Hard to Forget

by Incy Black

  Dimming the lights was just Adrian’s way of sending a discreet message to the few remaining guests that it was time to go. That was Adrian all over. Determined but subtle, not a rude bone in his body, because who could tell the direction from which their next big sale would come? As her agent, he wasn’t just good, he was the best. And he was the only man—the only person—she trusted enough to call a friend.

  He was busy glad-handing the last of the guests. No point in interrupting; she’d call him tomorrow. He’d understand her need to keep to the shadows and quietly slip away.

  Straightening the strap of her backpack, she cast a final look over her shoulder.

  And the past drove an iron fist smack into her chest.

  Lips, thin and brutal, pale, uniquely bloodless. When she’d last seen them, they’d been framed in navy wool, the balaclava scratchy, the edges of the cut-a-way mouth sodden where he’d licked. Now, nothing hid his face.

  Black eyes—hideously cruel. Onyx, reptilian eyes—indelibly imprinted in her memory. Eyes—horror-struck with recognition.

  Him. Staring at her. Her. Staring at him.

  Rapist to victim. Victim to rapist.

  Killer to witness. Witness to killer.

  She didn’t hesitate. Kicking free her heels, she sprinted across the almost-empty gallery, ignoring Adrian and the last of her guests. Pain fired up her wrists as her palms slammed hard against the heavy, double-thick glass door.

  The chilled night air, still raw this early in the spring, razored her cheeks. She barely noticed the sting. She ran flat out, blindly, her unshod feet slapping the hard paving stones. One hand fisted tight around her low-slung braid to keep it forward, terrified that, flapping free, it might give her pursuer a place to grab hold.

  She hit something. Not a wall. Too warm, too leathery, but just as solid. She struggled, flailing with her fists, kicking uselessly. Hard arms clamped round her, lifting her from the ground. Oh, sweet Jesus, he was carrying her toward the narrow passage bisecting one hulking warehouse from another.

  She used her head to butt his chin. Heard a grunt, but the arms didn’t loosen.

  “Lowry. Stop fighting. You’re going to get hurt. It’s me, Jack, Jack Ballentyne. I said stop, damn it.”

  “Not until…you…let me…go.” She needed air, wouldn’t cease struggling until she got it. “Please, Jack…I’m near…phobic…about restraint.”

  His arms loosened immediately, he set her back on her feet. She stumbled backward, her spine protesting when it hit brick. “No closer,” she begged as he advanced.

  …

  For the second time that night, Jack raised his hands to calm. What the hell was going on? Had her mind finally broken? Had the pressure of all those people at the exhibition tipped her over the edge? She’d certainly fought in a crazed frenzy, all discipline and training forgotten. “You’re safe, Lowry. No one is going to hurt you. I won’t let them, Lowry. Want to tell me what’s going on, Lowry?”

  “Stop patronizing me for a start. Repeating my name like that is what people do when they need to talk you down. When they want you to reconnect with reality. I should know.”

  Despite the temper behind her words, he could see she was having difficulty staying upright, that but for the wall behind her, she’d collapse in a heap. “Do you need to reconnect with reality, Lowry?” He didn’t have a bloody clue what he was doing. His experience had never extended to managing a full-on psychotic meltdown. But he knew he had to calm her, or she’d take flight again. When what he needed was for her to share what the fuck was going on.

  “Get lost, Ballentyne. I had a flashback, that’s all. It’s not unusual. I panicked for a moment. Now I’m fine.”

  Lie. Jesus, she sounded like she could barely breathe. “Really? So, why are you shaking worse than an addict in withdrawal?” Instinct told him not to crowd her. Slipping down the zipper, he shrugged free his leather jacket and held it toward her at arm’s length. The wait for her to take it—to trust him—was interminable. Strangely, it also hurt. Like a sonofabitch saber cleaving his sternum.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, snatching it, her fingers bloodless white against the folds of black leather as she clutched it to her chest.

  He nodded curtly, rubbing his bruised chin with one hand. “Put it on. You’re going to need it. The sudden crash after an adrenaline hit can be as cold as a witch’s tit.” He watched a shudder grip her and figured he’d better show something akin to humanity by moderating his choice of language and tone. “Come on, I’ll take you to your father’s house. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m used to it. Being alone. I prefer it. Besides, my father and I haven’t spoken in years, not since…forget it. I’m going home.”

  Her relationship with the Commander of the Service, her father, had always been difficult. He wasn’t an easy man to like, let alone love. Had the heartless bastard abandoned her when she’d needed his support most? The sonofabitch saber struck his chest again. “Okay, I’ll have Special Agent Will Berwick pick us up. He’s in the area. You do remember Will? Terrible flirt, but one of the good guys, and a friend of yours as I recall. God knows, you soaked enough of his shirts with your tears every time you received a bollocking from me.”

  “Yes, I remember, but I still prefer to make my own way home. I don’t want anyone knowing where I live.”

  If her teeth chattered any more violently, she’d lose them. He knew shock when he saw it, and he didn’t want to alarm her and set her off again. But what choice did he have? None. “You’re good at flying below the radar, Lowry, better than anyone gave you credit for, and I’m not saying tracking down your home address was easy. But did you seriously believe I couldn’t find you anytime I wanted? You live at 3 Danby Mews. Alone, even with Adrian Wainwright’s name on the title deeds. Accept my offer of a ride, or I’ll follow you on foot. Your call.”

  Waiting for her to see sense again seemed to take forever. The stink of stale refuse from obese garbage bags piled a few feet down on the left soured the frigid air. A destruction of cats growled, then rumbled deep in the darkness, the squalling violent enough to raise the hairs on his neck.

  She flinched at the battle sounds. Then surprised the hell out of him. “I’ll take the ride.”

  But her back still hugged the wall. Her eyes never once ceased skittering left, right, low, high, scouting the dark.

  He watched her scoot sideways, stoop, and grab her battered leather backpack from where it had fallen during their struggle. Something, or someone, had spooked her to hell. Christ, she’d even ditched her shoes…

  The inexplicable impulse hit him with the force and weight of a mountain dropping from the sky. He wanted to pick her up and cradle her. Hold her close and swear a blood oath to keep whatever terrorized her at bay. Bloody pathetic.

  He delved for his phone and hit speed dial the second it cleared his pocket. “Will? You’ve got three minutes to get your ass to the corner of Pound Street—and we’ve got a passenger.” He cut the call and put away the device. When Will pulled up exactly three minutes later, he opened the door to the Land Rover’s backseat and jerked his head. “After you.” He made no further offer to assist as she clambered in. Not after she’d visibly flinched when he’d reached out to help her.

  It shouldn’t have annoyed him, but it did. Lowry, all tight and huddled in the far corner of the Land Rover’s backseat, maximizing every inch of space between them, the very epitome of “I’m a victim.” His eyes shifted to her hand. He noted the way her fingers gripped the door release. Christ, he hoped Will had had enough sense to engage the child locks.

  He inched closer just in case, halting his slide when she pressed deeper into the corner, her eyes wide in the darkness, flickering mistrust and accusation.

  That pissed him off, but not as much as hearing himself snarl at Will in a way that implied he’d gone and bought into Lowry’s overflowing bag of the crazies. “Make sure we haven’t picked up a fucking tail. Someone might try to follow us.
”

  When Will finally pulled to a halt in the narrow street in front of her house, Jack resisted the impulse to help her down from the high step of the vehicle. Again, she wouldn’t thank him for the body contact. Not with the signals she was throwing.

  Except, he had no choice when she stumbled on the cobbles, and he had to catch her elbow to save her from falling flat on her face. He felt the shudder of her recoil right down to the marrow of his bones and released her immediately.

  Coloring the inside of his skull blue with a string of foul mental curses, he promised himself he’d risk her full wrath should she try to slam the door in his face. He was going nowhere until he had some answers.

  …

  Lowry bit down a scream of frustration. The protection of the fortress she’d built for herself, a single small footstep away, and she couldn’t get in. A cold bead of sweat trickled down her spine. She slapped her front door for defying her. If the complicated locking system didn’t cooperate soon, she’d borrow Jack’s gun and shoot her way in.

  Jack’s fault. He was standing too damn close. If she were a head and a half taller, his breath would be warming the nape of her neck, rather than just ruffling the hair on the crown of her head. “For God’s sake, Ballentyne, can you give me a little space? You’re making me nervous.” The admission didn’t cost her anything. He knew full well the effect he had on people, and she’d never known him fail to use it to his advantage.

  Once inside her private sanctuary, she’d be safe. And free to unleash the humiliating panic clawing beneath her skin. But not in front of him. She’d rather die. Which, given the events of the evening—that man with his reptilian, dead, flat eyes—was kind of hilarious, in a sick sort of way.

  The bubble of hysteria lodged in her throat. All those precautions she’d taken to stay safe?—waste of time.

  As sure as blood ran crimson, the man from the gallery would be coming for her. He couldn’t risk leaving her be. Not after she’d seen his face. Not when she might chose to spill her guts about what she’d witnessed and suffered at his hands.

  She went back to battling the lock.

  Finally, it relented, and her fingers flew to stop the spring-loaded door from falling fully ajar. Jack wasn’t crossing her threshold. She didn’t trust him. Anymore than she trusted anyone employed by the Service. “Okay, safe, sound, and calm. You can go now. Leave.”

  His reached over her shoulder, pressed his hand against the door, and shoved.

  She instinctively leaped inside and spun to face him, her hands tight fists. The slightest touch from him—from any man, right now—and she’d unravel.

  He followed her in and kicked the door shut behind him, his “make me” smile unapologetic.

  She’d once stood fearless against this man, but that was before. Before the fear. Before the rape. He can’t possibly know, she reassured herself. No one knew. So much less humiliating to let them all believe she was sick in the head from the trauma of being shot.

  “You going to stand there while our ears bleed from that infernal beeping, or are you going to key in the code to stop the alarm proper from going off and deafening us both?”

  Her eyelids fluttered like the wings of a moth caught in a web, the spider fast approaching. Brushing him aside, she stabbed the panel of flashing lights.

  It took her two attempts to silence the squawking, the abrupt hush when she finally succeeded so cruel it hurt.

  Forgetting how sensitive the device was, she dipped her forehead to rest it against the cool glass of the deactivation unit. The tiny bulbs reignited in warning. She immediately panicked, her fingers, heavy and clumsy, jabbed at the keypad as if she were playing the piano wearing a baseball mitt.

  Jack brushed her stabbing fingers aside and keyed in the correct code. Flawlessly. She’d forgotten how keenly observant he could be. Also, that he had eidetic memory. Damn it, now she’d have to reprogram a new number. And memorizing eighteen random digits and symbols had been hard enough the first time round.

  Determined to salvage what little pride she had left, she struck fast in the hope that a dig at his background would draw some blood and encourage him to leave. “What do you want, Viscount?”

  “I’ll take a coffee and an explanation,” he said acidly.

  “You’re not staying long enough for either. Get out.”

  “Fine, I’ll pass on the coffee, but I’m not leaving until you tell me what caused you to—”

  “Unravel? Freak out? Descend into insanity?” She deliberately added several octaves to her tone. Jack Ballentyne loathed hysteria, heightened emotions of any kind. If believing her to be a lunatic guaranteed his departure, she’d stage her own full-scale crazy opera if need be.

  His response? To lean his back against her front door, fold his arms across his chest, and stare her down. “Everyone’s crazy, Lowry, it’s just a question of to what degree. Now, about that explanation… I’m still waiting, and you, of all people, know I’m not exactly renowned for patience.”

  The unexpected humor in his eyes was as surprising as it was dangerously persuasive. Not trusting this change, she laced her tone with frost. “I don’t owe you an explanation. Leave. I don’t allow people in here.”

  His eyes swept the wide-open, uninterrupted space she’d hollowed from the two-story, former coach house and stables. She watched his patent disbelief build at the stark-white plastered, windowless walls. The solitary black, low-backed sofa—more a bench—and the absence of little else, bar the collection of metal trunks she’d artfully sculpted to screen the bulletproof glass walls of the bathroom. Just enough to afford her some privacy, without obstructing her view of every single corner of her home.

  His face grim, he didn’t even try to hide his shock. “Considering you put the minimal into minimalist, I’m not surprised. This is a bunker, not a home. God, how do you live like this?”

  “Securely.”

  “Why, Lowry? What do you have to be afraid of?”

  “Men like you.”

  “Too easy, try again,” he countered with a flick of his wrist, clearly still distracted.

  A naughty thrill trickled her spine. Time to turn up the burn. His buttons had always been easy to push, and she’d missed needling him, needling anyone. Four years of avoiding social interaction was a long time.

  She gestured dramatically toward the heavily barred skylight comprising half the high ceiling and injected more insanity into her voice. “Wickedness, evil, and assassins, out there…” she dropped her arm and jabbed her forefinger at the sea-green stained, polished cement floor, “…sanctuary in here.”

  She savored his marked incredulity, then let him off the hook, readjusting her tone back into the normal range. “Oh, for God’s sake, I only moved in a month ago.”

  He ventured deeper into her home. With a shake of his head, he turned slowly to face her. All sign of his earlier amusement had vanished. She’d have settled for his bewilderment, but he’d retreated behind a blank mask. “Considering you’ve been running and hiding all these years, pretty brave of you to risk re-surfacing, braver still of you to finally decide to put down some roots.”

  Sarcastic bastard. He’d never know just how much courage it had taken. “Oddly enough, the nomadic life lost its charm. Now, if you don’t mind,” she stared pointedly at the door. He still didn’t move, forcing her to blatant rudeness. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “My jacket.”

  Heat hit her cheeks. “Oh.”

  She quickly slipped her shoulders free and cursed as her elbows caught in the heavy folds. Flustered by the tangle, she looked up. Jack’s lips had slanted in a lazy half-grin. He made no move to help her.

  Cursing him under her breath, she struggled loose. The sudden loss of heavy protective leather and the subtle scent of him—a hint of gun oil and cordite—compressed her lungs. No. Absolutely not. She refused to miss him. “Here, now go,” she muttered, her eyes fixed on the vacant space behind him.

  As if in s
low motion, he took the jacket and nonchalantly tossed it in the direction of her sofa. Leather hit the polished floor in a dull huff of insult. “Still not going anywhere, not without an explanation.”

  She settled her hands on her hips, content to let the empty silence hang.

  “No? So, where do I sleep?” His gaze drifted.

  Given the scant choice of furnishings, she didn’t have to hold her breath for long.

  His gawk came to a halt on her flush-with-the-ground, super-king-sized bed. The one at which her contractor had nearly balked when she insisted it be sunk level with the floor.

  Why? Because, four years ago, she’d met a monster. And monsters could hide in the void between a mattress base and a floor.

  Jack, calm as you like, crossed to get a closer look at where he no doubt thought he’d be spending the night.

  Goose bumps prickled her skin. Mimicking madness wasn’t working. She needed a change of strategy fast. She’d tell him just enough to satisfy and then figure out a way to repair the damage when he was gone.

  Turning abruptly, she stalked to the surgically precise kitchen area—spotless, clutter-free stainless steel—a glass plate of lemons, sculpted into a high pyramid, the only color.

  She flicked the switch on the kettle and unhooked a single mug. She swiped at the stray tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid and expelled a deep sigh. “Black, three sugars?”

  For an instant, her blood ceased to flow. There was careless, and then there was just plain dumb. Now he’d know she remembered how he took his coffee.

  She waited for the hot-pink scorching her cheeks to subside before throwing a look over her shoulder. He confirmed with a nod, an unmistakable gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  Teeth snapped tight together, she glared, daring him to utter one word. The neat row of knives, all varying lengths and hanging to her left, was temptation itself.

  She filled his mug, edged it in his direction, and retreated a safe distance—a good two yards—before turning to prop her hip against the counter. Staring at her feet, bruised and sooty with London grime, she took a deep breath. “Tonight at the gallery, I think I recognized someone. Worse, I think he recognized me…from the night of the raid.”