“Am I?”
I stare at the blood-soaked towel on the floor and dip, scooping it up and tossing it in the shower stall. “You are a demon, Rose.” I glance up at her and reach back for the door handle. “I don’t care why you’re hurting yourself. I care that you’re doing it in my home. I don’t care that you’re drawing blood. I care that you’re spilling it all over my fucking carpet. I don’t care if you want to kill yourself. I care that it’ll fuck up my plans if you do.” I yank the door open, watching her nostrils flare with hatred. “I don’t care about you.” I’m so fucking dumb, I deserve a medal for supreme stupidity. I look down at my slashed arm and close my eyes. Instinct screwed me over this time.
I make to turn but get stopped by the feel of her hand on my hip. I look down and see her bloody palm spread on the waist of my jeans. “What if I told you that I care about you?”
“I’d say you are either stupid or suicidal.”
“Maybe I’m both.”
“Maybe I don’t give a fuck.” I try to shake her off, but she stands firm, moving in front of me until our chests are compressed, her bra-covered breasts pushed into my T-shirt. I don’t have much willpower left.
“I call bullshit.” She slides her hand onto my shoulder. “I say you’re scared.”
“Of what?”
“Me.”
I can’t argue with that. But I should. “I’ve never been scared of anything.”
“Me neither. Not for a long time.” She reaches up on her tiptoes and pushes her mouth to my cheek. I swear, every time her mouth touches a part of me, a little bit of something good sinks into me. “Until you.”
My head loses all strength, dropping until my mouth meets her bare shoulder. She still smells of me. I can hear my father bellowing at me, reminding me of my obligations and of the weakness women present. He nearly fell into that trap once. “You’re not scared of me,” I point out. “And that’s what scares me.” Breaking our contact, I move away. The simple step is harder than I’ve ever found it to end a man’s life.
Finding some vigor, I bend and collect the razor blade from the floor, wrapping it in tissue and flushing it down the toilet. Then I grab a towel and wrap her arm in it, keeping my eyes on my task, feeling her watching me. “Be wise, Rose,” I say, collecting the knife, turning, and leaving the bathroom. “I’ll have a doctor come sort those cuts.” I ignore the pull trying to take me back and virtually throw myself out her bedroom door.
I bump into Brad, and his eyes fall to my arm. Any normal man would assume she’d turned things around and attacked me. But it’s Brad.
“You need stiches,” he says, grimacing at my mess of an arm.
“And my head checked,” I tell him as I head to the office. I don’t know what that woman’s game is. I don’t know why she’s not scared of me. And I know I shouldn’t want to know. But why the fuck did she take a blade to her arm? It wasn’t a suicide attempt. She wasn’t trying to escape me.
Was she punishing herself?
I can’t shove aside my desire for knowledge. It’s almost as powerful as my desire for her.
Almost?
Nowhere near.
Either way, I’m fucked.
Chapter 14
ROSE
* * *
The feeling of guilt is twisting my head. My sense of regret is turning my stomach. If I didn’t know better, I would think Danny’s suspicious of me. Being around him is getting harder by the hour. I need to get out of here before I lose my mind. Seducing him should be easy. Especially given I can see how much he wants me. I’ve never failed to get what I want from a man. It’s always been clean and easy. This time, though, it’s messy and hard. I’ve been told what I need to do, but I’m meeting resistance. I would say he’s the sensible of the two of us. But he’s not the one straddling life and death. I don’t want to trick him into confiding in me. I don’t want to share his secrets. It’s beyond me why, but I don’t want to betray him. Every time I think about it, my stomach flips, and not because I realize he’ll kill me if he finds out. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s a warped goodness in him I see glimmers of. Or maybe I’ve finally lost my mind.
Yet I have no choice. My life depends on it, and so does my son’s. As long as I play ball, my boy retains his happiness and freedom. As long as I do as I’m told, I get drip-fed pictures of him growing up. I get proof that he’s alive. That he’s happy and safe from the debased world I’m in. It’s never been a difficult decision to play ball.
Until now.
Everything about this feels wrong, and it has nothing to do with Danny being a murdering bast—
“Asshole,” I say to myself as I lie on the lounge chair on the terrace. I look down at my bandaged arm, and for the first time, I regret hurting myself. Not because I didn’t get that release of pressure I so desperately needed, but because he caught me doing it. He saw me in a moment of weakness, and I hate that. But more than that, I hate his reaction. Why? Why would he do that to himself? And what happens now?
I swallow and close my eyes, feeling exhausted. I didn’t sleep one wink last night, asking myself those questions. Why? What now? I see glimmers of a man somewhere close to human. Then flashes of a man somewhere close to a monster. I see a lightness in his eyes when we’ve verbally sparred. Then blackness when those moments abruptly end. He is a paradox.
I sigh and try to enjoy the sun on my skin, trying to clear my mind of those lingering questions before they drive me mad. Or am I already there? Now, this moment, alone with the bright, warm sun, would usually be something I’d seize with everything I have and make the most of. Quiet is a rarity in my world. Alone time even rarer. Except I’m not alone and it’s not quiet, not with my mind screaming at me, my questions and fears running circles in my brain. “Goddamn it,” I whisper, opening my eyes and staring at the clouds. They roll through the blue sky, free and wild. There’s nothing but open air, endless space.
But I’m still a prisoner. Whether with Danny, Nox, or Perry, I’m trapped.
Voices from the garden below drift up to the terrace, and I prop myself up on my elbows, craning my neck to see through the glass panels. Danny’s down there with Brad, looking like an evil god post-workout in a pair of sweatpants, his T-shirt draped around his neck. I curl my lip in disgust. Then my eyes fall to his arm, seeing it wrapped like mine.
“It’s all offloaded and checked,” Brad tells him, and I watch closely, seeing him scrolling through his phone. “It’s all in the containers at the boatyard ready for the exchange.”
Danny dips and ties the laces of one sneaker, looking up at Brad. “We’ll go to the boatyard later this evening so I can check the consignment before the exchange with the Russians.”
I fall back to the lounge chair when Danny rises, his head turning toward the terrace. I remain still, holding my breath.
“I need to let off some steam,” I hear him say, the collective sounds of their feet crunching the graveled path muffling their voices.
But I still hear Brad’s reply. “Call Amber, for fuck’s sake.”
“I will,” Danny replies.
“Of course you will,” I whisper to myself, dropping my head to the side to look through the glass of the panel that separates this terrace from his. And I’ll be expected to remain in here, listening to him letting off some steam? No. I have to get something for Nox, and I have to do it fast. I can’t bear this place, can’t bear him any longer. He’s going to the boatyard this evening. Will all his men go too? Either way, I need to get into his office.
Then, I’m out of here.
I get up and head for the bathroom, feeling around the back of the drawer for the cell phone. I turn it on and punch out a quick message to Nox.
* * *
A consignment arrived at his boatyard. He’s going there this evening to check it.
I’ll get into his office once he’s left.
* * *
I click send and replace the phone, then wrap my arm and take a show
er, leaving my room before the sounds of Danny letting off steam start to torment me.
By five o’clock, I’m restless again. I roamed the garden, wandered the house, and when I knew it would be safe to return to my room, I did just that. All signs of mine and Danny’s massacre are gone. At least, the blood is. The wounds, especially his, will take weeks to heal.
I know Danny’s not left for the boatyard yet because I’ve been watching Brad play tennis from my terrace for a few hours now, and he wouldn’t go anywhere without Brad. But then Brad leaves the court, and I dash into my room. My ear is soon pushed up against the wood of the door, listening for any sign that Danny’s leaving his mansion.
I hear footsteps, a soft padding of feet on the plush carpet outside my room. Shit. I dart across to the bed, falling to my back and closing my eyes. How juvenile. But still, no contact. No engagement. I hear the door open, followed by an impatient grunt.
“Up,” Danny orders, and my face muscles strain with the need to curl a lip, or at the very least throw a filthy look at the asshole. But I remain still and quiet, hoping he’ll fuck off and leave me alone.
I’m outraged when he grabs my arm and shakes me. “Up,” he snaps curtly, manhandling me to my feet. What the hell?
“Get your fucking hands off me,” I yell, not at all sleepily, tossing my elbow out to the side in an attempt to shrug him off, but his face is low and . . .
Crack.
My bony elbow collides with his nose, and it seems to explode, blood pouring over his lips. Danny flinches and blinks rapidly, caught off guard, his eyes watering madly in an instant.
“Motherfucker,” he breathes, taking his hand to his nose before inspecting it. It’s a blood-stained mess. Oh shit. He looks like he’s going to launch me into outer space with his fist, his knuckles going white with the force of his clenched hands. Then his bloody nose starts pouring all over the carpet, and he curses, holding it while he paces to the bathroom. For some strange reason, I follow him, finding him bent over the sink, big fat drops of blood hitting the porcelain in consistent light thuds, splashing up the shiny white enamel.
I have no idea what possesses me. No idea at all. “Did that hurt?”
His eyes lift and look at me in the reflection, his face blank. It did hurt. I can tell. He was surprised, and his watery eyes suggest pain. “No.” His lips don’t even move, his snappy answer delivered through clenched teeth.
I can’t help it. My cheeks start to pull, and as hard as I try, my smirk can’t be held back. I’m forced to reach up and pinch my nose, feeling laughter rising from my toes. I mustn’t laugh. He’ll likely strangle me if I laugh.
His shoulders rise, he wipes his nose roughly, and he slowly turns to face me, not in the least bit impressed. He’s twitching violently, and I just know it’s because he doesn’t know what to do. Well, actually, he does. Kill me. But he won’t. I’m no good to him dead.
I rein myself in and step back, seeing his muscles engaging. My face straightens quickly, my own muscles becoming alert, ready to fight.
His nose is still dripping. His jaw solid. His eyes wild. Then he’s coming at me fast, and I try desperately to locate the shield that always keeps me safe, that protects me from my life—from the pain, the grief, the plain awful. His arm draws back as he approaches. My shield can’t be found. I close my eyes and brace myself for it.
“Arhhhhh,” I scream, flying into the air and landing on something hard. I’m disorientated, brushing my hair out of my face as I bounce up and down. No sooner have I figured out that he’s flung me onto his shoulder, I’m in the air again, this time landing with a thud on something soft. The bed?
My ankle is seized, and I’m yanked to the edge where he stands. He still looks like a psychopathic killer, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to kick him. He catches my other ankle too, and I wriggle and buck like a mad woman, vehemently trying to fight him off. Then in a quick move, he crosses his arms, therefore my legs too, and I’m spun onto my front, his hand on the back of my neck, applying pressure in a small spot that effectively paralyses me. I actually cannot move, my cheek squished into the pillow.
His face appears, his knee in my back, his entire body holding me in place, but it’s his touch on my neck keeping me still. He looks like he’s been ripping apart a fresh kill, his nose smeared with fresh blood, more still dripping, making a mess of the bed sheets. “I want to fucking kill you.” He brings his face down, closer, allowing me to see the murder etched across it.
What kind of woman ever smirked at such a threat? And from a man like Danny Black? Me. That’s who. I’m certifiably in-fucking-sane. “Then kill me,” I breathe. “And make it slow and painful.”
“What the hell are you?” He’s completely stunned.
“I’m a heartbeat,” I reply simply, staring at him. “I’m nothing, Danny Black. And you are God.” His hold on my neck flexes, but he doesn’t release me. He just gazes at me while he continues to pour blood all over the place, including me. “You’re going to ruin the bed,” I whisper.
“Fuck the bed.”
“You’re going to ruin my clothes.”
“Fuck the clothes.”
“You’re going to ruin me.” I hold my breath and watch as he lets my statement and its meaning sink in. I know it has when he blinks rapidly, as if pulling himself from a daze. He releases me, being quite gentlemanly about it, and pulls me up, before grabbing a pillow and pulling off the cover, wiping his nose.
“You can’t ruin something that’s already broken, Rose.” His words are soft, not cutting, but they still hurt. And he’s wrong. He could destroy me completely. But I don’t challenge him.
Pointing to the wardrobe, Danny takes backward steps toward the door. “Get ready. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“My boatyard.” He opens the door and leaves, and I remain where I am, my mind racing. He’s taking me? I hurry to the bathroom, flipping the shower on. Then I stare at the drawer for an age, torn. I decide against it. It’s not like I have anything to tell him, anyway.
You can’t ruin something that’s already broken, Rose.
He just has no idea how broken I actually am.
Jeans and a sweater. It seems like a suitable wardrobe choice for a boatyard. The jeans are Armani, low-rise, and hug my ass tightly, and the gray sweater has the Union Jack on it. Very . . . British. Like him. I can only imagine Esther is responsible for my new wardrobe. Who else?
I slip my feet into some tennis shoes and pull my hair into a ponytail as I make my way downstairs, and I nearly tumble down the damn things when I spot him. In a baseball cap. Danny Black in a baseball cap? It’s sounds so very wrong, but it’s looks very right. He’s in jeans too; his are an easy-fit as oppose to my skinny things, and he’s also wearing a sweater. His is navy, emblazoned with the Union Jack too. He looks casual. Relaxed. It suits him. I discreetly pull my British sweater away from my chest to circulate some air as I approach him, my feet careful on the marble steps. I can’t help but wonder if the flag on the front of my sweater, the sweater he had put in my wardrobe, is The Brit making a point. But what point? This is all very . . . couplesy.
I can see Danny’s subtly taking me in as Brad talks to him, pointing at his slightly swollen nose. When I’m close enough, Danny clasps the top of my arm, just above the bandage under my sweater, and leads me out to the car. “I can tell this is going to be a romantic date,” I quip, falling to the back seat once he’s opened the door for me.
He ignores me, gets in, going straight to his phone, and that’s where he stays, engrossed in the screen the entire way.
* * *
The sea smells good. The breeze feels good. Loose strands of my hair whipping my face feels good. I stand by the car, looking back at the dirt road that led us down to this little haven. A station wagon pulls up behind us, a trailer hooked to the back. And on it, a jet ski. A surfer type jumps out and starts toward one of the huge containers set to the left. I frown, continuing to take in
the boatyard. The name suggests a few rickety sheds, maybe a jetty and a few old boats thrown into the mix. But there’s none of that. A huge log cabin is by the shore with a raised decking area that juts out over the water, supported by stilts. There are endless huge metal containers, and a sandy shore leading to the water. We’re in a cute cove. It’s all really very pretty and idyllic . . . if it wasn’t for the noise.
I cast my eyes across the water and see jet skis. Lots of them, zooming across the sea, circling, spraying water when they sharply turn. Endless jet skis bob on the water on the shore, and endless people in wetsuits are milling around.
“Coming through,” a man shouts, hanging out his truck window as he reverses his trailer down to the water. I move aside and get an endearing wink. “Come for lessons?” he asks as he rolls past.
“She’s with me.” Danny moves in and takes my hand, pulling me toward the cabin.
“Hey, Danny.” The guy smacks the side of his truck, a cheerful smile on his face. “It’s busy out there today.”
“European competition season is on the way,” Danny says, only further deepening my frown.
The guy’s trailer hits the water and a few more men in wetsuits start unstrapping the jet ski from the back. “I’m confused,” I admit as we approach the wooden steps of the cabin.
“What are you confused about, Rose?”
“This place. It’s yours?”
“Everything except the land it’s on.”
We enter the cabin, and I come to a stop in the doorway, unable to grasp what’s going on. There’s a massive café to the right, a shop stocking all things water sports to the left, changing rooms up ahead. And virtually everyone is wearing wetsuits. “Jet skis,” I say to myself as Danny passes me, heading for the serving counter of the café.
“Yes, jet skis.” He looks back as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “Drink?”
The Brit Page 16