The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  “You get used to it.” That’s a lie. For years, every time I’ve started Dolly, I’ve had a mild heart attack. But driving her offers me a comfort that I’ve failed to find anywhere else. Until now.

  James nods, thoughtful, and gets himself together, rising, then leaning in and kissing me straight on my lips. It’s chaste. But I still solidify in my seat. “Drive carefully,” he says seriously.

  “Are you going to tell me your secret?” My words are so quiet, hardly decipherable. But he hears loud and clear. He nods, but why does it feel like a reluctant nod? Has he changed his mind?

  “Tonight.” He shuts the door of Dolly and steps back, giving me room to pull out of the parking space. Except, my feet won’t work, and my brain won’t enlighten me on which pedal does what. I stare at the dash. Tonight.

  My forehead becomes heavy, and I grab the lever on the door and wind down the window. “Just fucking,” I reiterate, whether that be for me or him.

  “Just fucking, Beau.” He strides off, and with those few words exchanged, James knows I’m not only going to the opera with him because I’m curious. I’m going because . . .

  “Oh God,” I murmur, slamming Dolly into reverse and pulling out of the space. “No, Beau.”

  I cannot develop feelings for a man.

  Especially a man like James.

  Which is what? What is James like? Apart from brooding and sexy and a huge fucking comfort?

  An enigma. He’s an enigma.

  And I want him to stay that way.

  30

  JAMES

  I give Otto the nod when I pass his car, and he pulls out immediately, tailing Beau out of the car park. I get into my Range Rover and stare at the wheel, shellshocked. Not only because Beau might have just unwittingly shared something, but because I am getting wholly obsessed with her. Just fucking. I close my eyes and breathe out. I see me. All those years ago, it’s me. Lost. No purpose. No outlet. I’m giving her an outlet. Not answers, but an outlet.

  “Fuck.” My phone rings, and I answer to Goldie.

  “The exchange is arranged for tomorrow evening at South Beach,” she says. “A case will be left between two beach chairs. Look for yellow towels.”

  “Sounds clean and simple, huh?”

  “I thought the same.”

  And nothing is ever that clean and simple in my world. I start my car and pull out of the car park fast. “I have a new name for you to search.”

  “What?”

  “Dolly Daydream.”

  She laughs, and I don’t blame her. “Are you kidding? It sounds like a porn star.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Then what?”

  Why all the questions? Fuck me, since I met Beau, it’s all I’m getting. Question after fucking question. “You’re pissing me off a lot lately, did you know that?”

  “Fuck off.” She hangs up, and I clench the steering wheel tightly, anger brewing. Because for the first time in forever, I wish I didn’t have to kill a man tonight. And such a perverse headspace is more dangerous than my need to continue my never-ending killing spree.

  31

  BEAU

  As I unload the groceries in the kitchen, I try to pluck up the courage to find Lawrence and claim back the beautiful black lace gown. He’s going to be devastated, and not only because he loves the gown. I put the milk in the fridge and face the door to the hallway, taking a few steps toward it. I can do this. Play it down. It’s no big deal.

  I’m a joke.

  I pace to the bottom of the stairs in assertive strides and take the first step.

  That’s as far as I get.

  I hear a door open, followed by a breathless sigh, and then Lawrence appears at the top of the stairs.

  As Zinnea.

  In the dress.

  Shit.

  “Isn’t it a showstopper?” she sings, picking up the bottom and flouncing down the stairs. “My God, I’ll be the talk of the circuit. I look lethal!”

  I move aside to let her pass, my heart sinking. “Gorgeous,” I murmur, just as Dexter comes through the front door in his uniform.

  His face is a picture. “Wow,” he blurts, and Zinnea squeals.

  “I know!” She breezes to the other end of the hallway where the floor-length mirror hangs by the kitchen door, swishing the skirt of the dress dramatically like she could have just walked onto the stage. “I’ll wear it tonight.” She turns around and inspects the back. “It’s like it was made for me.”

  My shoulders drop, my whole being sagging. What the hell am I going to do? I can’t break her heart, and I have absolutely no opera-worthy dresses. “It’s uncanny.” I smile tightly, playing it cool, while mentally carving out a plan. It involves an emergency dash to the Midtown shops. On a Saturday afternoon. I start to sweat. And the shakes take hold. And my breathing goes to shit. I can feel the panic attack looming, ready to trap me in its claws and bring me down a peg or two.

  I walk to the kitchen, my legs like lead, and start yanking open drawers, searching for where Dexter might hide those paper bags these days.

  “Here.” One appears in front of me, and I grab it, scrunching it around my mouth and taking long, deep breaths as I find a chair and flop into it.

  “Well,” Zinnea says, sitting opposite me and taking my hand. I look at her over the ballooning bag. “When I said I look lethal, I wasn’t wrong, eh?”

  I shake my head, feeling so incredibly beaten. I did the diner, which was nothing compared to Walmart. But I only survived the store because of James. I’ll do the opera—again only because of James. And then what? When there is no James? I pull the bag away. “I need that dress back,” I tell her calmly. I don’t know what happens beyond this minute, so trying to figure out tomorrow or next week is a waste of time and energy. Today is now. I have to do what I can and hope I can keep up the momentum when James inevitably isn’t around anymore.

  Zinnea’s shoulders push back, her palm resting on the intricately detailed lace covering her chest. She looks horrified. “Oh.” She clears her throat, and I peek at Dexter, who’s holding back an epic grin of both amusement and delight as he pulls the belt out of his blue pants. “And may I ask why?”

  “You know why,” I counter quietly, hoping she’s not going to force me into details.

  “That man.”

  I place the bag down and draw in some courage with air. That man was the only reason I made it around the store at a peak time today. That man is the only reason I haven’t thought nonstop about the letter I received denying me a chance of justice. That man is a walking, talking mystery, and he could be the only reason I make it through the latest shitty news about Mom’s death. I won’t be sharing my earlier memory of the conversation I had with Mom. Not until I know if it’s something worth sharing, anyway. “His name’s James,” I say, giving Zinnea my eyes.

  “I thought you said it’s not sustainable.”

  “It’s not.”

  “But if he’s helping her now, what’s the harm?” Dexter pipes up, joining us at the table. He reaches for my hand and squeezes, and I cast him a surprised look.

  What’s the harm? It’s a loaded question with endless answers. I don’t know what the harm is, but I do if I don’t see him again. Which makes this all very easy, really. “I’m going to an opera with him.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just opera.”

  “To everyone else it’s opera,” Zinnea says over a laugh. “To you, it’s hell on earth.”

  “Not with James.”

  She recoils, flicking worried eyes at Dexter. And then those worried eyes fall into the realms of sadness. “I’ve offered to take you to many places.”

  Dexter lets out a bark of laughter, and both Zinnea and I jump. “But not to heaven, right, Beau?” He gets up, his eyebrows rising with him, and for the first time since I can remember, I blush a little, evading their eyes.

  “Heaven?” Zinnea questions as she reaches for the sleeve of my shirt and pushes it up. “Really?�
�

  I quickly pull away, yanking it back down. “I don’t expect you to understand.” How can I when I hardly understand this craziness myself? “All I know is James is a much better alternative to everything else.” I smile lamely, silently praying for her blessing. She looks sulky. It doesn’t suit the vivacious Zinnea Dolly Daydream. “So can I have the dress back?”

  “Don’t have much choice, do I?”

  I shake my head.

  No, she doesn’t.

  And neither, it seems, do I.

  32

  BEAU

  At seven thirty, I stand in the hallway gazing at myself in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman before me. She’s elegance personified. Perfection. I’ve let Zinnea at me with her bottomless supply of makeup and hairspray, and I’m beginning to regret it. Not because she hasn’t done an amazing job—she totally has—but because it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen this woman in the mirror. A long time since I carried a dress like this. I’m not sure if I know how to anymore.

  I peek down at the strappy Jimmy Choo heels that haven’t seen the light of day in two years. And at the YSL purse that’s been stuffed at the back of a drawer for as long. Years ago, I walked out most weekends in heels like these for drinks with friends or work colleagues. Now, I don’t know if I could make it to the kitchen a few feet away.

  “It’s like riding a bike,” Zinnea says, pulling my attention to the bottom of the stairs. She’s halfway ready for her evening on stage, her hair and makeup on point, her body wrapped in a tropical kimono. I offer a small smile, silently thanking her for not mentioning where I’m going and with whom again, but rather concentrating on getting me ready for where I’m going and with whom. I’m so thankful for them.

  Zinnea must see my gratitude, because she matches my smile and comes up behind me, smoothing my French pleat again before attacking it with more spray. “You look gorgeous, Beau,” she says on a massive sigh, and I see her inside conflict. This is the old me. At least, the old me when I wasn’t in uniform. She’s pleased to see me again, and yet the circumstances of my transformation are less than comforting for her.

  “The taxi should be here by now,” I say, glancing down at the sleeves. Long, lace sleeves. James has me covered. Literally.

  “And will you be home tonight after your date?”

  I flick a knowing smile up at Zinnea as I brush my front down. I hope not. I want to walk the path to nothingness with James.

  A car horn sounds outside, and I take in air, silently chanting words of encouragement. “Have a good show,” I say, dropping a kiss on Zinnea’s cheek.

  “Be careful, Beau,” she whispers. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise.” I pull the front door open, glaring immediately at the bushes closing in the pathway. “We really need to get these bushes trimmed.”

  “If you’re going to trim bushes, darling, you should do it before your date.”

  I gasp and fly around, finding my aunt leaning against the doorjamb with a wicked grin on her face, and now Dexter is with her, laughing like a hyena. I can only shake my head in dismay. “Goodnight,” I say as they back up, closing the door. I walk carefully and slowly down the path, trying not to catch my dress on any of the bushes.

  “Evening.”

  I glance up, surprised, finding James leaning against the side of his car. In a beautiful black suit. Crisp white shirt. Black tie. My knees go weak under my dress and my tummy flutters as he takes me in, top to bottom, all very slowly. And I do the exact same, every inch of him I explore sending my insides further into bedlam. “Evening,” I murmur. “I was expecting a taxi.”

  He pushes off the side of the car and wanders casually over to me, his hands deep in his pockets. He comes to a stop before me, and my eyes rise to keep contact with his. “You look out of this world,” he whispers, removing one hand from a pocket and reaching for the edge of a sleeve, brushing delicately over the material.

  I swallow, unable to return the compliment while he’s touching me.

  “Do you like the dress?” he asks.

  “I do, thank you,” I all but whisper. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. He looks pensive. “Is everything okay?”

  “No,” he answers, letting his touch slip to my fingers. My heart sinks, dropping into my belly, seeming to dislodge the anxiety and questions. Damn me. I don’t want to be curious about him. I want to be ignorant. I just want to feel and not think.

  I step back, and James frowns, moving in closer. His fingers weave through mine, his eyes watching them closely. “Just feel,” he murmurs, as if reading my mind, placing a fingertip on my collarbone and circling it slowly. My skin is instantly ablaze. My breath catches, my body folding. He watches it all, remaining expressionless. “We’ll be late,” he whispers, dragging his fingertip down to my breast.

  “We will,” I reply, swallowing hard, my insides twisting and turning. I’m dreading the opera for a very different reason now.

  Resistance.

  “Are you ready?” That fingertip turns into a flat palm, and it falls slowly to my stomach.

  “Ready.”

  He takes my hand and places it over his groin. “Me too.” Now, he swallows hard, and I go dizzy with the feel of him pressed into my palm. We’re standing on the sidewalk, his hand now resting over my pubic bone, mine over his arousal. I’m flooding between my thighs. My nipples are bullets. My lips are parted, my sight hazy, my skin tingling. I don’t want to go to the opera. I want to go to paradise.

  I look up at him, pleading with my eyes, and I see the same level of want in him. “You masturbated thinking of me, didn’t you?” He takes my hand from his groin and brings it to his mouth, kissing the tips of my fingers.

  “I watched us,” I admit.

  “Me too. On repeat. And I wondered why the fuck I was watching when I could be doing.” He reaches for my nape and hauls me into him, slamming his mouth over mine and kissing me greedily, his grip of my neck harsh, his tongue violently lashing through my mouth. It doesn’t help our cause. But I’ll be damned if I can stop it. My body melts into his, my breasts aching against his chest, my body alive with anticipation. It’s a long kiss. But not long enough.

  He groans and pries himself away, his eyes closed, his forehead pushing into mine as I pant in his face. He looks troubled, angry all of a sudden, and I’m wary of it. I shouldn’t ask. I won’t ask.

  The sound of the front door opening has James’s eyes snapping open, and he stares at me. He heard it too.

  I can feel her eyes nailed to me, and I swallow, pulling away and peeking cautiously out the corner of my eye. Zinnea is a statue in the doorway, staring at James. I squirm, the silence awful.

  “Hello,” James says after clearing his throat, obviously deciding someone needs to break the ice, and it’s not going to be me or my aunt. “James Kelly.”

  Zinnea’s face is a picture of indignation, and it kills me. God, this is horrible. I will her to find it in herself to be polite, to push away her grievances. But my aunt remains a statue at the door. And me? I continue to die, not knowing what to do. Her acceptance was short-lived. Just an act.

  “We should go,” I say, taking James’s arm and gently tugging him back.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks quietly.

  “No, no problem.” I smile awkwardly when he looks at me, trying to force him away, but he remains unmoving. Then his stare drops to my wrists and understanding floats onto his face. His jaw ticks as he looks up at me, and I mildly shake my head, begging him to leave it. He shakes his in return, and I know in that moment that he won’t. He faces my aunt again. “It was consensual. Nothing happened that Beau—”

  “Didn’t ask for?” Zinnea finishes, her nose high. I fold, giving up on trying to get James moving. He’s unmovable.

  “Indeed,” James replies, reaching back and taking my hand as Dexter joins Zinnea at the door.

  “I said leave her,” he whisper hisses, taking Zinnea’s arm. “She
’s a grown wom—” He catches sight of us on the sidewalk and freezes, taking us in. I smile lamely. Yes, this is him.

  “It was nice to meet you, Zinnea.” James turns us both and leads me to his car, and I look back, seeing Dexter now trying to get her back inside. I throw a pleading look that my aunt misses. Or ignores. I fear it’s the latter. I’ve never seen her so hostile. Yes, she can be a diva, or even a bitch when she wants to be. But never hostile. And I’m not sixteen, for fuck’s sake. Come on, Zinnea. This is too much.

  Our eyes meet as Dexter pushes the door closed, and I hate the anger I see swirling in her usually happy gaze. She shakes her head, disappointed, and then she’s gone.

  And I feel like utter shit. Like I’m committing a terrible sin. Like this is wrong. James and I are wrong.

  “Stop,” James says when we get to the car, his tone warning. He opens the passenger door but prevents me from getting in, holding the top of my arm firmly. I look at his fingers wrapped around me. “You showed her?” He sounds angry.

  “No, not voluntarily.” Does he think I offered the information? Gave her a blow-by-blow account of that night?

  His jaw ticks harder as he stares at my welted wrist for an age, silent and brooding. Don’t tell me he feels guilty now, because I certainly don’t. But when he reaches for my arm, brushing a thumb over the start of my scar, I realize he’s not looking at the damage he caused, but the damage caused by someone else. You think you have more secrets than I do. I can hear his mind spinning. He wants to ask me so many questions.

  I desperately don’t want to know anything.

  And he wants to know everything.

  “We’ll be late,” I say, withdrawing from him, pulling the material back into place.

  He glances up. “We will.” His arm gestures to the open door, and I slide in, my head in turmoil. It started so well. And now?

  Now I’m full of shame and hurt. Anger. Judgment. Disappointment.