BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense

by Nelle L’Amour

  “What the fuck!” I mutter out loud. How the hell can she be calling herself?

  My index finger swipes answer with the velocity of a speed skater. With a jerk of my arm, I put the phone to my ear. A raspy female voice I don’t recognize materializes.

  “Sofe, how did the interview go? I’m dying to know.”

  And I’m dying to know what the fuck is going on. “Who is this?” I shout into the phone.

  “Harper Albright. Who’s this?”

  “No one you know,” I growl at the irony of my words.

  “Why do you have Sofi’s phone?”

  “She left it behind . . . at a café. I want to return it to her.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet of you.”

  I don’t do sweet. Fury fuels my voice. “Where does she live?”

  “This connection is breaking up. I’ll text you her address.”

  With a jab of my finger, I end the call. Someone owes me an explanation—the gamine girl who interviewed me. That goddamn imposter.

  I wait impatiently for the text. Finally a ping. I read it. Her full name is Sofi Lockhart and she lives on West 35th Street. Hell’s Kitchen. What girl in her right mind lives there?

  Jamming the traitorous phone into my other pocket, I barrel down the backstairs instead of taking the elevator to my atelier.

  Without stopping to examine anything my loyal, hardworking staff is engaged in, I sprint to the front door. In passing, I hear Madame DuBois, who’s their supervisor and my lifeline, call out, “Monsieur, where are you going?”

  It’s unusual for me to go out in broad daylight. Sunshine stings my working eye and compromises my anonymity. If ever I leave my residence, it’s for a solitary stroll in the wee hours of the morning on nights the moon is a mere sliver. The sky as black as carbon, I blend into the desolate, unlit streets, cloaked in darkness, where a few bums, who don’t give a shit about my identity or deformity, await me for their tithing. I dole out money generously.

  Breathing hard, I don’t answer my chief of staff. At the entrance to my atelier, I punch the four-digit code on the security panel to let me out. One-two-one-two. Twelve-twelve. Her birthday. I hear a click and I yank the heavy bronze door open. It’s raining cats and dogs. The rain pellets like bullets.

  Madame DuBois hovers behind me. “Can I fetch your raincoat?”

  “I’m fine,” I grumble, grabbing an umbrella from a tole stand close to the door. I push the spring, and as it slides up the metal shaft, the enormous signature HOH umbrella balloons in the doorway. I step outside. The British, custom-made umbrella is sturdy enough to shelter me from the downpour. On a mission, I forge ahead, battling the raging storm. The gusting wind. The rain. The slippery pavement. The puddles. My target can only be a few blocks ahead of me. While her apartment is walking distance on a nice day, my instinct tells me she’s headed toward the subway, located on the corner of Canal and Delancey. Holding my umbrella high, I pick up my pace and break into a run.

  The rain comes down harder and the wind kicks up. Everything’s a whir as my feet pound the pavement, creating little splashes in their wake. People all around me are scurrying for shelter, getting in my way. Umbrellas clashing, the rain lashing. Then, finally I see her. In the sea of gray, she’s hard to miss in her rainbow-colored attire. Sprinting toward the uptown subway station, she lifts the hood of her sweatshirt over her head to shield herself from the rain.

  “Butterfly,” I cry out. I don’t know why I call her this when I know her name. “Butterfly!” I shout out again, the pounding rain a deafening veil between us.

  Close to the entrance of the subway, she finally hears me and spins around. For a moment, her rain-soaked face meets mine. She disappears from my field of vision when a heavy-set commuter in a mad rush to seek shelter, plows into her and sends her tumbling to the ground. Clamoring down the subway stairs, he leaves her unattended.

  Sprawled in a crumpled heap, she doesn’t get up.

  Hordes of rude New Yorkers, desperate to seek refuge from the downpour, ignore her and scramble for cover.

  My system goes into overdrive. I run faster, my limbs and lungs burning.

  She’s going to get trampled!

  CHAPTER 4

  Sofi

  Everything’s a blur. The rain pummels me, soaking me to the bone. Curled in a child’s pose on the cold, drenched pavement, I’m dazed, confused, unable to move. People clamber around me, shouting, “Get up. Get out of the way.”

  I’m caught in an onslaught of footfalls and raindrops. Finally, I manage to squat and a sharp burning sensation stabs my knee. Wincing, I glance down. There’s a big rip in my tights, the hole the size of a silver dollar, and a nasty scrape shining through it. The rain mixes with the blood, creating crimson tributaries that make it look worse than it is. Hot tears join the rain and stream down my face. I hug my knees to my chest. The throb of the skinned one worsens, and I begin to sob, not caring about what people think of me because they don’t care at all.

  “Get the fuck out of my way, asshole!” another voice barks, rising above the chaos. One vaguely familiar.

  “Jesus, you’re hurt.” The voice is fraught with alarm. “C’mon, Butterfly, let me help you up.”

  On my next shuddering breath, someone lifts me to my feet. Shivers shake my entire body, partly because I’m so cold and wet. But mostly because I’m gathered in an arm of my unexpected hero. Roman Hurst.

  Holding a massive black umbrella in his other hand, he pulls me into him so that we’re both under its protective canopy. Face to face. So close our bodies touch.

  “What are you doing here?” I stammer.

  “You left your phone.”

  Uh-oh. Did I accidentally leave it on and it rang? Did he uncover my real identity?

  “Can you walk?” he asks, stopping me in my thoughts. Concern burns bright in his good eye.

  I glance down at my bloody knee. Still stinging, it feels stiff, but it’s not anything major. “Yes, I’m fine. I need to get home.”

  “There’s no fucking way you’re taking the subway in your condition. You’re bleeding and shivering.”

  “It’s only a few stops,” I protest, my teeth clattering as people clamor around us, making a mad dash to the entrance of the subway. “Can I have my phone back?”

  “Sofi . . . ”

  Shit. He knows. But how?

  He tilts up my chin with his thumb, his touch so tender. So unlike the violent rain pellets all around us. A ribbon of warmth uncurls inside me as his gaze stays on mine.

  “What happens to butterflies in the pouring rain?”

  I know. Out of curiosity, I once googled that question.

  “If they don’t find shelter, they die.”

  “Hold on to me.”

  On my next heartbeat, I’m leaning into him, his free arm draped around my shoulders, gimping back to his studio like a lame puppy. Every step hurts.

  And so will the truth.

  CHAPTER 5

  Roman

  I carry my tattered butterfly up to my quarters. The elevator jammed, I use the backstairs erected long ago in case of a fire. My anger has temporarily succumbed to her vulnerability and my need to take care of her. Even soaked, she’s light as a feather. So fragile, her bones so delicate. Setting her down on the couch, I turn on the fireplace, something I rarely do, and find a blanket to cover her. Her teeth are still chattering and her clothes are drenched. Madame DuBois will be here shortly with a robe and first aid. But not soon enough. I amble to my bar and pour a shot of bourbon.

  “Here, drink this. It’ll warm you up.” I hand her the shot glass.

  “Thanks,” she says softly.

  “Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?” I ask, watching her take a gulp of the strong drink. To my amusement, she makes a face, scrunching her caterpillar-like brows.

  “It didn’t look like it was going to rain when I left my apartment.”

  “Looks can be deceiving, can’t they, Sofi?”

  A guilt-r
idden grimace. “Yes, things aren’t always what they seem. Nor are people.” She forces herself to take another sip of the bourbon. “How did you find out my real name?”

  “Your friend—the real Harper Albright—called.” I don’t bother telling her I know how she spells it.

  She bites down on her bottom lip. “I can explain.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, suppressing the anger that’s coiling inside me. “You will explain everything—once you’re in something dry and that bloody mess of a knee is cleaned up.”

  At that very moment, the elevator door glides open. Madame DuBois shoots out, holding a tray with a tea service along with the first aid kit. A black silk robe, one of the many I use for my fitting models between fittings, is draped over her left arm.

  “Would you like some tea, my chérie?” she asks as she nears us, her gait quick, her posture as always perfect.

  “No, thank you,” says my frail charge with a faint appreciative smile.

  “Madame DuBois, please set the teapot and china on the coffee table, in case she changes her mind.”

  Without a word, she does as she’s told and then offers to show Sofi to the guest bathroom where she can change into the robe.

  “Thank you, madame. Please take her wet clothes with you afterward and put them in the dryer.” There’s a laundry room in the basement, which is also used for storage.

  “Oui, monsieur.” She smiles warmly at Sofi. “My chérie, leave your backpack here.”

  Sofi shrugs off the wet bag and then staggers to her feet, unable to stifle a pained hiss. A prick of guilt. I should have helped her up, but thankfully Madame DuBois takes her arm and helps her walk to the bathroom. She’s still walking stiffly.

  A few minutes later, they return, Sofi now in the belted silk robe that skims her knees. While her gash is still raw and gory, it looks as though Madame DuBois cleaned it up a little. Her wet clothes are gathered in a mesh bag that my orderly chief of staff is holding.

  “Thank you,” I say as she leads Sofi back to the couch.

  “Pas de problème. I think the tights are ruined, but I could try to stitch them up.”

  Sofi looks up at her. “It’s okay. You can throw them out. I have several pairs just like them.”

  “No, don’t throw them out!” I interject. “Just leave them on the table.”

  I watch as my faithful, longtime employee scoops them out of the laundry bag and sets them on the glass surface next to the vase of gardenias. The colors come alive in the glow of the blazing fire. The red-hot flames, the only other burst of color in my otherwise all-black room.

  “Madame DuBois, please come back when Ms. . . .” Shit. I’ve forgotten her last name.

  “Lockhart,” inserts Sofi.

  Sofi Lockhart. Her name burns on my tongue.

  “ . . . when Ms. Lockhart’s clothes are dry.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” says Madame DuBois before retreating to the elevator.

  I stride over to Sofi. “Stretch your leg out on the coffee table.”

  She does as she’s asked. My eyes linger on her long, pale thin limb and well-cared-for bare feet, each perfectly formed toe painted in a different Crayola color. And the innocuous butterfly tattoo etched just above her ankle.

  I crouch down in the space between the table and couch, and for a moment admire how exquisite she looks in black, the contrast offsetting her porcelain skin and delicate features. I can’t help noticing how her pert nipples graze the fabric, imagining that they’re like little rosebuds. Puckered, pink, and dainty. Like the ones I once loved. Painfully aware that she’s wearing nothing beneath the robe except for a necklace with an enameled butterfly, I lift the hem up a tad to examine the extent of damage. And suppress my urge to mentally—and physically—undress her.

  “You did a number.”

  “Yeah, I’m a bit of a spaz.”

  I can’t help a light laugh. “It’s not your fault that jerk slammed into you. You’re lucky he didn’t knock you down the subway steps.”

  “That’s a good way of looking at it. There’s always something worse.”

  Her optimism and zest for life is obvious. She wears them on her sleeve.

  I focus again on her knee. “I want you to hold still while I take care of this.”

  “Okay.”

  I snap open the first aid kit. It has everything I need.

  “First, I’m going to apply some alcohol. I’m warning you it may sting.”

  I twist off the cap of the plastic bottle and soak a cotton ball with the antiseptic liquid. Then, dab it on her knee, removing any remaining debris from the abrasion.

  “Ow!” She jerks.

  “I told you it might hurt.” One more dab—this time, a mild wince. I toss the bloodstained ball to the floor.

  Next, I apply some Neosporin, trying not to hurt her.

  I inspect the scrape more closely. Though cleaned up, it’s still sizeable. Beyond a mere Band-Aid. Reaching for a gauze pad, I peel off the wrapping and place it on her knee.

  “Hold this,” I order. She places an index finger on the white patch while I tear off some adhesive tape and secure the bandage in place.

  “How does your knee feel?”

  “It’s good.” She smiles, her eyes fixed on my hands.

  “Try not to bend it for the next couple days.” I put everything back into the first aid kit. “And keep it dry and clean.”

  She nods while I fasten the lid. It’s my turn to ask questions. I stand and take a seat next to her on the couch.

  “So tell me, Ms. Lockhart, why did you impersonate your—uh—friend, Harper?”

  Squirming, she gnaws her bottom lip. “She needed a favor.”

  “I see. Can you please elaborate?”

  “She spent the night at her fiancé’s house and overslept.”

  “So the exclusive interview she begged me for months on end wasn’t important?”

  “No!” she says defensively. “She’s just sometimes a flake.”

  “Well, your flakey friend may have just ruined her career and made yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should get the byline for the interview. And by the way, what are you going to tell your friend about me?”

  “Nothing. Except that you were very cooperative.”

  My respect for her soars, tamping my fury. She’s honoring our confidentiality agreement.

  “What are you going to tell her about my sexuality?”

  A wry smile plays on her lips. The one-sided dimple reminds me so much of hers.

  “I didn’t ask you about it. You didn’t give me a chance, remember?”

  God, she’s cute and she’s right.

  “So nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Stifling a smile of my own, I silently admire her integrity. “You really should get credit for the interview.”

  She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me. It’s not going to help my career. Plus, Harper’s paying me for it.”

  This beautiful, bewildering girl needs money. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a nail technician.”

  “So, you’re some kind of hardware guru who specializes in nails and screws?” My double entendre is not lost on me, and for a brief second, I wonder what would it be like to hammer her.

  Not getting it, she shakes her head. “No, I’m a manicurist. I do mani-pedis.”

  “Oh, so you paint finger and toenails.” I observe her immaculate fingernails, each candy-pink square decorated with a different butterfly.

  “Yes.” She heaves a sigh. “But one day, I hope to make a living as a painter.”

  My mind flits back to her sketchpad. Her intricate drawings of butterflies didn’t escape my one-eyed sight.

  “What is it with you and butterflies?” I toy with her colorful enamel butterfly pendant but let go of it before my fingertips venture beneath her robe. The temptation is great.

  She tightens the belt of her robe. “I’ve always been fascinated by them. They’re
complex and beautiful”—like you, Butterfly—“and like many, I believe they have magical powers.”

  Like giving a grown man a major boner? I become suddenly aware of the flurry of testicular tingles between my legs. My cock flexes.

  “So you draw them and then paint them?” I try hard not to let my voice give away my arousal.

  “Yes. I’ve painted hundreds. No two butterflies are alike.”

  “You’re very talented. I saw some of your drawings in your sketchpad. I hope you realize your dream.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice is soft and humble. A fucking turn-on. My cock grows harder. “You should go online and read about them. You’d be surprised.”

  Just then, Madame DuBois returns with her dried clothes, folded neatly in her arms.

  A few minutes later, Sofi is back in her colorful outfit, minus the butterfly tights. She adjusts her short, full skirt.

  “I should be going.”

  “Do you want to stay for lunch? I can order in Chinese.”

  “Sorry, but I’ve got a busy day.” She reaches for her backpack on the couch.

  “Wait.” Digging into my pocket, I hand over her iPhone.

  “Thanks. I almost forgot about it.” She shoves it into the outside pocket of her backpack and hoists the still wet bag over her shoulders.

  I escort her to the elevator, not wanting her to take the stairs on account of her knee. Waiting for the slower-than-torture elevator, we make small talk, the tension between us palpable.

  “Thanks for everything,” she says. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Stay out of trouble.” I don’t want her to leave and fight the temptation to hold her back.

  “I will.”

  “And be sure to take an umbrella on your way out.” Unable to resist, I gently turn her around to face me. She looks up at me. “I won’t be there to rescue you again, Butterfly.”

  Our eyes stay locked in a silent embrace until the elevator door glides open. Without a word, she steps inside it, her gaze on me until the door closes. On the next blink of my eye, she’s gone. Gone forever.