Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel

by Kendra Leigh

  For a moment or two she seems to consider my words before slowly nodding in concession.

  “Now … I don’t know about you, but I am roasting my nuts off in here. What you say we take this outside and make ourselves comfortable on the porch?”

  “Really?” She looks shocked. “Won’t it be dangerous? Won’t all your bear friends be out there at this hour?”

  “Are you saying you’re more afraid of the bears out there than the one in here?” I laugh. “I think we’ll be okay. If it puts your mind at rest, I promise to keep my eyes peeled for any signs of the big guys in fur coats, and if I spot any, I’ll whisk you inside real quick.”

  Is that a smattering of a smile I see ghosting those rosebud lips? Before it disappears, I stand and move around to her chair, offering my hand to help her stand. She hesitates, but only momentarily—just long enough for her cheeks to pink before accepting it.

  Outside it has cooled to perfection, the late low evening sun casting a beautiful orange hue over the world. The amber glow skims the gently swaying shimmering water of the lake. The only sounds are of birds singing or the odd splash of water as a fish or water bug breaks the surface. Otherwise, there’s a quiet stillness.

  For a few minutes, we sit in silence in the comfort of the rockers, taking in the beauty and tranquility in our own private way. It’s a perfect moment.

  “Why Sparrow?” She whispers the question as if she’s afraid to disturb me.

  “Would you be offended if I said you remind me of a bird?”

  She narrows her brow like she’s pondering the question. “Remind you how?”

  “Well, because you’re so—”

  “Small?”

  “No. Small doesn’t adequately express what I mean.”

  She offers me look that says please, elaborate.

  “Well … even when fully grown, most birds are petite and delicate. I don’t mean insubstantial or fragile in a childlike way, but just the opposite. They’re tough little creatures in spite of their size, strong and self-sufficient but beautiful and graceful at the same time. It always baffles me how all those minute features and intricate feathers are crammed into such tiny but perfectly formed bodies.” She looks as if she doesn’t know how to take my answer, so I quickly add, “Sparrow because it was the most appropriate bird’s name I could think of in the spare of the moment. I can hardly go around calling you Yellow-bellied Sapsucker or Dickcissel for the next few days, can I?”

  The sound of tinkling laughter suddenly fills the peaceful space, her face lighting up in response to the sudden emotion. She looks beautiful.

  In an attempt to maintain the mood, I say, “And I’m fairly certain referring to you as Common Shag would have earned me another swift kick in the bollocks.”

  “There’s actually a bird out there with the name Common Shag?” She looks delighted.

  “I’m afraid so. In fact, there are several different kinds of shag, the Common being the … well, the common one.”

  “Wow, you know your birds.”

  “Yes. Animals, birds, fish. Pretty much any living thing that isn’t human is my absolute favorite thing.”

  She nods, still smiling. “Me too.” Her face drops suddenly, her gaze drifting off into the distance.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “My cat, Shadow. She’ll be wondering where I am.”

  “Don’t worry. Cats are adaptable, independent creatures. She’ll be okay.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Why’d you name her Shadow?”

  The smile is back. “Because she’s my constant companion, always by my side. She’s also completely black from tip to toe. What about you? I expect you have lots of pets.”

  “No. Not because I don’t want them … it just wouldn’t be fair. I’m not home enough. I sponsor thousands of them all over the world. I have countless adoption certificates and probably more stuffed animals than the average young kid. It’s not the same, though. When I retire, I want to buy a house with lots of land. Take in all the abandoned, mistreated animals I can find and take care of them. Give them a home, somewhere they can feel safe.”

  “How does Mrs. Bear feel about that?”

  “Mrs. who?” I ask, momentarily confused by the question. “Oh. No. There is no Mrs. Bear.”

  There’s a small smile playing at the edge of her mouth. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are slightly glazed. The bottle of wine is empty. Something tells me she doesn’t drink very often.

  I want to ask about her husband, but I know that would be breaking the rules. Familiarity is a risky business in this job. Instead, I push to my feet. “Coffee?”

  She smiles sleepily. “Another glass of wine would be nice.” Her words are slightly slurred.

  “I think coffee. Give me five.” I stop suddenly, adding, “And no running off. Don’t fancy navigating those woods at this hour of the day.” She salutes in mock deference, and I wander indoors heading straight for the bathroom.

  After taking a leak, I rinse my hands and face under the cold faucet, pausing to take in my reflection in the mirror. Again, I begin to doubt myself. What the fuck am I doing? Why did I agree to this? What the hell am I going to do with Savannah ‘Sparrow’ Harper? With all these peculiar feelings she’s unearthing? With my constantly hard dick? Why does all this feel like it’s going against the grain? I’m sure it didn’t used to be like this. My memory isn’t the best, but I’m certain the jobs I’ve done before never played out like this; I just used to get on with it. I don’t even really remember having conversations with subjects in the past, not like this anyway—conversations that seem to be skewing my thoughts and toying with my feelings. I’m not stupid. I see the desire in her eyes as clear as day. Despite her caution and her perfect picture of innocence, I feel she may be playing me, hoping I’ll go easy on her. Perhaps I am too old for this. Perhaps I’ve been hanging out with Ethan—the gentleman—Wilde for too long. Maybe I’ve just lost my touch. Or I’m out of touch. I need to disassociate. Bring this business back into line, as Jax would do, regardless of what I said to her earlier. This isn’t a date, for fuck’s sake.

  Filled with fresh resolve, I stride from the bathroom, muttering, “fuck the coffee,” and out of the cabin to the porch. She lies curled up in the rocker, her knees tucked into her chest, her hands in prayer position beneath her cheek to pillow her head. She looks angelic. Her tiny frame moves gently in time with her soft slow breaths. Perfect features smooth into peaceful sleep, no pouting lips or puckered brow to express her contempt. Not for the first time, I think how much younger she looks than her thirty-two years.

  Disappointment washes over me. Digging deep for Jax, I tell myself, toss her over your shoulder, throw her down on the bed. Take this opportunity to seduce her. God knows, my blue balls want to. But the disappointment is soon eclipsed by relief, and finally I know I’m not that man anymore.

  Gathering her into my arms, I take her inside, pull back the sheets, and lay her gently on the bed. For a few minutes, I sit on the edge just watching her. Her eyelids flutter faintly in her sleep, her blond tresses billowing radiantly across the pillow like a halo. The scent of peaches and cream drift softly into my senses.

  Perfect.

  She’s perfect.

  Chapter Eight

  Savannah

  AS I DRIFT INTO CONSCIOUSNESS, I’m aware of the scent of a summer breeze in the air and a rare sense of quietness. My eyes flutter open and immediately I’m engulfed with relief. Odd, considering I’m still in the room inside the log cabin I was brought to yesterday by my captor, who abducted me straight off the street—and for reasons even he doesn’t appear to know. Not so odd that, in contrast to a regular morning, relief would usually be the last thing I’d feel. A typical morning would have me waking with a start, terrified I’d slept past my alarm and wondering, aside from my incessant chores, what dreadful surprises the day had in store for me.

  I think briefly of Nick staring at my empty bed, fury burning his cheeks, but I cringe swif
tly away from the thought, a shudder prickling my skin. My thoughts turn to the night before: scrumptious food, good wine, watching the sun go down over the lake—Bear. An odd sensation ripples through my core. I know it should be unease or dread, feelings I’m well accustomed to, but it isn’t. Far from it.

  I recall the wine and how relaxed and mellow it had made me feel, the conversation flowing without rehearsing every word in my head first. Sleep had taken me suddenly, but I remember being aware of those strong arms enfolding me, carrying me safely to bed. I hadn’t felt a shred of fear. Not one. I wanted to remain in that rare, tranquil, drowsy state—embrace the sleep that beckoned me without limitation. At least most of me did. The small part of me that fought to stay awake didn’t want those arms to let me go. I could feel his eyes on me, sense his body close to mine, his hand reaching out to softly move a strand of hair from my forehead. I wanted to lean into the touch, feel the warmness of his skin. Breathe him in.

  My God, I’m aroused.

  As much as I have no clue exactly what it is I should be feeling, I’m certain it isn’t arousal. There’s a name for this … I’ve read about it: Stockholm syndrome, when the victim develops a strange sort of affection for their captor. Yes, that’s what this is. Some kind of coping strategy. I can live with that. Yes … I can definitely live with that.

  My full bladder urges me to lift my head from the pillow and glance around. He isn’t here. I wonder where he slept. Although I don’t remember waking up, I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep in the bed with me. The door is open, which explains the wonderful summery woody scent in the air, but the only sound is of an insect buzzing as he goes about his business curiously. Throwing back the sheets, I scramble in the drawers for a change of clothes and dive into the bathroom quickly.

  Minutes later, I emerge refreshed and dressed in shorts and T-shirt, after folding then re-folding the towels in the bathroom—only twice—after using them. Unnecessary, I know, but old habits … There’s still no sign of Bear, so I wander outside.

  It’s hot, the sun high in the sky, so I know it’s much later than I would usually wake. The place is deserted, just a blanket of undisturbed beauty, and I feel unexpectedly and overwhelmingly happy. For a fraction of a second, I consider that Bear may have left me here alone, but the car is where he parked it yesterday. I feel the edge of my lip curve into a smile.

  A sound reverberates from somewhere behind me, nothing more than a dull and distant thud, so I follow it around the back of the cabin and notice a small wooden hut. More noises materialize as I draw nearer: rummaging, shuffling of feet, indistinct murmuring. The door is open marginally, just wide enough for me to slide through the gap unheard. The hut is stacked to the rafters with what appears to be junk, and in the corner amid a flume of dust and cobwebs, a pair of long muscular legs and honed ass are all I can see as Bear bends over rummaging through a huge old tool chest.

  “Hey.” The word is out before I have time to think.

  “Fuck!”

  Startled, Bear throws his head up abruptly, unsettling the shelves on the wall behind the chest. Something heavy falls onto the lid bringing it crashing down on his thumb. He hisses cuss words through gritted teeth, shaking the injured hand in an effort to nullify the pain.

  Oh shit, he is going to be so angry.

  “Jesus, Sparrow!”

  His irate tone makes me wince, and I shrink back toward the door, mouthing the word “sorry.”

  To my surprise, his raised voice dissipates instantly.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But you shouldn’t go creeping around on people like that. Not when you’re light as a feather and a breeze could blow you in.”

  My unease disappears in a puff of smoke, and suddenly I’m almost amused. I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. It’s the first time I’ve seen him disconcerted, and I have a feeling it’s not something he enjoys experiencing often. Bear is a man who likes to be in control of his actions and reactions at all times. He’s glaring at his thumb and then glancing blinking eyes at me as if he’s cross. But not with me … with himself. I can’t hold back my amusement from breaking out into a smile any longer. To lessen the impact, I step toward him, holding out my hand for his. “Here, let me see.”

  Reluctantly, at first, he offers his hand for inspection. “It’s fine. Just a graze.”

  He’s right. The skin is barely broken, just a speckle of blood, but the familiar bluish purple haze developing around the knuckle tells me that bruise is throbbing like a bitch. Blows like that, on any joint, can be agony.

  “It needs icing.” As I look up to gauge his reaction to the suggestion, my fingers glance over the swelling.

  He gazes intently into my eyes as if surprised by my concern but taking pleasure from it just the same. He retracts his hand, grudgingly it seems, before giving it a quick rub then dismissing it altogether. “It’s fine, really.”

  It’s only now that I take in his appearance: faded, perfectly fitting jeans and white T-shirt—at least at some stage it was white; it’s now covered in dust and smudges, as is his face and arms. It makes him seem more real, somehow, this disheveled version of the man who yesterday was so composed, so self-assured, so intense.

  I smile again. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

  A look of boyish excitement crosses his handsome face. “This place is an Aladdin’s cave. Look, fishing equipment. Reels, rods, nets. The works. You ever been fishing before?”

  I shake my head, my nose wrinkling in distaste before I can prevent it. It doesn’t deter his enthusiasm.

  “But that’s not all.” He moves to the other side of the room and tugs at the corner of an oily old sheet that partially covers something. “Look at this beauty.”

  Shifting to the side so I can see clearly, I spy an old motorcycle. It looks like it hasn’t been on the road in the last hundred years to me. Dirt and grease and grime so thick, I can’t even tell its color.

  “It’s a Kawasaki Vulcan 750. The 1989 model too. I’d have killed for one of these when I was a kid.”

  Not wanting to dampen his spirit, I muster some interest. “Wow. Is it worth something?”

  “No, not much. They’re pretty rare, though. Looks like it’s been abandoned in here for a good while. The amount of cobwebs I had to fight through tells me someone probably forgot it’s even here.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I’d be surprised if it does.”

  The way his eyes glimmer when he looks at it gives me the impression he’d be overjoyed if it did.

  “Why don’t you give it a try?”

  “Really?” His smile is huge, eyes crinkling at the edges. “What will you do?”

  “I’ll go make us some breakfast.”

  “You sure?” He looks suspicious all of a sudden. “You’re not gonna make a run for it again, then?”

  “Not unless you left the car key in the ignition. I decided after yesterday the woods aren’t really my thing. You know, big guys in fur coats and all.”

  “Ah, yes, those guys.” He pats his jeans pockets, first the left then the right. “Keys, cell. Sorry, honey, but you’re stuck with me a while longer yet.”

  Why do I like the sound of that?

  “Breakfast, then.”

  He nods and I turn to leave.

  “Sparrow?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  I wonder what he meant as I fold blueberries into pancake mixture. Thank you. For what? Suggesting he have a go at starting the bike? Making breakfast? Not running away? Maybe it was all of the above.

  I smile to myself as I think about the way he came over all petulant when he injured his thumb, like a big grumpy bear holding out his paw for inspection. After my initial wariness, I’d felt the urge to comfort him, to tend to the pain he was bound to be feeling. His boyish grin and eagerness at finding his treasures were such a contrast to what I’ve seen of him so far, I find myself wonder
ing what he was like as a child. By the time I’m dishing up breakfast, my thoughts have once again strayed to his body: the way he holds himself, the way he moves, arms and abs flexing beneath his T-shirt; the way his jaw swings ever so slightly from side to side when he thinks, brown eyes crinkling in that handsome smiley way of his.

  “Sparrow?”

  The voice jolts me from my musings, and I turn to find him in the doorway.

  “Something’s burning.” He nods at the pan of bacon on the stove and the smoke billowing from it.

  “Oh my God.” I shift it from the burner quickly, wafting the smoke from the air as if it will help dispel it faster. “Please don’t be angry…” a word echoes loudly in my head—useless “…I didn’t mean to burn it. I was just preoccupied for a second and—”

  “Of course not. Why would I be angry, silly? I like my bacon crispy.” He strides across the room, swiping his fingers across his tee before dipping into the pan for a strip of bacon and crunching it between his teeth. “Mmm, perfect.”

  I’m relieved and amused all at once, and for the first time in a long time, I realize how sad and wrong my instinctive reaction was. He must see the conflicted emotions in my expression because he reaches out as if to touch my cheek, stopping within inches when he realizes how dirty his hands are.

  “I guess I’d better go wash up.”

  * * *

  “So, how did you sleep?” he asks when he emerges from the bathroom and joins me at the table.

  “Oh. Amazingly well, actually. Considering I’m being held against my will by a bear in a desolate cabin deep in the woods.”

  He nods, unsure whether to be amused or not by my comment. “You certainly seemed to be resting peacefully. You went out like a light.”

  I suddenly remember him carrying me to bed, feeling his eyes on me as I fell into a deep slumber. I feel my cheeks heat. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. The last thing I recall is you going off to make coffee and then … nothing. It must have been the wine.”