Undone by the Ex-Con

by Talia Hibbert

  But she didn’t need to do much to it now, anyway.

  Lizzie stared at her reflection in the little square of glass, turning her head this way and that. She wasn’t sure she’d done a good job of the back, but it didn’t really matter. Water and a leave-in conditioner had her hair springing to life, and the way the tight little curls shrunk up appeared to be hiding her lack of skill.

  She turned her head this way and that, assessing. It wasn’t that bad. It might take some getting used to, but it looked fine.

  It certainly felt fine. In fact, her head was deliciously light, so free that the slightest movement felt like dancing. God, she couldn’t wait to dance like this. She had a feeling it would be a whole new sensation.

  “Liz,” Olu called again.

  “Sorry!” With a last glance in the mirror, Lizzie turned and made her way out into the hall.

  Everyone was packed and prepared, throwing on coats and scarves, chattering amongst themselves. But when they noticed Lizzie’s arrival, all talk stopped.

  Theo raised his brows, staring at her head as though it belonged to someone else. “You cut your hair?”

  “Ah…”

  “You’ve never cut your hair.”

  “Theo,” Jennifer said. “You don’t need to tell her that. She knows.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry.”

  “I like it,” Aria piped up. “You look like Rihanna!”

  Despite her disbelief, Lizzie smiled. “Um… Really?”

  “Yes,” Aria said firmly. “Just like her.”

  “That’s the highest compliment she could give, by the way,” Jennifer added dryly.

  “Anyway,” Aria clapped. “We need to go! It’s nearly six! Come on!

  At her words, the hallway filled with motion again. Both Olu and Lizzie flitted from guest to guest, giving out hugs and thank yous and promises to see each other again soon. And through it all, Lizzie avoided her brother’s gaze like it was the plague.

  But when the front door finally shut behind their friends and they were left alone in the emptiness of the flat, she held her breath and forced herself to face him.

  “So,” she said, smiling sunnily. Her voice wavered slightly, but she didn’t think he’d noticed. “What do you think?”

  He was looking at her with a mixture of concern and alarm. Which wasn’t promising.

  “Is this a cry for help?” He asked. “Like Britney Spears?”

  She gave that a serious moment of thought. “No,” she said finally. “I’m okay. I just wanted… a fresh start.”

  “Is this about him?” He demanded.

  Wariness descended as she took in the subtle clues of her brother’s temper. The tight control in his voice, the way his fingers tapped against his thigh. She frowned. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m worried about you. You haven’t been yourself and I can tell that something’s upsetting you. Something to do with that person—”

  “His name is Isaac,” she said sharply. “Don’t talk about him like he’s nothing.”

  “I don’t know what he is, Lizzie,” Olu snapped back. “Because you won’t tell me. And I’m trying to be cool about this, but please consider my perspective. You go on this trip with him and Spencer, you get dragged into some sordid scheme and end up plastered all over the news in a very compromising position—”

  “Is that what you think?” She asked. “That Isaac had something to do with all that shit? Because he didn’t. He would never.”

  “How do you even know this man, Liz? He’s a bloody murderer for Christ’s sake—”

  “Don’t talk about things that you don’t understand!” She shouted, her voice rising as sharply as her temper. “You don’t know him.”

  “Do you?” Olu demanded. “You know what they say about him. You know how he made his filthy fucking money—”

  “There’s no such thing as clean money, Olu,” she gritted out. “Profit always hurts somebody. You know that. You’re just clutching at straws to hide the fact that you’re being a judgemental twat.”

  He flinched as if she’d hit him. She might as well have done. Olu’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the anger in his eyes dimming until only regret and that ever-present worry remained. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You’re right. I…” He gave a self-conscious shrug. “I’m being a snob, I suppose.”

  At the apology in his voice, Lizzie’s own fury faded. “Yes,” she said, but her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You are. But it happens to the best of us.”

  He smiled back, rolling his eyes at her words. But then he reached forward and ruffled a hand over her hair, no doubt messing up the neat little curls.

  “I like it,” he grinned. “You look like me now.”

  She snorted. “Charming. I look like my middle-aged brother.”

  “Middle-aged?! I’m thirty-six!”

  “Oh!” She gasped in mock astonishment. “You should really wear SPF, Olu. You’re starting to wrinkle like a walnut.”

  “Oi!” He grabbed her by the arm before she could get away and began rubbing her head as if she were a dog, absolutely destroying any semblance of a hairstyle she’d created.

  “Get off,” she laughed, stamping on his foot. Didn’t work. Then she elbowed him in the stomach and he yelped, leaning back against the wall as he pantomimed a tragic death.

  “How could you?” He rasped dramatically, his eyes wide. “My own sister!”

  Before she could reply, a knock came at the door.

  “I bet Yen forgot her cake boxes,” Olu smirked.

  “Probably.” Lizzie unlocked the door and pulled it open. “What did you—?”

  She stopped. Her smile faded. Because it wasn’t Yen standing on the doorstep.

  It was Isaac.

  Twenty-Eight

  Imagination was always better than reality.

  When you spent hours bathing in the second-hand glow of a few precious memories, things changed. Fantasy took over. Feelings were exaggerated; beauty became perfection; mundanity was sacred. After all that, reality could never compare.

  So Lizzie shouldn’t have looked like heaven, standing in the doorway, her hair curling about her ears like a pixie’s.

  But she did. To Isaac’s hungry eyes, she did.

  In his fantasies, her hair was long, the way it had been at the spa. She’d been slightly damp, as though freshly risen from the mists. Fae. It suited her, the more he thought about it: she was all mischief and pride with a sharp edge of cruelty that only made her kindness more precious. He’d dreamed of her drawing him close and knowing, in that way she had, exactly what he wanted to say to her. He wouldn’t even have to say it. That was the fantasy.

  In reality, she was solid as an oak, real as anything. There were no mists and there was no magic. She stood in the doorway of her brother’s flat, her face slack with shock, and she made no move to come to him. There would be no instant reconciliation.

  “Lizzie,” he said. Because the words he’d carefully prepared, the ones he’d drafted and memorised and thought perfect, had fled his brain completely. The only thing left in his head was her.

  She remained still as a mountain, but behind her, there was movement. A second later another figure appeared, a frown of confusion on his face. He was taller than Lizzie, broader, his eyes and hair light where hers were dark. But he was clearly her brother. His sharp gaze, his cheekbones, the set of his mouth, all shouted out the connection.

  And when he said, “Montgomery,” in a voice dripping with disdain, Isaac knew for sure.

  Ignoring the man, Isaac focused on Lizzie. He made his voice as gentle as he could. “Can I come in?”

  She burst into tears.

  Fuck.

  His hands moving of their own accord, Isaac reached for her. But her brother—Keynes—was already there, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders, spearing Isaac with an accusing glare.

  “I rather think that’s a
no,” Keynes said acidly. “Don’t you?”

  He was right. He’d always been right. Isaac had made a mistake coming here—he’d made a mistake ever thinking he was smart enough to tangle with Lizzie in the first place. He should have walked away from her after that first kiss, when he’d tasted pure brilliance on her tongue. Because now he was in love and he’d already fucked it up, and he had no idea how to fix it.

  Yep, that’s what he was: hopelessly in love. Emphasis on the hopeless.

  She looked so fragile, standing there, frantically wiping at her tears even as they raged like a summer storm. If just the sight of him made her cry, well—that was that. Maybe there were too many bad memories for her. Maybe it was because of how he’d treated her, the day she left.

  Or maybe the whole thing really was fake. Maybe she’d forced herself to touch him and now she felt—

  “No,” she sobbed, and for a moment Isaac imaged she’d heard his thoughts. But then she finished, “Come in. Please.” She gave her eyes one final, desperate rub, sniffed loudly, and then stepped back. Her brother was forced to step back too, following her movement, and Isaac took advantage of his good fortune before it could be snatched away. He entered the flat.

  While he took in the sleek, modern decor, Lizzie managed to compose herself. Once again, that polite facade he knew so well was firmly in place—but tear tracks ran down her cheeks like cracks in a mask.

  “Can I take your coat?” She asked, her voice light.

  “I’ll just… hang it up here,” he said warily, nodding at the coat stand by the door.

  “Oh, of course,” she nodded. “Well... Why don’t you come through and we’ll all sit?”

  She led him to the spacious living room, full of the kind of impersonal, modern furniture that marked this place as a bachelor pad. The bachelor himself hovered after Lizzie and Isaac like a poltergeist intent on murder. Strangulation, specifically, judging by the way his fists clenched and unclenched. Not that Isaac could blame the guy. If he’d had a sister, he wouldn’t want a man like himself sniffing around her.

  Couldn’t be helped. No matter what else happened this evening, he and Lizzie had to talk.

  “Sit,” she said. “Please. Make yourself at home.”

  Right. Since this was such a comfortable situation. Still, Isaac sank into one of the soft, leather sofas, because she appeared so highly strung at this moment that the slightest conflict might send her into a meltdown. He’d never seen her so nervous. Of course, she hid it well.

  But he saw it anyway.

  “Have you had dinner?” She asked, sitting opposite him with a hostess’s smile. Her brother leaned against the doorframe, glowering at them in sullen silence. If he was this quiet all the time, it was no wonder Lizzie had little problem with Isaac’s own lack of communication.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he answered. “Have you?”

  She shook her head. Hm. With a wary glance at her brother, Isaac leaned forward, meeting her eyes as he murmured, “Should you, then? When did you last eat?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Keynes burst out, throwing up his hands. “He knew? Before me? Really, Liz?”

  Lizzie glared at her brother, a flash of her familiar fire burning through the mask. “Don’t be childish.”

  “Fine,” Keynes huffed. “You two do... whatever it is you’re doing. I'm making that chickpea curry thing. Do you want some?”

  “That would be lovely,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  “Is he eating?” Keynes demanded, jerking his head towards Isaac. Which was a surprise. The fact someone so high and mighty was cooking at all had Isaac somewhat confused, and now the other man was actually—if reluctantly—treating him like a human being?

  “Well?” Lizzie prompted, looking at Isaac expectantly. “Are you?”

  “Ah…” Better not. Need to leave if things go south. “No,” he said shortly.

  “Alright.” Was he imagining a hint of disappointment in her voice?

  Keynes left with a loud sigh, pointedly leaving the door wide open. He was… not what Isaac had expected. Dramatic where Lizzie was restrained. Though they appeared to be equally moody, at least. And despite the man’s threats and overbearing nature, he seemed to treat Lizzie like… well. Like a person. There was an ease to all of their interactions that Isaac couldn’t help but envy. An unspoken agreement that no matter what was said or done, their relationship would always remain the same.

  Safe. Secure. Constant. Isaac found that he was glad. Glad that Lizzie had someone in her life who would never let her struggle alone. Who would make threats on her behalf. Who would hover menacingly. And who would cook her dinner even while she was doing the exact opposite of what they wished.

  “So,” she said softly, interrupting Isaac’s thoughts. “You’re here.”

  “Yes,” he said. There was so much more he meant to say, and he would, eventually. But right now he felt as if he could barely breathe. And for once it wasn’t anxiety that choked him; it was the force of every word that he was desperate to set free, all battling to erupt at once. This was it; this was what she did to him. When he talked to Lizzie, the words he usually couldn’t find almost fell over themselves in their eagerness to please her. And that was a dangerous thing.

  Despite his best efforts, he’d always been drawn to the dangerous.

  She was sitting there so primly, her knees and ankles drawn together like magnets, her back straight as a board. Even with the thick crown of her hair missing, she was royalty. Untouchable. Which only made him want to touch her more. Standing suddenly, he stalked around the low coffee table to pull her up, drawing her to him. She let out a little gasp as they collided, but her hands settled on his shoulders like they belonged there, and then—ah. She rose up the way she always did, as if even the height distance between them was too much like separation. The panicked urgency in Isaac’s gut faded with her nearness. He put his hands against her cheeks and studied her face, searching for something—some hint that he wasn’t alone in this. That he wasn’t imagining things. That he wasn’t the man she’d made a fool of, but the man she’d found in an unconventional way.

  But that wasn’t something he could find in her eyes, was it? She’d already told him how things were, and he’d rejected that. He was the one who needed to take a risk. He was the one who needed to believe.

  And he was ready. He was ready to try.

  Lizzie held her breath, as if freezing her own lungs could freeze time, too. When she'd seen Isaac on the doorstep her heart had stopped, petrified. It still hadn't started again. What if he were here to break it completely? To crush the barely beating chunk of scar tissue under his boot?

  But that wasn’t why he’d come. Surely not. His familiar hands, so rough and capable, were gentle as they cradled her face. A tempest swirled in the night sky of his eyes, and she thought she saw tenderness there. He was so handsome; the harsh features that made him seem intimidating were beautiful, really. Like fine art. You had to look the right way, to see him as he was, instead of what you expected him to be. And she saw him now. She really did.

  Slowly, as if she might stop him, Isaac lowered his head to kiss her. Their lips met gently, like waking up on a bright Sunday morning. Everything was fresh; possibility stretched out for miles; calm, pure energy thrummed like a pulse.

  Lizzie felt weak-kneed and light-headed with hope. There was a trapped dove inside her, fluttering its wings, rising up to find the sun. Familiar desire ignited, adding a wicked decadence to the moment, like strawberries with dark chocolate. She clung to him, suddenly greedy. An hour ago, she’d been ready to spend the rest of her life starving. Now sustenance was here, and she couldn’t let go.

  But Isaac pulled away, even as she strained for more. Lizzie opened her eyes to find him smiling at her, and her heart leapt. She wanted to see that smile every day. Every morning, every evening. She wanted to tease out his joy from behind the stone wall he presented to the world. She wanted to be his haven.

&n
bsp; “Lizzie,” he murmured. The raw quality of his voice would always do this to her, would always tug liquid heat from her core like a touch. “There's so much I need to say.”

  “There is?” She breathed.

  He nodded. “I have to… I have to tell you how sorry I am. About the pictures.”

  Oh. Oh. She stiffened. Her heart’s premature somersaults fell flat. “The pictures,” she said, stepping back. “That’s why you’re here. Of course.”

  Because he would want to apologise, to make sure she was alright. Not because he needed to see her. Not because he’d changed his mind.

  He still wanted her, but that didn’t mean he needed her. Didn’t mean he’d take her.

  She had betrayed him, after all.

  Lizzie swallowed, turning away from him—just for a moment. That was all she needed to deal with this flash of weakness, to swallow it ruthlessly down and present him with something better, something braver.

  But she felt the touch of his hand on her wrist. “Don’t,” he said, pulling her back. Making her face him. “Don’t do that, Lizzie. Please.”

  “Do what?” She asked flatly. Please don’t make this any harder.

  “Don’t push me away.” He tightened his grip, his thumb stroking over her pulse. “I’m not done.”

  She bit her lip. “Done with what?”

  “All my apologies. I was wrong before. I thought I couldn’t forgive you, but the truth was I didn’t want to. I was angry, and I was embarrassed. And you have to understand, I never—”

  He broke off, swallowing hard. His gaze burned into her, and she saw determination. Passion. Unable to stay away, Lizzie brought her hand to the sharp line of his jaw. A thrill swept through her as he leant into the touch, his eyes closing for a moment.

  “I'm used to people using me, and looking down on me, and when you told me about this shit with Mark... I thought you were one of those people. That I'd been arrogant to think I could be with a girl like you, when you're so flawless and I'm... I'm just me."