Lead (Blackwood Elements Book 6)

by Elise Noble

  “I lied. I’ve lied to too many people, people I care about.”

  “You didn’t go to university?”

  “Not properly. I hung around on campus and snuck into classes because I felt safe there, but I was never enrolled. Hell, I didn’t even finish high school.”

  Which was a true tragedy because Imogen was smart. Damn smart, and brave too.

  “And I bet you’re wondering how I ended up as an escort, aren’t you? Especially with my history.”

  “You did what you had to. You’re a survivor, babe.”

  “I needed the money—that was part of it. But I wanted… I wanted two things, really. Firstly, I’d watched too many movies and I dreamed of meeting a man who’d rescue me, and secondly, I wanted to have sex on my terms, like my own kind of therapy. Sometimes, men would pay extra for a girl to hurt them, and I fucking enjoyed it.”

  Ouch. Mal’s testicles shrivelled at her tone, but she was still holding his hand, which had to count for something, right? He gave a little squeeze, both as a reminder that he was there for her and as an apology for all mankind.

  “I guess I can’t blame you for that.”

  “For a while, I got off on the control, and it also meant I could afford to live. But then I began to hate myself for liking it. Does that sound weird?”

  Yes. “As I said, you did what you had to.”

  “And I realised I’d never have a chance at happiness if I kept working for Rubies. So I quit. And I thought if I acted like the kind of girl I wanted to be—you know, happy and fun-loving—maybe one day it’d become real. But it’s getting harder and harder to pretend.”

  “Then stop. Stop pretending.”

  “How can I? I see my friends settling down with amazing guys, and I want that too. But what man would deal with my baggage?”

  “I thought you wanted Jean-Luc?”

  Imogen chewed on her bottom lip.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. But he only knows some of my past, not all of it.” She gave Mal a tiny smile. “You’re the only person who knows all of it. Jean-Luc would run a mile if I unloaded on him like that. I’m surprised you haven’t.”

  Honestly, so was Mal. But there was something about Imogen that drew him in. Beautiful but broken. Cute but with claws. Sweet, but now he knew she had an edge. She knew his past, and she hadn’t held it against him, so now he had to grant her the same understanding.

  “I’ll always be here if you need someone to talk to. Friends?”

  Her smile widened infinitesimally. “Friends.”

  “You’re a helluva strong woman, Imogen Blair.”

  “Imogen Thomas,” she mumbled. “Blair’s my middle name. I dropped my surname when I had to hide.”

  Imogen Blair Thomas.

  I, Malachi Steven Banks take this woman, Imogen Blair Thomas… Whoa! What the fuck? Had he lost his damn mind?

  Focus, man.

  Focus.

  Kyle Thomas was a dead man.

  CHAPTER 21 - IMOGEN

  WHAT WAS IT called when you went temporarily insane? Was there a technical term for it? Because I’d certainly lost my mind. Why had I just told possibly the hottest and also the kindest man I’d ever met about my dark past?

  A blip in my consciousness? A delayed reaction to my abduction? Or was it a defence mechanism? Was I trying to scare Malachi off before I fell completely in love with him? I’d never been stupid enough to spill my guts to Jean-Luc like that. What was wrong with me?

  “Don’t you have to work?” I asked Malachi on Friday morning.

  “Not until later. I’ve got a hostage rescue drill this afternoon, but I’m not sure what time. How about you? Do you have to go to the salon?”

  “Lisa told me I should take some time off, so she moved all my appointments over to her and Charlene. I was gonna head in anyway, but now I think I might go back to bed instead.”

  And if I drank the bottle of Unisom from the bathroom cabinet, I might actually fall asleep instead of reliving my mistakes over and over and over again.

  “You’re tired?”

  “Tired of life? Very much so.”

  Malachi’s phone vibrated, and he glanced at the screen.

  “Good news. Emmy’s rescheduled the training drill, so I can take the day off. What do you want to do? Go out for lunch? Watch a movie?”

  “With you?”

  “That was the general idea.”

  “After everything I said last night, you want to spend time with me?”

  “Sure.”

  He felt sorry for me, didn’t he? That was why. Well, I didn’t need his pity.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be okay on my own.”

  His answer? He got up, walked over to the kitchen cupboard—my kitchen cupboard—pulled out a package of popcorn, and put it in the microwave.

  “Guess I’ll have to eat this on my own.”

  “What?”

  He dropped back onto the sofa and fished the remote out of its spot down the side of the cushion.

  “Can’t beat Netflix and chill for a day off.”

  “I don’t have Netflix.”

  “Yeah, you do. I installed it on your TV last night.”

  “So you plan to sit in my living room all day, eating popcorn and watching movies?”

  “Yup.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep the volume down if you want to sleep.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “There’s plenty of popcorn for two. Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  Dammit. Yes, it was my apartment, and I could have pushed him to leave—and I had no doubts he would have—but this was Malachi, so I couldn’t bring myself to kick him out. I liked him, okay? Perhaps even more than I liked popcorn.

  “Fine. But no horror movies. The last thing I want to see this week is a dismembered corpse.”

  “Deal. You can pick whatever you want.”

  CHAPTER 22 - MALACHI

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Mal’s back was still cricked from Friday’s movie marathon. Imogen had fallen asleep on him—literally on him, since she’d keeled over and landed in his lap—and he hadn’t moved a muscle through the whole of the third Bridget Jones movie. They’d watched the first two already, then Imogen had woken up and insisted on watching the one she’d slept through again from the beginning, and Mal didn’t even care because he liked having her close. Thank goodness she’d put on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants or he’d have been in trouble.

  But now she meandered into the blessedly silent kitchen in another one of those tiny nighties, and he stifled a groan.

  “Do you always wear those things at night?”

  “I like them. They remind me of the old black-and-white movies Stef’s always watching. Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. Just curious. Here, I made coffee.”

  Not the instant she usually drank. Mal had unearthed a French press from the back of a cupboard and made filter coffee with the grounds he’d brought with him. Emmy was a bad influence—she insisted on having good coffee in the Blackwood offices at all times, and now Mal couldn’t stand anything else.

  He’d jogged to the café along the street and picked up danishes too. Cinnamon for him, plus one apricot and a chocolate chip for Imogen. Her sweet tooth hadn’t escaped his notice. It was probably why she had her heart set on dating a fucking pastry chef. Mal could cook the basics, but he’d never be able to master the twiddly desserts.

  “It’s a shame you’re not looking for a place to live,” she said. “I could use a new roommate.”

  Mal was tempted. He was actually tempted. The rent would be nothing—Blackwood paid him very well—but he couldn’t stand the thought of watching her gallivanting around with Monsieur Francais.

  “You’ll find someone, babe. Who wouldn’t want to live with you?”

  “I always seem to attract the weirdos, and it’s a bonus if they actually pay the rent.”

  “Let me know when you have a candidate, and I’ll get
the background check done through Blackwood.”

  “Really?”

  Her face lit up. Imogen was easily pleased by the small things, and he hated that something so mundane as a background check could be the highlight of her day.

  “No problem. Are you working today?”

  “Just this morning. You?”

  “I have a meeting this morning, and I need to fit in a quick gym session this afternoon. Other than that, I’m all yours.”

  “Which gym do you use?”

  “Blackwood’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “I probably should start going to the gym. I thought that last week, but then Drew happened, and I cancelled the membership I never used anyway.”

  “Blackwood’s headquarters is a trek if you don’t drive, but the Richmond office has a small gym in the basement. I’ll get you a pass.”

  “They won’t mind?”

  “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise. Do you want to go today? Or do you have other plans?”

  Imogen’s lips scrunched to the side as if she was trying to make up her mind. “I was supposed to go out clubbing with some people I used to work with this evening, but I don’t really want to. No more pretending, right?”

  “No more pretending, Miss Thomas.”

  For a moment, she stiffened, and Mal saw the effort it took her to relax and smile. Baby steps.

  “Shall I meet you at Blackwood’s office? I know where it is.”

  “I’ll pick you up from the salon instead. About one o’clock?”

  “I think I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Well?” Emmy stopped in front of Mal, hands on hips, studying his face. “Dammit.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “Clearly. You’re smiling, but it’s not the smile of a man who got laid last night.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Then it dawned on him. “Are you running a pool on me and Imogen?”

  “Of course we are.”

  “Is that why you postponed yesterday’s training session?”

  “It might have been.”

  “You do realise we’re only pretending to date? She’s got her heart set on some fucker who cooks meringues for a living.”

  “Yeah, but that won’t work out. Beyond the cakes, there’s not an awful lot of substance to Jean-Luc.”

  “You think?”

  “I spoke to Oliver about him. The dude has a new woman every six weeks. It’s like he gets bored quickly. If you don’t man up and make a move before she finds out he’s just a dick with an oven, you’d better make sure you’re around to pick up the pieces.”

  Shit. Tomorrow was the big day, their “date” to the cooking contest. And while Mal would definitely be around to pick up the pieces if it came to that, he didn’t want Imogen to get her heart broken again. She’d been through enough already.

  That meant he’d have to say something tonight. But where did he start?

  “Earth to Mal. Meeting’s starting in ten. D’ya want coffee?”

  “Yeah, and I also want to talk to you. I need to find a guy.”

  “A guy? What guy?”

  “His name’s Kyle Thomas. Ten years ago, he raped a woman in Cleveland and skipped town before he could be charged.”

  Emmy sucked in a deep breath. “Does this have something to do with Imogen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck. I always thought there was a hint of sadness under all those smiles, but I hoped I was wrong.”

  “She’s tough.”

  “Yeah, she is. We’ll find Kyle Thomas. Give Mack everything you know, and we’ll start looking. Oh, I do have one small piece of good news—we tracked down the pig Imogen met in the gym.”

  That was good news. “Where does he live? I’ll have a word.”

  “No need. Me and Fia already paid him a visit.”

  Oh, fuck. “What did you do to him?”

  Emmy patted Mal on the arm and flashed him a worryingly chipper grin.

  “You probably don’t want to know.”

  Imogen was chatting to a brunette—a client by the look of her fancy manicure—when Malachi arrived at Nailed It. He took a seat on the grey leather sofa by the door to wait, but he couldn’t help overhearing some of their conversation.

  “Aw, it’s a shame you don’t feel like coming out tonight, but we’re probably gonna go to a restaurant for Becky’s birthday instead of the club.”

  “Really? But she loves clubbing.”

  “We all do, but some of the boys don’t want to go. A guy my brother knows from the gym went out drinking last night, met a girl, and woke up in bed this morning with a sheep tattooed on his forehead. He’s got no idea how it got there, and the others are a bit wary of it happening to them.”

  “How can somebody not remember getting tattooed?”

  The brunette shrugged. “No idea, but that’s what I heard. Can you book me in for three weeks’ time? I need infills, and I’m thinking of some of those little diamonds.”

  “Sure. Saturday again?”

  A tattoo? Mal only knew two women crazy enough to pull that stunt, and if it was true, he owed both of them a drink.

  He fired off a message to Emmy.

  Mal: A sheep? Really?

  Emmy: It was supposed to be a pig, but Sofia jogged my arm and it went a bit wonky.

  She sent a picture too, and it looked like the result of a genetic experiment gone wrong. Was that a fifth leg or an oversized penis?

  Mal: You need to work on your drawing skills.

  Emmy: Bite me.

  He could only chuckle as Imogen picked up her purse. Emmy might be notoriously headstrong and difficult to work with at times, but she always had her people’s backs. And with Drew’s payback ticked off the list, Mal had a more pressing problem at hand—how to convince Imogen to buy American.

  In the gym, he kept getting distracted—partly by people stopping to talk because he rarely visited the Richmond office, but mostly because Imogen wore an outfit that showed every fucking curve, and she had a lot of those. It didn’t escape his notice how many of the other men stared at her too, and he had to attack the weight pile so he didn’t knock somebody’s teeth out.

  He’d speak to her after dinner. On the way back to her place, they stopped at Claude’s Patisserie and picked up gâteau opéra for dessert, because surely that had to be a point in his favour, and he’d already bought the ingredients for ravioli with buttered lemon greens. Okay, so he’d cheated and got the ravioli from the Italian deli, and the dish wasn’t as fancy as anything the damn chef would come up with, but it was simple enough that Mal wouldn’t screw it up when he got distracted by Imogen’s ass.

  And she seemed to appreciate his efforts. She liked to eat well rather than picking at her food, and that was yet another thing Mal loved about her. Loved? Really? Fuck, it was heading that way.

  He watched her wine consumption carefully, waiting for that optimum moment where her guard was lowered but she wasn’t drunk. Another half-glass, he estimated, pouring smoothly.

  “Where did you learn to cook like that?” she asked.

  Prison. He’d taken basic cookery classes because it was better than sitting in his cell. But he didn’t want to rehash the past tonight, even though Imogen had been more understanding about his than he’d ever dared to hope a woman would be.

  “Cooking Channel. I burned everything at first.”

  “I wish I could cook better. Jean-Luc keeps saying he’ll teach me, but he’s always busy.”

  “I’ll cook with you if you want.”

  “You will?”

  Fuck, he loved it when she smiled like that.

  “Yeah, and when we mess up, I’ll order us a takeout.”

  Imogen reached across the table and squeezed his hand, an action he felt in his heart too. Still a quarter of a glass of wine to go…

  “Thank you for being here. And for everything else. If I was on my own tonight, I’d probably lose my mind.
”

  “I’ll always be here for you. I’m only ever a phone call away.” And hopefully, most of the time, a hell of a lot closer. “Ready for dessert?”

  “Am I ever. I’ve been looking forward to that all evening.”

  Dessert and wine. Now was the time. Except no sooner had Imogen taken the last mouthful of cake than her phone rang. Then rang again. And again. “Habanera” from Carmen—Mal recognised the song. He’d briefly dallied with an opera singer during a six-week work trip to Paris a couple of years back, and she’d attempted to educate him in French culture, which had been cool apart from her disconcerting habit of bursting into song in the bedroom.

  Imogen gave an apologetic grimace. “I’d better get that. It’s Jean-Luc.”

  The asshole had his own damn ring tone?

  “Sure. I’ll clear up.”

  She retreated to her room, and before she closed the door, Mal heard her talking softly to the competition. And she didn’t reappear.

  Mal could hardly burst into her bedroom, could he? Acting like a caveman would hardly endear him to a fragile woman he’d sworn to protect. No, he had to retreat to bed alone and lick his wounds instead, hoping for a miracle in the morning.

  CHAPTER 23 - IMOGEN

  OH, HELL! I’D fallen asleep.

  After I’d got off the phone with Jean-Luc, I’d only meant to sit for a few minutes. I’d intended to reply to messages from Stef and Roxy and let my overheated libido cool down, but instead I woke at three in the morning with a stiff neck and a horrible feeling of guilt. When I crept into the kitchen, I found Malachi had put everything away and done the dishes, and his bedroom door was firmly closed.

  Imogen, you dumbass. I hadn’t even wanted to speak to Jean-Luc, but I’d needed to get out of Malachi’s way before I lost my mind and kissed him. Or crawled into his lap. Or reached for his damn zipper. And Jean-Luc had only called to say his cooking slot had been moved half an hour earlier to eleven thirty. Why he hadn’t just sent a text message, I had no idea.

  In all honesty, the prospect of going to La Parade Des Chefs didn’t appeal in the slightest anymore. I preferred eating the food to watching it being cooked, and the thought of spending another day near Marelaine filled me with dread.