His Sword

by Holly Hart

  I told Charlie the truth.

  Not the whole truth, of course. Not the real reason I’m here – to steal enough money from him to pay for my dad’s cancer treatment.

  No: a smaller truth, and a more shameful one. The truth that what happened with Charlie last night was the furthest I’ve ever been with a man – by a long way. The truth about how I’m still a virgin. I’ve never slept with a man. I’ve never been naked in front of a man.

  I’ve barely gone past a first kiss.

  Last night I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Charlie did things between my legs – made me feel things that I didn’t know were possible.

  I’ve touched myself before. Close my eyes and painted spicy romances in my head. Let my fingers slide past the elastic of my pajama bottoms.

  Of course I have. What woman hasn’t?

  But last night was different. Last night Charlie pushed me past every barrier of pleasure that I even believed possible.

  And still I pushed him away.

  “Why…” I whisper.

  I’m still not sure what happened, or what came over me. I pushed Charlie off my body. He coaxed me to orgasm, and when my knees were still trembling from it, he stood over me, unzipping his tuxedo pants.

  I saw the outline of his cock.

  I saw the desire on his face: the hunger.

  I saw every act he wanted to do to me written on his cheeks, and in those inscrutable iceberg eyes. I wanted it: Him.

  And yet I couldn’t let it happen.

  Shame washed over me –

  – and guilt.

  I made him stop.

  “Please,” I said, hugging a couch cushion and turning away from his inquiring, confused gaze. “Not tonight.”

  Charlie sat down next to me and tried to stroke me, but I flinched from his touch. I know exactly why I did it – because the guilt of what I’m planning to do to him started to eat me up.

  I feel the guilt now, too. In fact, if anything, it’s stronger than it was last night.

  I throw the sheets off, and the cool air of my bedroom raises goose bumps all over my body. I toss on a bathrobe and walk into the hallway.

  I know what I’m like.

  If I let myself, I’ll stay inside and stew all day. I can’t let that happen. I need to work out how I’m going to extricate myself from this situation.

  Because the truth is, I’m beginning to like Charlie. Not love him, or anything crazy like that, but there’s definitely something between us.

  Charlie Thorne isn’t the man I thought he was.

  I’m not the girl he thinks I am.

  Are we the perfect couple or a disaster waiting to happen? I hope it’s the former, but I suspect I’m wrong.

  “You’re up…” Charlie says.

  I jump, half-startled out of my skin. My feet kiss back down onto the thick cream carpet, and I look up. Charlie’s standing behind the kitchen island, toying with something that’s sizzling in a pan on the stovetop. Once again, my cheeks betray me, filling with color.

  “Why aren’t you –?” I squeak.

  “– at work?” Charlie asks.

  I nod. Up and down. Fast. God, I’m such a mess. This is so unsexy. I don’t think I could come across as more naïve and innocent if I tried.

  He shrugs. “One of the perks of being the CEO, I guess. Anyway – I should ask you the same question, shouldn’t I?”

  My mouth goes dry. “What are you talking about?

  “Well,” Charlie says distractedly. He grabs a spatula from a hanging rack behind him, and twirls it in his fingers. “You’re still my PA, aren’t you?”

  I lick my lips. “I guess so. I mean, I thought –”

  Charlie flips a perfectly-brown pancake with a flourish. “Relax, Penny. I can’t exactly have my wife working for me, can I? I’m sure Harper would call it a conflict of interest or something like that.”

  I inch towards him. My legs feel like they are filled with lead. “What about you?”

  “Me?” He repeats, jamming a thumb towards his chest. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It does to me,” I say. I’m not really talking about the PA job. I’m not talking about working for Charlie, and I don’t think he’s talking about that either.

  Charlie takes a different tack, pulling away from discussing the bombshell I dropped last night. I’m glad and I’m not, all at once. Part of me wants to just get it into the open.

  He cocks his head to one side. “Hungry?”

  My brain’s screaming at me to run. Rule number one of being a con girl: don’t fall for your mark. I mean – this is my first time, in a lot of ways – so I’m no expert. But getting feelings involved seems like a losing strategy.

  The problem is, my body is screaming as well: and it’s singing a completely different tune.

  My stomach chooses that precise moment to betray me, and groan loudly.

  Charlie chuckles. “I thought so,” he says. He puts the pancake onto a short, but growing stack, and ladles another small spoon of batter into the pan. “Sit down.”

  I approach the kitchen island slowly. I can’t deal with this Charlie Thorne – this Charlie Thorne who’s so freaking different from the monster I built up in my head all of these months.

  When he was the Big Bad Wolf, I didn’t mind knocking down his walls. But he’s been nothing but kind to me. Even last night, when I told him I was a virgin, he didn’t look at me with pity in those glorious gray eyes, but kindness.

  Some men might hold a grudge that I led them on. Not Charlie, even though I know how horny he was. That was last night, and right now is today. In his mind – at least, it seems that way – it’s already forgotten.

  “I said sit,” he grins. “Don’t worry, I don’t fight. Unless…”

  My fingers stroke the back of the stool. “Unless what?”

  Charlie barks with laughter. He flashes me a wink. “… Unless you ask me to.”

  I sit with my cheeks flashing red with embarrassment – and a little bit of heat. I don’t know what Charlie means by that – not really – but I want to find out.

  “Blueberries, or –”

  “Blueberries will do fine,” I say.

  I feel uncomfortable; like I’m on a hot seat. I’m not used to people doing me kindnesses like this. Having a gorgeous man, like Charlie Thorne, cook me breakfast is kind of a dream. I’m afraid that at any moment I might wake up…

  Charlie pushes a short stack of thick pancakes over. They are drizzled with blueberries and syrup. My stomach rumbles with excitement.

  “Thanks.” I say.

  “My pleasure.” He replies.

  “What happened to the private chef?” I ask, cutting my first mouthful.

  Charlie laughs. “Francisco? That guy’s got the easiest job in New York, I tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “To be honest with you, I like cooking. I keep Frankie around for big events, or when I’m entertaining, or –”

  I frown. “– Or?”

  “– Or for when Tilly’s around, needs to eat and I’m not here. It’s probably stupid, but it just doesn’t feel right letting someone else cook for my own daughter. You know?”

  “I don’t think that’s stupid,” I say.

  The silence grows heavy around us. Charlie’s studying me – at least, it feels that way. He stares at me and doesn’t let up, not even when awkward goose bumps begin to prickle on the back of my neck.

  I laugh awkwardly. My cutlery clinks against the plate, and I take my first mouthful of the meal Charlie’s prepared for me. It’s heaven. The blueberries melt on my tongue – little tiny explosions of sweet and sour.

  “This is incredible,” I groan. “Tilly is – I mean, your daughter is – a lucky lady.”

  Charlie rubs his forehead pensively. “I sure hope so,” he says. “I really do.”

  That silence, again.

  It’s a little more comfortable this time. It gets more comfortable every second. The goose b
umps on my neck fade, and then it feels like Charlie and I have been sitting here forever; living with one another forever; Loving each other… forever.

  Down, girl.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try and forget I just thought that. “You’re not eating?” I ask.

  Charlie shakes his head. “I already ate. Besides, I’ve got an early meeting.”

  “You’re leaving me?” I wince at the edge to my voice.

  “Hey there, needy,” my husband grins. “I’ll be back later.”

  He bites his lip. “I think we’ve got a lot of getting to know each other to do…”

  My cheeks flush with awkwardness once again. It only serves to broaden the smile on Charlie’s face. I wish I could read a manual on how to deal with this guy. He’s always so calm, so confident. By contrast, I feel awkward at every turn.

  “Listen, Charlie,” I whisper. “About last night…”

  “About last night nothing,” he growls. His demeanor changes in an instant, like roiling thunder clouds.

  “You got nothing to be ashamed of, Penny. Listen. I’m a father. I’ve raised this beautiful, perfect little girl. That kind of thing changes your outlook on life, you know that?”

  I sniff, and look anywhere other than Charlie Thorne’s gorgeous, caring face. I’m unsure exactly where he’s going with this.

  “I s’pose.”

  Charlie cups my chin, lifting it an inch at a time.

  I lose myself in his caring gray eyes. They don’t look like they belong to a ruthless billionaire, anything but. Charlie makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room. I mean – I am the only person in the room. But Charlie Thorne could make me feel this way even if we were standing in the center of Yankee Stadium.

  “You should do more than suppose, Penny. You’re a hell of a girl; don’t ever think anything less of yourself. One day, when she’s all grown up,” – Charlie scowls – “hopefully about fifty years from now, Tilly will meet a guy.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I half-sniff, half-giggle.

  “Well, not if I can do anything to stop it,” Charlie allows. “And believe me, I’ll do my best.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I whisper.

  Charlie’s radiating this fierce intensity. I truly believe that he would do anything to protect the woman he loves: in this case, his daughter Tilly. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but hope that one day he can love me the way he clearly loves her.

  “Anyway,” Charlie growls, getting back on track. “I just hope she meets the kind of man who will treat her right.”

  “I’m pretty sure she will,” I say. “You’re a good dad, I can tell. You’ve brought her up right.”

  I see a flash of – something – in Charlie’s eyes; a hint that something’s changing inside him. As if – just maybe – he’s beginning to see me in a whole different light. Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.

  A crack of sparks runs out of his fingers and through my chin, exactly where he’s holding me. He chews his lip, and grimaces.

  “Crap,” he grunts.

  “What –?”

  Charlie leans forward in one swift movement. He doesn’t give me time to react. His lips graze mine in a kiss that lasts just a fraction of a second, but leaves me desperately wanting more.

  “I’ve got to go,” Charlie mutters. I’ve still got the taste of him on my lips. Mixed with blueberries, it’s kind of nice. “The meeting.”

  “Oh.”

  Charlie plucks the knife and fork from my fingers, cuts a quarter of the stack and impales it with the fork. He lifts it, dripping with glistening dark maple syrup, and holds it an inch from his lips.

  “What about you?” He asks. “I’ll be back around lunch. But you can do anything you want in the meantime. If you want, I’ll get Nolan to fire up the heli –”

  I shake my head while Charlie’s still speaking. The idea of having a man fly me wherever I want is alluring, but it’s also intimidating. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not yet.

  “I’ll manage,” I grin, “somehow. No – I need to head home, pick a few things up.”

  A droplet of maple syrup falls from the morsel of pancakes on Charlie’s fork and against the marble counter. “A car, then?”

  “Eat your damn pancakes, Charlie,” I grin. “I’m fine. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

  Charlie shrugs, as if to say have your own way. He stuffs his mouth with a teetering stack of pancakes that’s way too big to chew. As he’s struggling through it, I stand up and plant a gentle kiss on his lips. He tries to respond in kind, but only ends up spluttering. I can’t help the deep belly laugh that rips out of me.

  “Oh, and Charlie,” I whisper. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  I walk back to my room, still tasting the blueberries.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Penny

  I ride the B-line what seems like a hundred stops all the way down to Prospect Park. After the luxury I’ve been submerged in over the last few days, the subway carriage is a shock. The windows are scrawled with graffiti tags I can’t decipher, and it smells faintly of stale urine.

  The sudden change feels like hopping out of a sauna into a snowy field. It hits me right in the face.

  “Hey, girl,” a bum grunts. He shuffles down the platform holding a liquor bottle wrapped in brown paper. “You look like you need a drink.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” I reply – realizing even as the words leave my mouth that I’ve made my first mistake.

  Rule number one in New York, or any big city, really, never ever engage a stranger. Sometimes I daydream about what moving to a small town would be like. Somewhere out in the Midwest, maybe. I’ve only ever lived the rat race, crammed into Big Apple apartment blocks that were meant to house hundreds but ended up with thousands.

  I want space.

  I want a big garden, with plenty of green grass. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I felt fresh blades of grass beneath my toes. I wonder what Charlie would say if I suggested a picnic down in Central Park.

  “Aw, girl – don’t be like that,” the guy says. I shake myself back to the present. This guy doesn’t worry me, but I know better than to daydream at a time like this. “Just a sip.”

  The subway car slows. The wheels beneath us rattle, and the tunnel lights up as an electric shock discharges.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “This is my stop.”

  The guy throws a slurred insult at my departing back, but it bounces off me. I thought it a thousand times, and I’ve heard it a thousand times worse.

  I make it out of Prospect Park subway station without further incident, through the barriers, and into a slight morning chill. I’m wearing what little I packed with me when I moved into Charlie’s apartment.

  His penthouse, rather.

  I can’t exactly walk around in my old Brooklyn neighborhood wearing the brand-new two thousand dollar coats that have begun to fill my closets. I don’t know where they are coming from, or who Charlie’s sending out to get them – or even if he’s behind it at all. Maybe little things like clothing are just one of the perks of being a billionaire – they just appear like magic.

  Walking the streets of my old neighborhood feels strange. It’s only been a few days – yet everything’s changed.

  I walk swiftly, and my favorite pair of studded black leather boots jangle and click against the sidewalk. I love the shoes. They’re my bad-bitch-on-business boots. They don’t exactly fit with the swanky outfits in my closet, but I don’t care. They are the little bit of homeless Penny that I’m bringing with me.

  It’s not long before I’m back at my apartment block.

  I look up at the brick edifice. It punctures the air like a rotten tooth. The bricks – once a dark red are now blackened by years of pollution. It’s easier to count the windows that aren’t boarded up than those which are.

  “Home sweet home,” I mutter.

  The elevator’s broken, because it’s always broken. I don�
��t like taking it anyway. This place is full of junkies and thieves. Not the kind of people you want to get stuck between floors in a metal box with, if you know what I mean.

  Anyone who can afford not to live here doesn’t. I wouldn’t either, but it’s all Robbie and I could afford when we signed the lease.

  Eighteen months later, we’re still here. At least, Robbie is. My circumstances have changed, just a little.

  I haul myself up half a dozen flights of stairs. I’m panting slightly by the time I make it to the top. It’s another reminder that I need to get back to the gym. I’m still recovering when I get to my front door.

  It’s ajar.

  My heart beat kicks into overdrive. The breath catches in my chest. If the urine in the elevator, the cigarettes stubbed out on the fire escape stairs, and the smashed up windows didn’t give it away – I’ll just come out and tell you. This isn’t the kind of place you want to leave your front door open.

  I don’t.

  Even Robbie’s not foolhardy enough to think that this is a good idea. We’re deadbolt and chains kind of roommates. Not in a kinky way, but for survival.

  I press my chest up against the hallway wall and calm my panting breath. I listen out for any sign that someone’s inside.

  Nothing.

  I push the door open, moving as slowly and carefully as I can. Even so, it shrieks. I wince. I’ve been meaning to oil the hinges for weeks, but obviously never got around to it.

  “Robbie?” I whisper. “Are you there?”

  Nothing: no sign of Robbie; the longer I’m here, the less I like it.

  Our home is a – probably illegal – subdivision of what were once two decent-sized apartments. A small, cramped hallway leads to an equally small, cramped living area that doubles as Robbie’s bedroom. Coat racks hanging off either wall, stacked high with piles of coats. We might be poor, but we’re still girls.

  But that means is even less space in the hallway than that otherwise might be. I don’t normally feel claustrophobic, but I’m feeling it now. It’s a pulsating sensation, like a throbbing headache. My palms are wet and sticky with sweat.