Beneath Her Skin

by Beth Mikell

  Grabbing her badge, she strode out of her apartment, and made her way to the elevator.

  She headed to her office, locating the missing file. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it had been a long time since lunch. She would definitely find something to eat when she went back upstairs.

  She heard a crash.

  Brooke stilled.

  Her heart raced as she waited, peering over her shoulder. The sound came from Damon’s office. Then she heard a thud followed by the sound of breaking glass. Crossing over to the connecting door, she flung the file down on her desk, not breaking stride. Without knocking, she opened the door.

  A gasp caught in her throat.

  She found the object of her obsession face down on the floor, and his glass coffee table smashed to bits. Shards surrounded him in a pool of fragments. “Damon!”

  Brooke immediately went to him, the sound of glass crunching under her feet. She kneeled down beside him. The first thing to assault her nose was the heavy smell of alcohol.

  Seriously?

  She pushed to roll him over, though not an easy feat. He was solid muscle and twice her size.

  His eyelids fluttered open and he groaned. “Go away, Olivia,” he mumbled, trying to bat at her, but only succeeded in flailing his hand in the air until it fell on his stomach. “You can’t haunt me.”

  His words were strange.

  Brooke noticed he called her by another name too, yet she grunted, leaning forward to pick off a few shards of glass from his face. Maybe he was hallucinating from all his alcohol consumption. She noted he had a few scratches, but nothing significant.

  “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs,” she said, slipping her hand under his neck, hoping to get him into a sitting position. Luckily, he helped her as she yanked him forward.

  Damon emitted a low, guttural sound, hanging his head. “Call… Shem,” he heaved. “Don’t… want… you to… see me… like this.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” she said gently. “Can you get to your feet?”

  He groaned an affirmative sound, shuffling to stand. He swayed hard, as if he would fall. His arm went around her shoulder, leaning heavily.

  “Why are you here? Have you come to punish me?” he slurred.

  Brooke frowned, trying to ignore his strange words. “Shh. Let’s go.” She suffered under his weight, but managed to maneuver him out of his office and toward the elevator.

  He leaned against the wall as they waited, his gaze meeting hers. His sea beauty eyes were bloodshot and glassy. “Why did you leave me, Olivia?” She shook her head, not understanding him. Her hand slipped up, cupping his cheek. “Damon. It’s Brooke. I’m not going anywhere,” she promised.

  Who was Olivia? His wife maybe?

  His expression did not change. If anything, he grew sadder, and a hard sigh escaped his lips as unshed tears sparkled in his eyes.

  “We were supposed to grow old together,” he whispered, his voice grating low.

  The hoarseness of his sound was so raw and harsh, Brooke barely heard him. The alcohol had to be affecting his mind. That was the only explanation for his words and delirium. The elevator dinged and she helped him, pushing the button for her floor.

  “Brooke,” Damon said in a hushed tone.

  She leaned closer. “I’m here.”

  He took several breaths and shook his head. His gaze focused on her a moment before he closed his eyes. “I’m… so sorry for everything. I should have told you…” He trailed off, sagging down, but she caught him.

  “What?” Her brows drew together, but he did not say more.

  Again, she had no clue what he was talking about, though it did not matter. The elevator dinged open on her floor and she helped him out. He leaned against her, his weight too much. She barely got the door open when he collapsed on the tiled entryway. Behind her, the sound of footsteps drew her attention and she found a security guard striding toward her.

  “Ms. Stone? Is there a problem? Do you need assistance?”

  He was a robust fellow, wearing an official black S-Tec security uniform with a gun holstered at his waist. His nametag read Rodney.

  She flashed a weak smile. “I know this looks bad,” she began, looking down at Damon passed out on the floor. “I-I found Mr. Sinclair in his office and I wanted to help him.” A flush crept up her face.

  Rodney gave an understanding nod. “No worries. It happens from time to time,” he said, taking a step closer. “Let me help you get him settled.” He bent down, grasping Damon easily and slung him over his shoulder firefighter style. He gave her a raised eyebrow. “Where to?”

  “Follow me,” she said, turning to lead him toward the bedroom. She flipped on the light, but dimmed the illumination as Rodney settled Damon on the bed. As he turned, he gave her a soft smile, and then made to leave.

  She fell in step beside him. “Does… this happen often?” She hesitated to ask, but maybe he knew something.

  The security guard stopped at the front door. “Once or twice a year, usually.” He shrugged. “Mr. Sinclair is a private man, but I know he tends to drink a bit on his wedding anniversary.”

  Clarity dawned on her face. “So, it’s today?”

  Rodney nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He tipped his forehead with two fingers. “I’ll let Shem know Mr. Sinclair will settle here for the evening. Have a good night, miss.”

  Brooke shut the door slowly, leaning against the wood. God, no wonder Damon drank himself into a stupor and rambled out of his mind. He was grieving for his wife. Olivia.

  Making her way to her bedroom, she paused in the doorway. The dim light bathed Damon in a soft glow, touching his dark handsomeness. She walked closer, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his leg. He didn’t move.

  She shucked off his shoes, stowing them on the floor beside the bed. She grabbed the extra blanket, covering him. He never stirred as she sat beside him. His long, dark lashes lay against his cheek, his breathing steady.

  She caressed his face with the back of her hand. He was carved out of beauty—the kind that made her breath lodge in her throat. His dark hair lay against his brow, and her hand caressed through the strands. So soft. So luxurious. Her fingers traveled over his brow, smoothing both eyebrows until sleeking down his cheek to his lips. Such tender softness. This mouth gave her pleasure or commanded her safety. He made her care for him so easily, yet he was still hung up on his deceased wife.

  His actions tonight proved that.

  Her heart drummed in her chest, filling up on emotions she never thought to feel for a man. It was as if, he was the gravity that held her to the earth and she needed him. Wanted him. Ached for him in every way a woman could desire a man.

  “Please don’t fall apart on me, Damon,” she whispered. “I need you.” She moved closer and laid her head on his chest. His heartbeat pulsed under her cheek and she counted the beats, wishing he wasn’t drunk and comatose.

  Since the day she met him, he had been the strong one—the one to shoulder the drama and excitement drowning her. On one hot air balloon ride, he showed his vulnerability and opened his life to her. She wanted a chance for more. More with him. Damon had calmed the madness and steadied her fears, and her heart was more in danger than any death threat.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you,” she breathed, the tone of her voice so low she wasn’t sure if she actually said the words aloud.

  Damon shifted, his hand diving into her hair, anchoring her closer. The pressure on her neck was barely there, but she treasured his touch.

  “I love you, too,” he said gently.

  Gasping, her breath pinched in her chest. Brooke moved slowly, her eyes caressing over the turn of his face. There was no mistaking his reply, but maybe that was the alcohol speaking. Maybe he was imagining his wife. Still, his words bloomed in her heart. Her pulse picked up, swishing her blood faster through her veins. A hot quiver laced through all her nerve endings, making her tingle. She was tightly drawn and expectant.
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  “Come lay with me,” he rasped, his eyes still closed. “Let me feel you beside me, Brooke. I need to know there is one purity left in my life.” He paused. “One sin I don’t have to pay for.”

  Though she was not sure what he meant, she didn’t care. With a small whimper in her throat, she lay beside him, curling up against him. His body heat soaked into her skin and she willed herself to be calm, to enjoy the preciousness of his nearness. For one night, Damon Sinclair was hers and the terrifying world around her faded away.

  ****

  The most fantastic dream ensconced Brooke with hedonistic bliss. Damon’s mouth was everywhere. His flesh was against hers, and his hands whispered over her skin. His words were powerful, drawing the right responses from her until she shook nonstop with a rush of carnal pleasure. Her body ached in all the right ways. She wanted more, so much more.

  Distantly, she heard him call her name, his voice penetrating the layers of her mind.

  He sounded upset. Rushed.

  Detecting his urgency, her eyes blinked open.

  Worried concern rode his expression, his eyes narrowed. “Baby, I’m sorry to wake up like this,” he said, brushing his hand over her hair. “I need for you to get up and come with me—now.”

  She jolted upright, a bucket of fear washing over her. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it Harry?”

  Damon shook his head, his eyes blazed truthful. “No, he’s fine. It’s your friend Jennifer. She’s been hurt. We need to get the Bel-Air Hospital.”

  Chapter 10

  Nausea burned through Brooke’s stomach at the news of her friend. Dizziness swam over her eyes. A hard chill settled over her skin, and she shook until her teeth chattered. The force tightened her so fierce, she nearly collapsed twice as she moved off the bed and wavered on her feet, if Damon had not helped her.

  He pulled her up against him. “When was the last time you ate?” he questioned, the edge of his voice gruff, and his eyes so hard he appeared angry.

  There wasn’t time for this. No time for a battle. Her expression closed up, raising her chin. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, looking away, feeling foolish. He didn’t need to know that she hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. She didn’t want him to know how she took care of him, instead of taking care of herself.

  Damon grasped her around the back of the neck, forcing her to meet his gaze. “It matters to me.”

  His hand moved tenderly against her flesh, inciting a tremor to tingle down her spine.

  “Have you any idea what you mean to me?” he rasped, his eyes full of emotion and tenderness.

  Tears sparkled in her eyes from the fear of what happened to her friend. She didn’t know exactly. The last thing she wanted to do was waste time when she needed to get to the hospital.

  Brooke pushed out of his arms. “I can’t do this now,” she said, heading for the bathroom.

  Without a word, she slammed the door, fighting herself every step. Damon had done nothing wrong, only showing concern for her well-being, and she acted like a spoiled brat. Shame burned over her. Since when did she act like a high-strung diva? She was stronger than this. Raised better too. Uncle Duck and Harry didn’t raise her to be a drama queen.

  After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she took a deep breath and opened the door. Damon leaned against the bed with his head cast downward. He met her gaze as soon as she appeared. He was the strength she needed, a complete opposite of how he had looked last night after drowning his sorrows. Long gone were his glassy, over bright eyes and weakness, or his offhanded ramblings.

  He had showered with his hair a bit damp. His clothes were fresh and crisp. He stood handsome and regal, nearly oozing a savage kind of suaveness she loved about him.

  Feeling foolish, she rushed to him, throwing herself in his arms. Thank Heaven, his arms banded around her, holding her tight. No, he crushed her against the hard wall of his chest. She filled up on him, her feelings for him deepening.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have acted like that.” She squeezed him tighter.

  “Never apologize for worrying about someone you love,” he said, gently, pulling back enough to peer into her face. Concern clouded his features. “I wear the same hat every day, baby.” He caressed her cheek, his expression darkening. “And I can tell you right now, it doesn’t get any easier.”

  As much as she wanted to believe he meant he loved her in his lucid state, rather than last night’s alcohol haze, she chose to change the subject. “What happened to Jennifer?” she asked, happy he could see beyond her moments of craziness.

  “Kirk called me,” he said grimly. “He said she was found badly beaten at a movie theater.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Brooke said with a gasp, and another pound of heartache trembled through her chest. Stepping back, she hugged her arms around herself, frowning. “Wait…?” She rubbed her arms, feeling a strangeness settle over her. “Jennifer called me yesterday and said she had a date.”

  A line appeared between his brows. “Did she give his name?”

  She shook her head. “No, she said they just met, but they were going to the movies, then to have coffee afterwards—keep things public.” Turning fast, she headed out of the bedroom. “Let me look at my phone,” she said over her shoulder. “Jennifer said she’d tell me how things went.” She located her phone, but there were no messages from her friend.

  Damon appeared behind her, stowing his phone in his jeans pocket. “That was my pilot. We need to go. My helicopter is waiting on the roof.”

  There was no hesitation in her reply, “I’m ready.”

  ****

  Tears trailed down Brooke’s face as soon as she found Marla and Dean West in the waiting room at Bel-Air Hospital. Jennifer’s mother appeared worse for wear with her red hair pulled up in a messy twist, her face tightly pinched. She engulfed Brooke in a tight hug.

  “She’s going to be okay,” Marla whispered, pulling back and smoothed away Brooke’s tears. “Jennifer has a black eye and a few broken ribs, but she’ll be fine.”

  Dean came to stand beside his wife, his face grim. “The doctors assured us she’ll make a full recovery in a few weeks, baby girl.”

  Brooke gave him a quick hug, nodding and wiped away her remaining tears. She loved Marla and Dean. They always treated her as one of their own. She felt Damon move in close, his hand resting at the small of her back. She was grateful for his quiet presence. “Jennifer said she had a date. Maybe he...” she trailed off.

  Marla shook her head, pointing toward another man who sat across the waiting room. His head was bent as he held an ice pack to the back of his head. He had black, spiky hair and glasses.

  “That would be Carson. He was hit from behind first. Unfortunately, he didn’t see anything. The police are speaking with Jennifer now, so it will be a few minutes before we can see her.” She attempted a smile, but her lower lip trembled, her hands linking with Brooke’s. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  She heard Damon take a call and she glanced his way. As his brows snapped together, worry filled her. He held up a hand and strode away. There was too much suffering. She hoped he wasn’t receiving another report of more to come.

  ****

  “Kirk, if you tell me more bad news…” Damon warned, rubbing the back of his neck as he paced a few feet away from Brooke and Jennifer’s parents.

  “Sorry, boss. I just got a hit off that cell phone that Ms. Stone found at her place of business.”

  “And?”

  The security guy sighed. “The text read ‘You’re next.’ I’m guessing this in response to Ms. West’s situation? Or that’s what I figured, since Ms. West and Ms. Stone are friends. I wanted to let you know ASAP!”

  Damn. “Did you trace it?” Damon asked, pinching the bridge of his nose where a tension headache gathered.

  “Yep. Same as before,” Kirk said. “Nothing on the other end, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

  As his call ended, Brooke walked
up, caressing a hand over his shoulder. He wanted to gather her into his arms. The fear of losing her to some unknown psychopath wore on his last nerve.

  He stowed his phone. “That was Kirk. There was a text message on the burner phone you found,” he said in a low tone.

  Her eyebrow rose. “What did it say?”

  Anger glowed in his eyes. “You’re next.” She gasped and his hands descended on her shoulders. “I won’t let them get to you,” he vowed solemnly.

  Brooke took a step back, and her chin lifted in the air. “Look what they’ve done so far. We’re no closer to discovering who is doing this. Just empty threats and attacks on the people closest to me. Who will be next? You? Me? I think it’s only a matter of time before I’m dead.”

  A tearing anger mixed with frustration thrummed through him. “Don’t say that. There has to be a way to figure this out.”

  She snorted. “When? These douche bags seem eager to draw me out. I’m about ready to give them what they want.”

  “Brooke—”

  She gave a short laugh, holding up a hand. “No, listen. Even with all your high tech gadgets, we are no closer to finding the person terrorizing my friends and family. What will it take to draw them out? Me—alone—on a deserted road? Sign me up because I’m ready to get this over with.”

  He stiffened, his eyes boring hard into her. “You’re upset.”

  “Upset? I blew over upset the day whoever did this vandalized my apartment. They’ve managed to take away my freedom and they’ve lashed out at Harry and Jennifer. Maybe I need to be the bait that draws this to a close.”

  Damon sneered a tight smile. “I’ll never let you do that.”

  “Oh? And how will you stop me?”

  Threading a hand through his dark hair, Damon released a slow breath. He prayed for patience, otherwise, he was afraid he would scoop Brooke up in his arms and kidnap her to keep her safe. He was three seconds away from doing just that.

  “You promised me that you wouldn’t take any chances,” he said, going for a calm tone. “Now, you’re saying you’d like to draw these guys out. There’s no way in hell I’ll agree to that.” He lost his edge of composure, and his anger blazed.