by Sara Forbes
She rises and makes a beeline for the stairwell door.
I bound after her and place my hand on the door-handle. "Wait a minute. You can't just to go up there—"
She whirls around. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."
"Wait, I—"
"You what?" She's breathing hard. And then there's this moment where the whole world falls away and we're just a man and a woman pulling each other in with a force too strong to fight anymore. I'm numb except for the razor-sharp focus on her eyes, her nose, her mouth. I don't know what it was I wanted to say anymore. Words are just not doing it for me. My heart is pounding like it's going to give out any second.
The room goes still as we stare each other down. As I get lost in the browns and teals of her eyes, I feel my will crumbling and crashing down like an avalanche on the Swiss Alps. I cup my hands around her shoulders and tug her into my chest.
Her lips rise the final inch to meet mine, softly, tentatively. I press down gently against her mouth, and trail my tongue along her bottom lip, probing, making sure, preparing her. Underneath my caresses, her neck and jaw soften and I plunge in, releasing all the desire that's been welling inside of me ever since I first laid eyes on her.
Her hands clutch against the front of my shirt, gripping the fabric tight. I cup her head in my hands and press harder into her. It makes her tremble and gasp, mid-kiss, "Egan."
Hearing my name in that breathy voice drives my heart wilder. Anything else she might have said is drowned, however, by the sound of a door slamming. Actually slamming.
I growl in my throat. I'm tempted to whisk Jess out of here and let Natasha stay locked up there the whole afternoon.
"Sorry, Jess," I say, pulling back. "We have a situation to deal with."
15
JESS
I NEED TO KNOW what the hell is happening with that poor Russian woman upstairs. And despite his mind-blowing kiss, I still haven't ruled out the possibility of calling the police on Egan Harwood the minute I get out of here.
But I resolve to stay calm and non-judgmental until I've seen this mysterious Natasha. If there's even the slightest hint of something wrong, I am so calling the police.
"So, are you living here too?" I ask him as we go up the stairs. I can't help wonder what it would feel like to sleep under the same roof as this guy. Under the same sheets? I chase away that aggravating thought. Surely Natasha doesn't do that.
"Lately, yes," he says. We've reached the first landing. He doesn't seem in a huge rush to get upstairs.
"So...uh, where do you sleep then?" I ask.
"Second floor. In the kitchen."
"That couch?"
"Yep."
"But's it's too small."
"You're telling me."
"And...Natasha?" I ask. I'm curling my toes in my shoes.
"She has her own space on the third." He steps forward, backing me into the corner. "So, you see, not the little sex slave situation you were thinking."
"I wasn't thinking that," I whisper.
He leans over me, his strong arms planted on the wall at either side of my face, his body leaning into me, his blue eyes, filled with sudden mirth. I love this side of him, and I love that we can tease each other even when the situation is tense.
My gaze strays to his lips. I can't hide my desire for more.
He draws away and we continue our slow ascent of the stairs.
What a tease. I'll get him back for that.
"I probably would have thought exactly the same thing as you," he says, "It was ridiculous of me to think I could hide her."
"But you felt you had to?"
"I felt it was the only way until we got her to the safe house."
"But what then?"
He cocks his head at me. "How do you mean what then?"
"Well...will she live with you then, or what?"
"No. She'll be safe there. I don't even know where, and I'm not likely to. They'll forge a new life for her. College, perhaps, who knows?" He makes a vague hand gesture.
"But will she be happy? She won't have you anymore."
"I trust she'll be happy because she won't have me anymore."
"Then what about you?" I ask. "Will you be glad to see her go?"
"Once this is over, I can get back to my schedule."
"Which is what?"
He stops walking. "Regular business."
"And none of mine?"
"I didn't say that."
"You kind of did."
He sighs. "Look. She's just the first. I can't stop with one person. We're going to be bigger than this. There are thousands of trapped people, political dissidents, refugees, political opponents. People who fall through the cracks in the system. We want to help as many as we can."
Of all the things this man has said to me, this is the first that makes me think he's kind of crazy. There's a fanatical light in his eyes, making them glow. I wonder who the "we" is in all of this. I wonder why he thinks he can circumvent institutions, laws, and national borders in order to "help" people as he sees fit. I think we may have a case of the superhero complex. Yes, it's kind of sexy, but it's hardly realistic.
"Okay," I say lightly.
We've reached the third floor. Egan shoots me an unreadable look as he pushes in the door of the third-floor office. I'm biting my lip, not knowing what to expect.
He leads the way toward the storeroom which is open. I follow him and loiter beside him in the doorway, peering into the cramped, windowless space.
She's a waif of a girl, or rather, young woman, with lank, dirty blonde hair, wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans and black Ugg boots. She's almost skeletal when you look at the few parts of her that are exposed...wrists like twigs, her neck a thin column of green veins on creamy skin, her eye-sockets too prominent. She's sitting on a chair, knees tucked under her chin, reading what appears to be a kindle. It must be a good book because she doesn't look up.
"Natasha," Egan says. His voice is infused with a fatherly concern that you just can't fake. It instantly dispels many of my worries. Then, when she looks up, her face so trusting, sad, and vulnerable, I instantly know that whatever he's done for her, it's been good, and she's needed him. And that I want to help, too.
"Hi," I say, walking over to her and stopping just before her, extending my hand to shake. "I'm Jess. I don't know...maybe you've seen me around?"
Her flicker of a smile betrays that she has. "Maybe." She grasps my hand in her cool thin fingers and shakes. Her dark eyes seem huge in her thin face.
"So. You've got what you wanted," Egan says to her. "Happy?"
She rolls her eyes and goes back to reading. "I don't know what you mean."
Egan slides me a look and I can't help smiling.
"Well, short of screaming out "help me, help me," I'm not sure how much more obvious you could have been that you wanted Jess to know you were up here."
Natasha looks up. "Oh. That."
He shakes his head.
I look around the room and my face falls. Her bedclothes are in a ball—a sleeping bag that has seen better days, frankly, and a lumpy pillow. I look around for a mattress but all I can find is a yoga mat, rolled up and shoved between the filing cabinet and the wall.
I look back to the sleeping bag. Stains bloom around the zipper. My skin starts to feel itchy all over.
"No," I say flatly. "No, no, nope."
Egan and Natasha stare at me.
"What?" Egan says.
I march around, pulling out the sleeping bag to full length. Then I yank up the mat from its corner and unroll it. "Is this what you've been sleeping on?"
"Uh, yeah?" Natasha shrugs.
I roll the sleeping bag and the mat back into tight tubes and cast them in the corner. "You need fresh laundry. When was the last time your clothes were washed?"
"Uh—" Egan begins, but I hold up my hand for silence. "Okay, food. What have you been eating?"
"Chocolate croissants!" she exclaims triumphantly.
> I glare at Egan.
"It's all she'll eat!" he says.
I groan out loud. "When did you last eat a hot meal, Natasha?"
"I don't like British food. It's disgusting."
"Or have a bath?"
She shrugs and shares a look with Egan.
"How long have you been here?"
"Ten days," she says.
"Egan! You can't have her here. This is not right. I'm taking her home with me."
He holds out his hand to stall me. "Wait, Jess. You need to hear the full story."
Natasha looks away, her expression suddenly dark.
"Just...sit, please." Egan says, drawing up a chair for me.
When I sit, he draws up a chair for himself so that we form a little circle. He then tells me the story from start to finish-of Sergei Ritensky getting imprisoned, then beaten to death, Natasha hearing the news, the underground organization getting in touch with her and sheltering her, her first contact with Egan, the rescue, his first days with Natasha, the ongoing negotiations with the intermediary organization who can't seem to tell him when the safe house will be ready to accept Natasha. The agonizing wait for news.
It's all too much to believe and yet, the proof is sitting right in front of me drumming her nail-bitten fingers on a Kindle.
Natasha then embellishes Egan's story with details of her own, listing all the strict rules that Egan imposed on her in order to guarantee her staying hidden, the curfews, the lines she had to stay within. I feel like the bad guy in all of this because it was me they had to work so hard to keep her hidden from.
And then it dawns on me that the strict rules he imposed on me were for exactly the same reason. Not only that, but the only reason he kept me around was to keep the temperature on the third floor okay for Natasha because he couldn't do it himself. Why else would he risk having anyone come around to the building. He certainly didn't need a cleaner.
"You picked the wrong building to house a dissident in," I tell him.
He nods. "I began to suspect that early on, all right."
I chuckle. "We call it the house of horrors actually. Everything that can go wrong, does. It's been like that ever since we've been cleaning it and probably long before."
"I wish someone had told me before I bought it. Then again..." He pauses. "Then again, I wouldn't have met you."
My heart gives a flutter. I'm getting lost in his eyes that are so intent, so hungry, never leaving my face. Something collapses in my chest, making it hard for me to breathe.
There's an excruciating silence.
Natasha slides back her chair. "I knew it," she says with a little laugh.
It breaks the spell. I slide back my chair too, rising quickly. "Okay, now that I know, let's hope we can make your life here easier," I say to her. "You need fresh clothes, fresh laundry, and a shower."
She pulls a wry expression. "I can't leave the building."
"I know. But as luck would have it, there's a shower extension in the storeroom downstairs that can be attached to the furthest sink in the bathroom to create a makeshift shower. It works quite well. The ladies at Trent Security used to use it after their lunchtime jog. I'll get that fixed up for you right now."
Natasha claps her hands, her eyes glowing.
"And I have a bunch of toiletries I'll bring in. And proper towels." I dread to think how she's been managing personal hygiene until now. This is just the tip of the iceberg. I want to supply her with everything she needs and some books and things to distract her from her plight.
Egan's face remains stern. "We need to go over everything, Jess. And I need your solemn word that you won't tell anyone, not even your mother or your closet friend. I don't care how close you are to them, Natasha's life is at stake here."
"Got it," I say. A chill goes up my spine.
We continue talking until the sky darkens.
"Can we share a meal?" I ask. "We're all hungry. I can order a selection of Indian and Thai dishes that I think you'll both like," I say, pulling out my phone. "Everyone can dig in and grab what they want."
"Fine, but I'm paying," he says.
"Okay." I can go even more all-out and make sure we get the best of the best from a service that delivers it all in one go.
Half an hour later, the food arrives. By this stage we've set up a table in the middle of the open space office on the third-floor. We've lowered all the lights except for a lone desk light sitting on the table, in an effort to create a cozy atmosphere.
We pull up the ugly plastic chairs to the table. I even put chill out lounge music on my phone in the background. We don't have proper plates or cutlery so we just use the plastic boxes the food came in, each taking what we want from each container.
Contrary to all expectations, Natasha samples all the dishes, exclaiming at some. "So good!" The look on Egan's face when she does that is priceless.
It's so lovely to see them relaxed. I suspect it's the first time since he rescued her. There's so much I want to ask her about her life, about Sergei, about her future, but for now, I content myself with enjoying the small talk, her observations about the food, about Egan. Messing up this fragile moment of contentment is the last thing I want to do.
In a small way, I feel like I've brought them together, like a family. A family I'm suddenly part of. I feel a buzz of pride at that.
Our gazes meet. His face looms out of the evening darkness that surrounds us, the lone light caressing the chiseled planes of his cheeks and jaw. His eyes have a soft glow. I smile back, wondering what he's thinking.
Natasha gets up to go to the bathroom. Under the table he reaches for my hands and holds them in his warm grasp.
"I could go home and bring her in some fresh bedclothes," I say, to break the silence.
"No. Tomorrow is fine. She's ready to drop soon anyway. She hasn't been sleeping much these past few days. But I think she will now, now that you're here."
"I'll stay 'til she sleeps," I say.
"I'd like that." He squeezes my fingers. "She would too."
I nod. And I understand from his expression that tonight is about Natasha. There will be other nights for us. Just not tonight. Which is good. My heart needs time to recover.
16
EGAN
I ROLL OFF MY COUCH at 7 a.m. sore as ever. I groan. Tonight, I'm just going to sleep on the floor. Jess talked of air mattresses and full sets of bed-linen yesterday and I brushed her off. If I schlepp in a load of stuff in here, it's like admitting that this situation is going to take longer than I thought. And I don't want to do that. It's already been two whole weeks.
Jess left last night soon after Natasha fell asleep. I let her go. If she'd left Natasha's floor to come down here to the second floor, I'd never have had the self-control to just let her leave. And I think Jess knew that, too.
I just have to wait until tomorrow.
In the middle of my routine Thursday linkup with the guys where we discuss market strategies, Paul of all people pipes up with an off-topic item. "Egan, we're concerned. I was doing a scan of the CCTV imagery from the building. Well, a car was outside the office pretty late yesterday."
"Yeah, it's my cleaner, Jess."
"How has she not seen Natasha?"
"Wait. Why are we talking about this?" I ask. "Can we stick to topic, please?"
They're all glaring at me in silence, waiting for the answers. My throat is dry. I'm just glad this is a video link up and not happening in person. "She's not a spy."
"What does she know?" Paul demands.
A silence stretches out. Whatever about the rest of them, I can't deny Paul the truth, my right-hand man since forever. He's scarified so much for me, living in that tundra in Iceland these past years babysitting those power-hungry servers, tracking every move on the exchanges, never letting his eyes off the ball. His social life is even emptier than mine.
"She knows," I say, directing my gaze at his image alone. His is the only reaction I truly care about. "Jess knows about Natasha,
yes."
He shakes his head. There's a chorus of "What?" form the others.
"Please, gentlemen," I say above the cacophony of voices. "I had to. I don't expect you to understand the circumstances, but just believe that I had no choice. This is totally on me."
"Who is she?" Liam demands.
"Just a cleaner. Paul can vouch."
"So, okay, your cleaner knows," Jack says, trying to sound reasonable. "What now? Do you tell her about the group? Will she be ordained one of us?"
"No. She only knows about Natasha, not the rest. Obviously. There was just no way I could keep it secret anymore and I needed her to help keep the building habitable for Natasha. Without her, Natasha would be in a much worse way than she is."
Another round of head-shakes and murmurs follows, but it's less intense than before. They're softening. They don't want to lose me as leader. Except of course, Sean whose scowl is deeper than ever.
I manage to usher them back onto the topic at hand and close up the meeting without further comment.
After I shut down the video link, I stare at the blank screen. Things were simpler as leader of this group when we didn't have to do anything in the real world. I'd congratulated myself on how smart I was. Turns out, real life is a whole lot messier. Real leadership is a whole lot messier.
Which is why the Bitcoin Billionaires need me as leader and not that upstart, Sean. I will win this yet. The alternative is too painful to contemplate. Sean would only drive the group into chaos. I didn't sacrifice ten years of my life for that to happen, and neither did Paul.
17
JESS
"DAMN DAMN DAMN."
When I'm reversing my Honda out of my driveway on the way to the office, I narrowly avoid crashing into the lamppost outside my house. It's not like the lamppost is new or anything. I'm just scatterbrained. My stomach is in knots. I'm a danger on the roads and I probably shouldn't even be driving.
I flop back against the seat, readjust my hair in the mirror and start up again. I need to get a grip, truly, on my concentration, on my hormones, on my life.
Then my phone buzzes inside my bag. I turn the engine off.