by Tara Leigh
In front of a mirror, if I concentrated, I could make my expression as opaque as a shallow lake on a dark day. The problem was that I wasn’t always standing in front of a mirror. When I opened the door, I’d have to face a man as perceptive as the one whose quick thinking had saved me from a bad situation.
I just needed to get through the next few hours. With any luck, I’d be sleeping for most of them. After that, I’d never have to see Nash again.
On the bright side, it was September 12 now. I had another three hundred and sixty four days until my most hated day of the year came around again.
That hadn’t always been the case. Until 2001, September 11 had been my favorite day. My birthday.
But that year, it became the day of my parents’ death. The day I became an orphan.
My mother was a trading assistant, working in the South Tower of the World Trade Center. My father worked down the block. He saw the plane hit the North Tower. When my mother’s boss wouldn’t let her leave, he ran down the street to get her out, making it inside her building . . . just in time for the second plane to hit the South Tower.
How do I know all this? Because my father’s business partner—his name was Paul but I called him Pappi, even before he became my legal guardian—told me, right after he brought me home to live with him and his son, Derrick.
For the first few years, Derrick treated me like an annoying little sister. But eventually things changed. His voice deepened. I grew breasts. All my friends had crushes on Derrick, and I began to see why. Derrick told his friends that if they touched me he’d kill them. An awkwardness sprung up between us that wasn’t broken until the first time he kissed me. From that moment on, our love was all-consuming.
Really. It consumed me.
It’s Derrick I’m hiding from now.
I left Long Island behind and came to New York City. Brooklyn, to be exact. Just twenty miles away, it may as well have been a different planet than the suburb where I’d spent most of my life.
Paying Manhattan rent was out of the question, and besides, I was more of a Williamsburg girl. To be perfectly honest, I hated coming to Manhattan and avoided it like the plague every other day of the year, but there was nowhere else I could possibly be on September eleventh. I spent most of the morning at the memorial service, and the rest of the day touring the museum. The memorial service was intense, as it was every year, but the museum was downright agonizing. The Survivor Stairs. The Survivor Tree. And from all those who didn’t survive, so many tiny details of life on display—prescription bottles, wallets, jewelry.
Afterward, I’d walked along the perimeter of the reflecting pools, wondering how many it would take to hold all the tears that had been shed for the men and women memorialized on the seventy-six bronze plaques attached to the wall’s parapets. It was at the sight of my own parents’ names that the sadness in my soul expanded to the point I couldn’t contain it anymore. The pressure built until I rushed off, needing to get away from the physical reminder of their loss.
Directly across the street from the memorial was St. Paul’s Chapel, also known as “The Little Chapel That Stood,” because it emerged from 9/11 without even a broken window. Pappi brought me to the church often growing up, especially around the holidays. Usually I found solace in the 250-year-old house of worship, but today I was just jealous that a place so close to the towers could get through that awful day without any scars to show for it.
My scars were internal, which allowed everyone to pretend I was fine. Healed.
But some cuts never close.
Instead of entering the sanctuary, I had rushed past it. Setting off toward the subway, my eyes blurry from tears, I’d gotten lost. Unlike the organized grid system of midtown, the lower tip of Manhattan was filled with short, narrow streets haphazardly crossing much longer, wider ones. Modern steel skyscrapers towered majestically beside dilapidated three-story relics of a different age, and intermittent alleys were an unavoidable byproduct of three centuries of uneven urban development. They were also a shortcut when navigating crowded sidewalks. I just wanted to get back to Brooklyn and had ducked into the alley without a second thought, not hearing the footsteps behind me.
Once again, I cursed myself for letting my guard down. I’d spent the past year looking over my shoulder, and should have known better than to be so stupid. But of course, it was September 11. That damned day had a way of ruining everything.
A knock on the door pulled me out of my reverie. “Are you okay?” Was that genuine concern in Nash’s voice, or was he worried I was snooping through his cabinets?
“Yeah, fine.” I turned off the water and dried my hands, reaching for the detached expression that was having a hard time staying put.
“Come on, let me help you back to bed.”
I opened the door, watching as his eyes dragged over my body, faltering slightly where the hem of his shirt met my bare thighs. His mouth was tight, though, keeping his thoughts to himself as he wrapped his arm around me. An unwelcome thrill moved through me at his touch and I averted my eyes. Maybe it was the meds, but feigning disinterest in this man was not coming easy.
After twenty feet that could have been a mile, I slipped into bed—Nash’s bed—and yanked the covers up to my chin. His low chuckle echoed in the room as he crossed to the chair in the corner, turning the light off. My skin still tingled from our contact. “Are you really going to sit there all night?” I asked, my voice skating hoarsely through my dry throat.
“There’s only a few hours left before morning.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Go to sleep, Nixie.”
Nash’s voice pooled in my ear like warm honey, slipping inside, trickling down deep. Warming me. If he wanted to sit there all night, so be it. He had the kind of voice that should record audiobooks, or host long podcasts. A voice I could listen to for hours. But voices like his—they shouldn’t belong to men who looked like Nash. It simply wasn’t fair. His voice should belong to a sweaty, overweight man with stubby limbs and hairy ears. Like a consolation prize for being dealt a bad hand. This guy . . . what’s the best hand you could be dealt? Full House? Royal Flush? Four of a Kind? Nash was all of them, combined. He didn’t need to sound as good as he looked, too.
I was grateful for the darkness, shielding my thoughts from his view. Nash got an ego boost every time he looked in a mirror, he definitely didn’t need one from me.
But I wanted to hear his voice again. “Nash?”
“Yes?”
“How did you know the guys that followed me were up to no good?”
The weight of his silence was another layer pressing on my chest, and I couldn’t take a deep breath until he answered. “Instinct. Proximity, maybe.”
“Are your impressions of people always so spot-on?”
“Usually.”
“Have you always been able to do that?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“I bet it saves you a lot of trouble. You know, spending time and effort getting to know people. Thinking they’re one way when really, deep down, they’re the complete opposite.” I was babbling, my words slightly slurred. Damn pain meds.
“I guess it would, if I wanted to get to know people.”
I sniffed. “Oh, I get it. You’re the type who feels like they have all the friends they need.” Like I should talk. Derrick had always discouraged me from getting close to anyone but him. I had acquaintances, but no true friends.
“And you’re pretty quick to make assumptions.”
I blew out a sigh. “Sorry. Shouldn’t do that. Not very good at it.”
Suppressed laughter buoyed his voice. “What were you running from?”
Even on drugs, my muscles immediately tensed. “I wasn’t running.”
“Maybe not literally. But it looked like something was chasing you into that alley.”
Fear. Regret. Grief. “Those two guys.”
“No. You didn’t notice them. You were c
ompletely unaware of your surroundings.”
I twitched at the derision that had crept into his voice. “You know, for someone I’ve never met, you were paying pretty close attention to me.” A frightening possibility occurred to me and I gasped, kicking my legs out from under the covers as I struggled to sit up. “Oh my god—is this some kind of trap? Did he send you? Are you going to take me back to him?”
Nash was out of his chair and across the room in a flash, his hand sliding across my bare thigh. Stopping when his fingertips brushed against lace. Shock spiraled up from deep in my stomach, mixing with something else even more potent. Not fear. No, I was accustomed to that emotion. Something different. Something I hadn’t felt much of in the past couple of years. Desire.
“Take you? Where?” His roar was that of a lion guarding his pride, and I immediately realized my mistake. Nash was not a man who would do another’s bidding.
I struggled to clear my head. “No—nowhere. S’fine.” His thumb swept along my hipbone, sending goose bumps racing across my skin.
“I’m not taking you anywhere. And I’m not going to do anything to you.” Nash’s hand lifted and he stood. “You should really go to sleep now, Nixie.”
Disappointment took the place of his touch and I closed my eyes. “Nash?”
“Yes?”
“Why did you do it?”
“What?”
“Come after me.”
I heard him suck in a breath as he walked back to the chair in the corner. Good. Maybe his instincts weren’t so finely attuned that I couldn’t surprise him at all. There was a rustle as he sat back down. “I don’t know.”
Sleep was pulling at me, but I held on tight. Not yet. “Yes, you do.”
This time, his tone was heavier. Cutting through the darkness with ease. “Whatever story you’re spinning, don’t make me the hero. It’s not who I am.”
The edge of his voice dragged along my spine, and I shivered. “Good night, Nash.” I didn’t need a hero. Didn’t believe in them anymore. But even tired and drug addled, I was shocked to realize that I felt more safe now than I had in . . . years. At least.
And for tonight, that was enough.
CHAPTER THREE
Nash
I don’t need much sleep. Never have. Between cyber-stalking Nixie and the unexpectedly enjoyable nighttime banter we shared, the few hours I managed were more than enough to wake up feeling refreshed and alert.
The corner chair in my bedroom was surprisingly comfortable. Before tonight, I’d never sat in it, much less slept in it. Like just about everything in my apartment, it had been chosen by someone else, a designer I met with once. She showed me about a dozen photographs. Pick your three favorite, she’d suggested. I did, and a few weeks later I moved into a fully furnished, five thousand square foot penthouse. This was how I lived my life. Hire the best, offer minimal direction, and get out of their way while I focused on the bigger picture. My business.
I wasn’t into hiring escorts, although I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. How easy it would be to pick up the phone, place my order, and have a girl delivered to me within the hour. Ready and willing to please. Most of the women I met were ready and willing to please, too, but getting them to leave added a layer of awkwardness I preferred to do without. Which was why I didn’t bring women back to my apartment. I kept a suite at a nearby hotel for that. Completely impersonal and easy enough to slip away while they were still sleeping. Room service knew to send up an elegant breakfast by eight, with a handwritten note that said only, Good morning, beautiful.
This morning was different. Not only was there a woman in my apartment—a woman I hadn’t slept with—but I was reluctant to leave her.
Normally I was at the gym or running on my treadmill by five thirty, six at the latest, but today I watched the sun come up, silhouetting the Statue of Liberty until it finally broke above her crown, streaking New York harbor with rays of pink and orange.
More interesting to me though, was the red-gold mane spread across my pillow. Unlike most women I’d seen first thing in the morning, Nixie was even more tempting in the light of day. From my seat, I had a perfect view of her profile peeking out from my covers. Pale skin with golden undertones, sweeping cheekbones leading to the soft shell of an ear, a pert nose. If I thought I knew what beautiful was before this morning, I was sorely mistaken.
Good morning, beautiful.
“It can’t be morning yet,” Nixie breathed, her eyes still closed, her voice a husky purr that had me hard in an instant.
Shit, had I said that aloud? I cleared my throat. “I meant that it’s a beautiful morning. I don’t remember ever seeing a sunrise from here before.”
One eye opened, glaring at me with a flinty edge. “That’s because you’re probably still sleeping, like most of the world.”
Damn, she was cute cranky. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that the early bird gets the worm?”
Slowly, she struggled to sit up and I had to smother an urge to help her as a wince streaked across her face. What the hell had gotten into me? Down, boy. “No. I’m more of a set - the - alarm - as - late - as - possible kind of girl.” She stretched, fingers plowing into her hair as she yawned like a sleepy cat. One I itched to pull into my lap. Finally she turned her face to the window, eyes softening. “You’re right, though. With a view like this, I might never want to leave.”
“Then don’t.” The words slipped out before I hold them back. What. The. Fuck?
Nixie swiveled, her gaze meeting mine. A flush escaped the collar of her shirt—my shirt, actually—and traveled to her cheeks. Her rising warmth slammed into my chest, the slow, almost imperceptible bob of her throat hitting me somewhere deep.
“I should go,” she whispered.
No way. Not yet. “Not until Doc checks in with you. I’m sure he’s on his way.” As if on cue, the bell rang.
Nixie’s full lips tugged upward in a grin, her head tilting to the side. “Saved by the bell, huh?”
Hauling myself to my feet, I stood, pretending not to be offended. “Looks that way.” After letting Doc in, I made my way into the kitchen. My housekeeper made the best omelets I’d ever tasted, but she wouldn’t be here for half an hour. I was far from a chef, but I could whip up a mean stack of pancakes. Fifteen minutes later, Nixie and Doc emerged from my bedroom. “How’s the patient?”
Looking at the spatula in my hand, Doc quirked a knowing eyebrow but kept his comments focused on Nixie. “Nothing about a week’s worth of rest and good meals won’t cure.”
Wise man. I glanced at Nixie, hugging the wall and looking more pale than I would have liked. “Sit,” I ordered, jerking my chin at the set of stools pushed beneath the counter of the kitchen island I was standing behind, and set down a plate with three pancakes, glistening with butter and maple syrup.
Nixie flicked a tongue over her lips. “I really don’t think—”
Doc pulled out the chair. “Come on. Doctor’s orders.”
With a resigned sigh, Nixie sat down in the proffered seat and lifted a fork.
I gave a nod of appreciation and reached into the refrigerator for the orange juice. “Have you eaten?” I asked Doc, pouring a glass for Nixie. I would have preferred to have Nixie all to myself, but he seemed to have a modulating effect on her.
“Yeah, I’m all set.”
“You sure?” I gestured at the three pancakes on the griddle and a still-full bowl of batter. “There’s plenty.”
“No, no. I need to get going.”
I flipped the pancakes and turned off the flame. “I’ll walk you out.”
Doc lightly squeezed Nixie’s shoulder. “If you need anything at all, just call okay?”
“Thanks for taking such good care of me. I didn’t realize doctors still made house calls.”
He grinned. “Only the best for my patients.”
I grunted. Yeah, only the best for anyone willing to pay your ten thousand dollar monthly retainer. But I could easily a
fford Doc’s rate, and he was well worth every penny.
“Is she really okay to be on her own?” I asked, once we were out of earshot.
“I’m not too concerned about the laceration, to be honest. It’s healing nicely and as long as she takes it easy for the next few days, she’ll be fine. What has me more concerned is her resting heart rate and elevated blood pressure. She’s seems healthy, and is obviously not unfit or overweight. Without having access to her medical files or current blood work, my guess is that she finds being with you stressful, or something else is troubling her.”
My jaw clenched as I shook Doc’s hand, his comment giving further weight to my observations. Something—or someone—had Nixie running scared.
Research is a lot like unraveling a wad of duct tape. Sometimes the adhesive holding the pieces together hardens over time, and it can be difficult to distinguish one end from the other. But it’s what I do, and I’m damn good at it. As is everyone on my team. If Nixie wasn’t willing to tell me, I had the means to find out on my own. The question was—should I? My life was as streamlined as possible right now, and I liked it that way. Which left me with a bit of a problem, because I kind of liked Nixie, too. There was something about her I found captivating. Nixie Rowland, or whoever she really was, was a spitfire with core of innocence about her, and unlike any other woman I’d ever met.
When I was interested in something, I went after it. I was interested in Nixie, but my gut was telling me that going after her would require a shift in my priorities. Priorities that had served me very well so far.
Conflicted, I returned to the kitchen to see that Nixie had made a decent dent in her breakfast. “These are good,” she said, surprise evident in her voice.