewhere in the distance cicadas chirped and a baby screamed for her mother.

  Sophie yawned and stretched, trying to not to wake the sleeping man at her side. She waited for the baby to quiet but the crying kept on, growing louder and more insistent.

  Climbing out of bed, she slipped her feet into a pair of furry slippers and tied her dressing gown above her waist. She paused, listening to the crying infant with trepidation.

  She was still trying to get used to the sound that had her insides twisting into knots. She didn’t know how mothers could handle the distressing noise.

  Walking down the corridor and up a flight of carpeted stairs, she hesitated when she reached the open doorway. Nerves made her want to run but as the baby’s cries increased, she took that final step into the nursery.

  Gazing down into the crib, she met the eyes of the fussy girl, feeling love grow in her chest where before there had only been emptiness and guilt.

  “You can pick her up if you like.”

  “I’m so sorry, Michaela, I heard crying. I don’t want to intrude.” Sophie’s cheeks flushed as she tried to explain why she stood in someone else’s nursery, staring at someone else’s children at three in the morning.

  “It’s fine. Bruno sleeps like the dead and I can only feed two at a time. Pick her up, it would give me some peace.” Michael had one baby at her breast and another in a rocker at her side sucking on a bottle. She looked like a woman content to hear the sounds of her third healthy baby screaming her head off.

  Sophie could understand that feeling perfectly. Michaela had been warned that not all of her babies would survive but here they were, months later, three tiny, bouncing baby girls.

  “Are you sure?” Sophie hadn’t held the babies yet. It hurt so much just being around them but after all the counselling she’d had and the long chats with Michaela and the support group for women who’d suffered miscarriages, she was dealing with it all so much better now.

  Including her own surprise pregnancy.

  She should have known the passion between her and Brandan would result in the making of a life. She still didn’t really know how to feel about it. They took every day one at a time and every night she went to bed still pregnant was a day she thanked God for.

  Almost of their own accord, Sophie’s hands lifted Mariella from her lonely place in the crib and cradled her against her chest, making soothing sounds and rocking gently to and fro.

  “Getting in some practice are we?” A deep, sleepy voice mumbled from the doorway.

  Sophie turned to see Brandan standing with his shoulder against the door jamb wearing only a pair of sweatpants. His face had healed perfectly with not even a scar to show for his week of blind hell. The workplace incident had been investigated and the case closed, ruled an accident. He looked so content, so at ease, love shining from his deep green eyes.

  What could she say? This man had helped turn her life around. He’d helped her to see that love was a gift to be cherished and enjoyed, it wasn’t frightening or something to run from or cower before. His love gave her a sense of freedom she’d never felt with Max.

  Sophie stopped rocking and looked down at the angel in her arms. Mariella had fallen asleep, her tiny fist pressed against her mouth, little suckling noises escaping her lips.

  Brandan’s strong arms wrapped around her, Mariella nestled between them. It felt like home. Sophie sighed. She couldn’t wait to get back to the US and start decorating the nursery. She’d quit her job and they’d relocated to the beautiful brownstone on the corner of central park. Brandan wouldn’t tell her how much he’d had to pay to get it back from his ex. Only that it was worth every dime. Now they would fill it with their children.

  She had so much to look forward to and it was all because of Brandan but in the dark hours of the morning, doubts had a way of bringing her down. She knew it could all fall apart in the space of a heartbeat.

  “Do you think we can ever be this happy?” she asked him, stroking a finger along the stubble on his jaw.

  “We are this happy.”

  Sophie stared into his eyes as his mouth relaxed into an easy grin.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” he asked her playfully, changing the subject.

  “I would if you weren’t blind when we met.”

  “Even though I couldn’t see you, I was lost from the moment I met you, when I smelled your scent and heard your voice.”

  “You were?” He’d never told her that.

  “Mmm, hmm.” He kissed her softly and then let her go, picking up one of his nieces now that she’d stopped feeding.

  She giggled softly as a thought entered her mind. If she was a journalist, she knew what the title of her gossip rag piece would be...

  Love at first scent.

  The End.

  Run Downunder Ink book one Chapter One Jo I’m having a bad day. I’m having a bad year. I snort and shuffle a stack of papers to the edge of the high, bench style desk I stand behind. I’m having a bad fucking life but I won’t admit that out loud. Not here and not today. I breathe deep, inhale until I feel it right down below my tummy, then I breathe out, exhale until there’s nothing left. My eyes are closed because apparently the focus comes when you’re not looking around at all the sparkly things the world has to offer. Not that I find things particularly sparkly these days. Shaking my head, I open my eyes but instead of seeing the clear glass and the ocean beyond, there’s a guy and he’s standing so close my heart trips a beat. “Hey, are you all right?” he asks. I open my mouth to tell him he shouldn’t be there, to tell him to get out, to scream, but all that emerges is a pathetic whimper and in the next stumbling heartbeat my body is burning and my hastily swallowed breakfast is about to hit his shoes. The sharp edge of the letter opener is in my hand and before I know what I’m doing, I’m wielding it like a switchblade, ready to slice a motherfucker before he can lay a finger on me. Breath after breath, I try to suck in enough oxygen to say something, to find that scream I need, but all that comes out is a whisper as my body burns from the inside out. “Get out.” He lifts his hands in surrender. He shows me he isn’t armed which should tell me how ridiculous the situation is. “Whoa, whoa, slow down, love, I’m not going to hurt you.” My fight or flight instincts are telling me to stab him the throat but even through the haze of panic I know that’s a little over the top for a Monday morning. “Get out,” I repeat, a little stronger this time. “But I’m here for-” “Get out before I do some damage.” If you think those words emerged from my mouth in a rational, slow, meaningful way, you’d be dead wrong. I’m hyperventilating. It’s happened before. I can’t stop it. Not while he’s still standing there. The glass door behind him swings opens but I only back up a few steps while he’s distracted. Only, he’s not. He doesn’t take his eyes off the letter opener, or me. “What the fuck is going on here?” I recognise Jack’s voice. My anchor in a storm on a clear, beautiful day. “Jo? Honey? Why don’t you put your weapon down?” The man talks and it sounds strange to my ears, probably because my heart won’t slow down it’s incessant drumming. “I seriously don’t understand what’s going on,” he tells my sister. My vision is soon filled with blue eyes and dark hair pulled back in a slick ponytail. She’s almost my twin. But across her throat is an intricate design of paisley and flowers, in her nose is a chunky ring and more in her ears. “Jo, it’s me. I’m here,” she says. She puts down the two coffee cups with little blue and while triangles on the side, right next to the paperwork I was shuffling. Shit. That’s right. I was doing paperwork. I look down at the letter opener I’m squeezing to death in a grip that’s starting to hurt my fingers. My palm opens and the metal drops to the floor with a clink, bounce, clink. Blue eyes hold mine when I look back up. She smiles. She closes the distance and tentatively puts her hands on my upper arms. Tentative because she looks frightened of me, but that can’t be right. Only, it’s right there in her expression. “I’m okay,” I try to reassure her, gripping
her forearms so we make a weird square between us. It takes me back a few years to the time right after our parents died. We’d stand like this, in silence, and try to make sense of the world. Why bad things happen to good people. “You’re not fine,” she says with a gentle smile. “But you will be.” Seven months. Seven months of freedom and I was still a fucking mess. She turns around and gives me her back, a kitten playing with string on one shoulder, peonies on the other, capping her delicate, pale skin. She says to the stranger, “Jo’s not quite herself, sorry about that. We’re not actually open yet if you want to come back a little later?” The heat that floods my cheeks actually hurts when the stranger replies, “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t touch her, I swear.” His accent catches me off guard and I find myself peering over Jack’s shoulder to get a better look at the man I could have killed. He has brown eyes like a weak shot of Brazilian Gold right before you pour the milk in. But in a glass, not in a cup. His hair is short at the back and sides and a little longer on the top. A slight touch of product is probably the reason it stands up the way it does. Like a baby mohawk trying to take its first steps. It’s thick and lush and dark. So is he. We’re experts on skin here, we’ve seen them all. A meme bounces across my brain as it begins to wake up. ‘I like my men like I like my coffee, dark and sweet.’ I saw it on Facebook and had smiled at it. I wasn’t smiling now. “Latte,” I blurt out. His skin is like a latte, his eyes like expresso. A tall coffee this one. Hot. “Jo,” Jack hisses back at me. “Shut the fuck up and let me apologise to the man before he calls the cops and has you committed.” My sister’s tone is like a bucket of ice-cold water and it dumps over me from my head to my toes. I haven’t been this out of it in a while and I pinch the inner side of my left wrist with my right hand and plaster on a smile. I edge Jack out of the way and flash what I know are twin dimples at the stranger. “I am so sorry. You gave me a fright and I…well I reacted badly.” This time he’s thrown as he blinks back at me. He probably thinks I have some kind of multiple personality disorder. He’d be half right. He swings his coffee gaze from me to Jack and back again until he finally lands back on Jack and stays there. “Jacqueline Johnson?” “That’s my name,” she confesses with an awkward chuckle. “But people just call me Jack.” “I’m Ashley Bridgerton. Ash.” Jack swears under her breath and then out loud too. “Oh. My. God. I am so sorry, Ash. Fuck, weren’t you due in tomorrow?” Ash? Ashley Bridgerton? Who? He lifts his wide arms to rub the back of his neck and I get hot again but not in a good way. “I grabbed an earlier connection in Dubai. Quickest flight I’ve ever had when crossing the world.” “You must be jet-lagged though? Why don’t I call you a taxi and you can hit up the place your staying? Have a nap?” He shakes his head. “I’m not due there until tomorrow either. Is there a hotel around here that won’t charge like a wounded bull?” Jack laughs. “It’s a tourist city, everywhere charges top dollar, even for the beginning of the week. Where will you be staying?” “House up on the bluff. I already called but today is a no go.” The way he says everything sounds so…proper. Upper toff. Is that what they call them? Lads from England? He sure has the lad look about him. His t-shirt has some band I’ve never heard of plastered on the front but the drums are a dead giveaway. It’s tight around his biceps. His arms are wide and colourful despite his darker skin. I should have known he’s an artist the second I laid eyes on him. Ink peeks from his shirt collar too. This isn’t a customer looking for a tramp stamp. “I guess you can crash on our couch tonight if it’s okay with Jo? Jo? Jo? Is that ok with you?” I nod my head but the fear is churning in my belly again. A strange man in the apartment? A stranger? A man? “If you’ll excuse me a sec?” But I don’t wait for an answer. I race to the bathroom as quick as my kitten heels can carry me and hang my head over the bowl, sure as shit I’m going to hurl. It’s only about ten minutes later when Jack knocks on the door. My hands are shaking when I unbolt the lock and let her in. I’m crouching but my breakfast stays where it is. “Mind telling me what that was?” she asks. “I didn’t mean to. He was just there.” “Not every guy is out to get you, Jo.” No, not all of them. Just one. And he’s behind bars. “It won’t happen again, I promise.” “What did I tell you about apologising every five seconds?” “Don’t do it?” She chuckles but then sobers. “I’m the one who should say sorry. I left the door unlocked when I went for the coffees. You sure it’s okay for him to crash tonight? I checked him out, he’s good.” “Yeah, no worries. I’m fine, but lucky you came back when you did,” I tell her as I straighten, running the water over the basin to wash my hands. “You think you would have stabbed him?” I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes are bloodshot, my lips are dry and I’m pale. Way too pale for someone who lives a street back from the beach in Australia. Could I have stabbed him? Could I have inflicted that kind of injury on another person? Could fear make me that strong? I shake my head and attempt the lighten the mood in the small bathroom. “Not with a letter opener from the two-dollar shop.” “Probably a good thing, that,” she says with a laugh. “Ash is here to take Ty’s chair for a few weeks. I’m not sure his travel insurance would cover psycho chick with a letter opener. I don’t think he could tattoo with a stab wound either.” I force a chuckle but I’m not feeling it. Grey clouds are hanging over me now and I can’t shake them. I can’t shake him. Not Ash. He’s obviously harmless. Even behind bars for the next ten years, Brayden is still making my life miserable. And I’m letting him…   If you loved Blind Passion, strap in for a hotter, darker romance from Bronwyn Stuart. Order book one here - https://www.amazon.com/Run-Downunder-Ink-Book-1-ebook/dp/B08KQ4DNFT or simply enter Bronwyn Stuart into your Amazon search to see all books by this author including hot historical romance.