Beyond the Sea: A Modern Gothic Romance

by L.H. Cosway

  I’m just about to step out the door when the tiger starts to speak. “I’m looking for Brandon Solicitors. Do you know if I have the right place?”

  I step back inside.

  He sounds like Mark Wahlberg when he’s letting his Southie roots all hang out. His deep American accent makes me want to close my eyes and savour the sound. But I don’t do that – because I’m not a complete psycho.

  “Yeah, this is the place. I work here, actually. I’m the secretary slash receptionist slash general dogsbody. It’s my dad’s firm,” I reply. Too much information, Matilda. Too. Much. Information.

  The tiger smiles, making him better-looking, if that’s even possible. And thankfully, he doesn’t comment on my fluster. “I have an appointment with Hugh Brandon at nine. I’m Jay,” he says, and takes a step closer to hold his hand out to me. My back hits the wall, his tall frame dwarfing mine. I don’t think he realises just how narrow this space is, and now I can smell his cologne. Wow, it’s not often that I get close enough to a man to smell him. And Jay Fields smells indecently good.

  “Ah, right. Jay Fields. Yeah, I have you pencilled in. You can go on upstairs, and Dad will take care of you,” I reply, shaking his hand and letting go quickly so that he doesn’t notice my sweatacular palms. “I’ve got an errand to run.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, like his eyes are trying to take in my every feature, but that can’t be right. When he finally responds, it’s a simple, “I won’t keep you, then, Matilda.”

  God. Why does the way he says “keep you” in that deep voice have to make my heart flutter? It’s been literally thirty seconds, and I’m already well on my way to developing a crush.

  He makes some keen eye contact with me, then turns and continues up the stairs to the office. I’m already on the street when I realise I hadn’t offered my name, and yet he knew it. Perhaps he’d been browsing our website. Our offices might be shoddy, but I always make sure to keep our online presence up to scratch. There’s a picture of me, Dad, and Will, the other solicitor who works for the practice, on the “About Us” page.

  So if he knew who I was already, why did he ask if he had the right place?

  Miracle of all miracles, was he actually, like, chatting me up or something? Be still my beating heart. Or is he just the friendly, chatty type? I consider these questions as I walk inside the café three buildings down from our office and order two lattes to go. I briefly think about ordering something for the tiger, aka Jay Fields, but he might be one of those picky coffee drinkers, so I don’t.

  When I get back, I find Dad’s shut himself inside his office with Jay, and the next appointment is already waiting to be seen. She’s a middle-aged woman wearing a neck brace. I haven’t had the chance to look at her information, but I can imagine what she’s here for. Some sort of accident claim.

  What I really want to know is what Jay’s here for. Yep, I’m already wondering about this man way too much. I remember him calling up last week to make the appointment, and somehow I neglected to ask him what kind of a claim he wanted to make. It’s weird, too, because I have my set spiel for appointments, and I never forget to ask for all the information I need. It’s almost like my subconscious knew I was speaking with a gorgeous man, thus rendering me double “F-ed”: frazzled and forgetful.

  Knowing Dad will want his caffeine fix as soon as possible, I knock lightly on the door and wait to be let in. Dad calls for me to enter and I do, opening the door with the paper coffee cup in my hand. Jay’s sitting in the seat in front of Dad’s desk, his hands clasped together over his head as he lounges back, casual as you please. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk to Dad and give him his beverage. He seems a little out of sorts, so I put a hand on his shoulder and ask, “Everything okay?”

  Dad looks lost in his own head for a minute, and I have to repeat the question a second time to get him to answer me.

  “What? Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, chicken,” he mutters.

  “It might be me who’s the problem,” Jays puts in. “I just presented your old man with a case he’s not sure he wants to take.”

  I look at Jay now, my brow furrowing. Who the hell is this guy? What he’s said has piqued my curiosity, though, so I close the door and fold my arms. Unless I’m needed to take notes, I don’t normally sit in on meetings with clients, but Dad’s demeanour has put me on edge, my protective instincts kicking into gear.

  Jay grins in a way that makes me think he’s pleased with my attention. “Oh, now she’s curious.”

  Okay, this man might be beautiful, but he’s also kind of strange.

  “Did you want to make a claim against someone?” I ask, because Dad still isn’t talking. I suppose he’s still considering whatever Jay’s case is.

  “Nope. I want to sue someone,” says Jay, all matter-of-fact.

  “For what?”

  “Defamation of character,” he answers before pulling a newspaper out of his bag. He flips through it, folds it open to the page he’s looking for, and hands it to me. I glance down at the tabloid, scanning the bold headline that reads, “Illusionist Jay Fields Causes Death of Volunteer.” I let my eyes drift briefly over the article, which features a promotional picture of Jay holding up a six of hearts card. Oh. Now I remember where I know him from.

  A couple of weeks ago The Daily Post broke a story about an Irish-American illusionist with a new show coming to RTÉ. He was filming an upcoming episode when a tragic accident hit. I scan the article before me, recalling the details. A couple of hours after wrapping up the filming of an episode where Jay was paying homage to Houdini by re-creating a version of his “Buried Alive” stunt, the volunteer who’d taken part had died of a heart attack.

  What Jay proposed to do was to put the volunteer, David Murphy, into a hypnotic state whereby he would only breathe in very little air, allowing him to be buried for twenty-four hours in an empty grave and not suffocate in the process. An impossible feat, many would say. The volunteer was given a panic button, and if anything went wrong, he could press it, and he’d be immediately dug up. In the end the panic button wasn’t needed, and he miraculously managed to survive the entire twenty-four hours underground. However, when he went to bed that night, he suffered a fatal heart attack and died.

  Needless to say, the tabloids caught on to the story and began posing questions about whether or not Jay’s stunt had somehow caused David Murphy to have his heart attack. After all, being buried alive is quite the traumatic experience.

  The piece before me, written by a well-known crime journalist named Una Harris, who was the one to break the initial story about Jay, is certainly extreme. It delves into Jay’s background in America, where she claims he spent a year in a juvenile detention facility for assaulting a man on the street. Before that he’d been a runaway, squatting in derelict buildings in Boston.

  Harris poses questions about Jay’s less than squeaky-clean background. She wonders how a man who spent time in prison, even if it was a young offenders’ prison, would be given permission to carry out dangerous stunts as he had been doing in his show. She also wonders why Jay, who had been performing some very successful live shows in Las Vegas, would give all that up to move to such a small pond as Ireland to film a series that would only reach a tiny audience in comparison to the States.

  Overall, she basically out and out claims that Jay had shady motives for coming here, and perhaps he even intended for David Murphy to die. He did, after all, almost beat a man to death when he was just fifteen. Perhaps he’s simply come up with a more elaborate way to feed his need to harm people, Harris muses.

  Whoa, this woman really doesn’t pull any punches with her insinuations. It’s almost like she’s begging for a lawsuit. I mean, I’ve worked with my dad long enough to know that you should always have hard evidence before you publicly make claims about people that could be construed as libellous. And aside from a few hazy pieces of information about Jay’s teenage years, Una Harris has zero evidence
.

  I draw my attention away from the newspaper to find that my dad and Jay had been having a conversation while I was lost in the article.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” says Dad. “The thought of taking on such a case excites me. I haven’t worked on anything like this in years, but at the same time I need to be selfless and tell you that there are far better solicitors out there for the job. I can even give you a few names to contact. You do actually want to win this case, I presume?”

  Jay uncrosses his legs and folds his arms. “Hell, yeah, I want to win it. And I know you’re the man for the job, Hugh, no matter how much you try to convince me otherwise.”

  I silently hand him back the newspaper and he takes it, his fingertips brushing mine. The contact makes my skin tingle. Stupid handsome bastard.

  Dad stares at Jay, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants to say yes — he just doesn’t have the confidence to do it. In all honesty, I’m hoping he continues to say no. I know how stressful the kind of case Jay is proposing can be, and I don’t want Dad going through all that. He just turned sixty last month. The landmark birthday only functioned to make me more aware of how many years he might have left.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Fields, but I’m going to have to stick to my guns on his one,” Dad says apologetically. “Taking on a journalist is one thing, but suing a newspaper is going to require a top-notch firm. As you can probably see, we’re not that.”

  Oh. Jay wants to sue the actual newspaper? I’m impressed. That takes some serious balls.

  Okay, Matilda, stop thinking about the man’s balls.

  Jay lets out a long sigh and turns his head to the window. A second later he gets up from his seat and thrusts his hand out at Dad. “Well, if there’s no way I can convince you,” he replies, and the two men shake hands. “Thanks for your time anyway.”

  Jay goes to walk out the door but then turns back for a second, an impish gleam in his eye. “Oh, before I go, can you recommend anywhere I might be able to rent a place close to the city? I’ve had to move out of the apartment I’d been staying in.”

  I take in a quick breath as Dad’s eyes light up. A couple of weeks ago he got it into his head to renovate the spare bedroom in our house so that he could take on a lodger and make a little extra money. I haven’t been too keen on the idea, since I don’t really want to share my living space with a stranger, but once Dad settled on the idea, there was no deterring him.

  I certainly don’t want to share my living space with Jay Fields. Not because of his supposed history mapped out by Una Harris, but because I wouldn’t be able to relax around him. He has this magnetic energy that makes me feel anxious and excited all at once.

  “It’s funny you should ask,” says Dad. “I’ve been planning on renting out our spare room — if you’re interested, of course. It’s got an en-suite, newly refurbished.”

  I squeeze my fists tight and walk back out to the reception area, taking a seat at my desk and slugging back a gulp of my coffee. I don’t like how rapidly my heart beats at the thought of Jay moving into that room, so I leave before I hear his answer. Please, please, please let him say no.

  My Dad’s raucous laughter streams out from the office; Jay’s obviously in there charming the pants off him. I silently curse my father for being such an easily charmed hussy.

  No more than a minute later, both Dad and Jay leave his office. I can see Jay looking at me out of the corner of my eye, but I continue typing into the computer in front of me, feeling like if I look directly at him, he’ll somehow be able to tell how attractive I find him.

  “Matilda, could you do me a huge favour and bring Jay out to the house on your lunch break to see the room? I’d do it myself, only I have a meeting to go to.”

  Oh, Dad. You have no idea how you’re torturing me right now. It takes me several beats to answer. When I finally do, my voice is quiet. “Yeah, okay.”

  What I really want to say is hell, no, but that would make me look like a bitch. And I’m not a bitch. Well, outside my own inner dialogue, I’m not.

  “Great,” says Dad before turning to the waiting neck-brace woman. “Ah, Mrs Kelly. You can come on in now.”

  Mrs Kelly follows Dad into his office, leaving me alone with Jay.

  “What time do you have lunch?” he asks in a low voice, stepping closer to my desk.

  “One o’clock. We’ll have to get a taxi, because I need to be back here by two.”

  “That’s okay. I can drive us,” says Jay, and I bite my lip, looking up at him now. Wow, his eyes are kind of mesmerising, not quite brown, not quite green. We stare at one another for a long moment, and there’s a faint smile on his perfectly sculpted lips.

  “All right. See you at one,” I tell him breezily, and then my eyes return to the screen in front of me as he leaves. On the outside I’m all business. On the inside I’m a nervous wreck. How in the hell am I going to act like a normal human being while spending at least an hour in his company? He really doesn’t know what he’s in for.

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  Meet the Author

  Greetings! ‘Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is L.H. Cosway and I wrote the book you just read. I hail from Dublin, Ireland, where I live with my husband and two tiny dictators of the canine variety. My favourite things in life include daydreaming about fictional characters, eating in fancy restaurants, looking at dresses online that I’ll never buy, having entire conversations with my dogs, listening to podcasts and of course, reading books. I happen to believe that imperfect people are the most interesting kind. They tell the best stories.

  Here is my website where you can find various and sundry information about me and my books: www.lhcoswayauthor.com

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  Books by L.H. Cosway

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  How the Light Gets In (#2)

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