‘Jayda, you need to get up.’
Her trance-induced body shook as large sobs wrenched out from her throat. He stepped into the cubicle. Seizing her under both arms, he turned her to face the jets, allowing the cool water to wash over her reddened skin. At first she resisted, almost toppling them both to the floor, but he held her firm and she soon stopped fighting, slumping forward in his arms as if she had just lost the will.
The water seeped into his shoes and through his clothes. His skin chilled as Jayda shivered against him. And still he held her.
They remained beneath the spray for what his watch told him was over ten minutes. By then her teeth were chattering, and his were close to doing the same. He supported her with one arm as he switched off the taps and grabbed a large blue towel from the rail. Patting her skin dry, he noted that the red from the hot water had faded.
He left her wrapped in the towel and shucked his shoes and socks, peeling out of his trousers and shirt before finding another towel to dry himself as best he could.
Jayda stood frozen where he left her, shoulders slumped, eyes staring sightlessly at her feet. Grasping her shoulders, he walked her to the bed; a mere shell of the woman he’d seduced only hours earlier.
Cotton PJs were folded beside her pillow. Much like one would dress a young child, he prompted her movements to slip them on, the unwavering emptiness in her eyes chilling him more than the residual cold from the shower.
Without a word, she curled onto the bed and allowed him to cover her before turning away, wrapping the blankets tightly around her shoulders and back. The message was unequivocal, but he wasn’t one for taking hints if they didn’t fit.
Her shoulder flinched as he touched it, but he didn’t remove his hand. ‘I’ll be in the living room if you need me.’
Eyes crammed shut, she gave no answer. Not that he’d expected one.
‘If you want anything, let me know.’ Only then did he go.
Wet towel and clothes in hand, he made for the laundry once more. The first wash was done, so he chucked the towels into the drier and turned it on. Stepping out of his jocks, he tossed them and his clothes inside, setting the machine to wash again.
A blue towelling robe hung on a drying rack and he thankfully pulled it on. It was a fraction tight, and short, but did the job. Just as well Jayda preferred her dressing gowns loose.
Knotting the belt, he headed for the kitchen. He needed coffee.
The only thing resembling caffeine in her pantry was a small bottle of instant that appeared to have survived the dark ages.
On impulse, he checked the fridge. Jackpot! If only he could figure out how to work the stainless steel contraption on the bench. Google took care of that.
It wasn’t until he was leaning back into a well-worn armchair, a steaming cup of Nigerian blend in his hand, that he questioned what he was doing. He knocked back a strong, hot mouthful and locked his jaw before giving himself an uncategorical answer—he was getting his story.
They both sought the Night Terror. For different reasons, but that made no matter. Pooling their information and insights promised a better chance of success than going the case alone.
It was a match of perfection. A definitive win-win.
He’d watched the face-off between Jayda and her boss. Eyes ablaze, body steeled in determination, she’d surrendered her gun but not her resolve. Grit that made her the perfect partner for his plan.
Jayda wouldn’t rest until the Night Terror was behind bars. And he wanted in.
12
An odour much like burning hair filled the closet-like room. It wafted through the tiny space, mingling with the residual traces of acetone.
Two final strokes of the round file and he grinned. Even under a magnifying glass no sign of flesh remained. He blew at the dust and inspected his handiwork before discarding the tool on a velvet cloth and selecting another. The abrasive rasp of nail file against keratin was like a lyrebird’s song to his ears. Better than, in fact, because it wasn’t sickly sweet and filled with promises that were never realised.
Although there was no other sound, it was far from silent. Never was there a moment when the old man’s voice didn’t burrow into his brain. He should have been accustomed to the bastard’s scowl, his never-ending censure and distrust. After all, he’d endured it for twenty-five long years, waiting to procure his legacy, secure in the knowledge that one day he’d snuff it, and everything about the old prick, out.
He squinted, holding the work up, turning it this way and that to get a feel for the grain, its contours. How to best lend justice to its true form.
With practised movements he rotated the fingernail, crafting a perfect droplet in minutes. Replacing the specialty glass file with a buffer, he smoothed the edges before creating the flawless shine across its surface that would provide a base for the next step. His genius.
He didn’t even try to suppress the satisfaction which made his lips tighten and split with glee. He may have broken with protocol for this one, but her pain had been just as sweet. More, if he was truthful. The grief in the bitch’s green eyes provided ample compensation for the wrath he’d endured from the old man. He wasn’t pleased. Well, whoop-de-fuckin’-do. Get used to living with disappointment, Dad.
His lips twisted at the word.
A dollop of putty secured the fingernail onto the stand. Adjusting the magnifying lamp, he swung it into place and stared at the blank canvas. His most recent purchase in hand—a soft brush made from the fur of a blue squirrel—he swept the surface of residual powder, then wiped it clean with a wad of damp cotton wool held in place with tweezers.
Turning in his seat, he unlocked the top drawer of the small desk, extracting an old wooden box and positioning it just so, to his right. His palm caressed the smooth oak before he unlatched and opened the lid. On the edge of a new palette he placed the small swatch of material, studying the colour before opening jars of yellow, white and red. The hue had to be precise. On this, he and the old man agreed.
One glance at the wall through the open door, at his legacy, before he dipped his brush into the acrylic and began to mix.
13
The mother of all pinball games was taking place in Jayda’s skull and she wanted out.
Scrunching her eyelids against the needles of daylight piercing her blinds, she jabbed at the pressure points on either side of her temple and prayed for peace. Prayed that when she opened her eyes, last night would be just another nightmare and Bec wouldn’t be lying on a slab right now in Teddy’s refrigeration room.
Something clattered beyond her door. She sniffed, opened her eyes. Freshly brewed coffee. The smell of home. Only this wasn’t her childhood bedroom. It was an apartment where she lived alone. And someone was tinkering about in her kitchen making coffee and . . . and bacon.
She buried her face in her pillow, but not before the first tear of the morning fell. Her nightmare had pitched into day and nothing had changed.
The boulder in her chest expanded as she choked back tears she’d believed were spent. Fists pounding the mattress, she beat them off again then rolled onto her back, gulping stinging mouthfuls of air into her lungs. No time for grief now, self-serving or otherwise.
She hauled herself out of bed, erasing all but the promise of retribution from her mind. Fresh underwear on, she rummaged through her wardrobe, pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a tee before heading for the bathroom. Her head pounded, but she had no time for headaches either.
Suck it up and push on, Thomasz.
Ignoring the mirror, she brushed her teeth and washed the crust of old tears from her face before tugging a comb through the knots in her hair.
Then she turned to face the day.
She focused on breathing—in, out, in, out—and the cold press of the doorknob against her palm as she opened the door. She fixed on the pale walls, the play of light through the blinds and the spring of cream carpet between her toes.
Her stomach rumbled. Tantalising aromas filled her nost
rils, reminding her it had been an age since her last meal. One that hadn’t counted for much considering that it wound up splattered all over her bathroom floor. Weird, considering the last time she’d chucked was as a kid with a tummy bug. Since then, her gut had been widely branded as iron-clad. Like her father’s.
At the kitchen door, she hesitated. Her hand gripped the doorframe, then she inhaled, bowled in, and . . . stopped. Stared. Dressed in her old towelling robe, Seth looked . . .
She gulped, dragged her eyes away. ‘I see you’ve made yourself at home.’
He looked up and the strength of that gaze dragged her eyes right back to his. ‘Ahh, you’re awake.’
‘And you’re still here.’
Staccato heartbeat filling her ears, she moved towards the breakfast bar and grabbed her mobile. One message from her father. She dropped it back down. Not without fortification.
‘Glad we’ve managed to get the obvious out of the way. Although here’s one more—I made you breakfast.’ He slid a tray with coffee and heaped eggs, bacon and mushrooms across the bench. Her mouth watered at the sight, but her stomach baulked. She couldn’t.
She reached for the hot drink and noticed the bottle of instant next to the kettle. ‘Please tell me you didn’t use that.’
He unscrewed the lid and tipped the bottle upside-down. ‘Not without a chainsaw.’
‘Where’d it even come from?’
‘Your pantry.’
‘Really?’
‘Mmm. I’d say it’s been there for years.’
She held out her hand and he passed it over.
No doubt it was from before her time. The previous owners’. Or her dad’s. The whirlpool in her stomach churned. She tossed the bottle into her uncharacteristically empty bin. Seth had cleared her rubbish?
He waved his hand at the food. ‘Eat.’
Grabbing the steaming mug, she sipped, ignoring the burn on her tongue as she turned away from crispy bacon and perfectly fluffy eggs. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Her tummy rumbled and Seth grinned. ‘Better tell that to your stomach.’
He slid the tray towards her and the tears she’d fought so hard to tame welled up against her eyelids. Shaking her head, she blinked. ‘I–I can’t. It’s Bec’s favourite.’
His smile dissolved and he moved the plate to the sink. He didn’t offer any empty reassurances and for that she was grateful. His expression softened along with his voice as he scraped the food into the trash. ‘How does toast sound?’
‘If it’s with peanut butter, great. But I can make it.’
‘So can I. Take a seat and drink your coffee.’ He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, looking way too comfortable in her kitchen. And her robe.
Climbing back onto a barstool, she waved her hand in his direction. ‘That’s a good look on you.’
He cocked an eyebrow, deftly catching the toast that shot out from an element permanently set to eject. Evidence it hadn’t taken him long to cotton onto the quirkiness of her appliance.
‘My clothes should be dry by now.’
The boulder returned along with memories from the night before. She gripped the mug to her chest, trying to breathe through the tightness. ‘I . . . I want to thank you for last night.’
‘No need.’ He dropped the toast onto a clean plate and applied a generous coating of butter before moving towards her pride and joy walk-in pantry.
‘If you hadn’t been here . . .’
He stopped and turned. ‘It’s okay, Jayda. I was and you’re fine. I’m sure you’d have done the same.’
The flippant way he discounted his actions made them sound so ordinary, when in fact they were anything but. Few men would clean up puke from a girl they hadn’t even slept with, let alone stand under an ice-cold shower with her. Not without ulterior motives.
Her lips trembled. ‘I just wish . . .’
‘Me, too.’
‘Bec deserved better.’
He strode forwards, and she leaned into him, basking in the simple comfort as he wrapped his arms around her. Somehow it felt right.
‘They all deserved better. Which is why we won’t stop until we find the sonofabitch.’
Her head jerked back. ‘We?’
‘Let’s get to that bit later. First I need an answer to an all-important question.’ He brushed the hair back from her eyes and she shivered. ‘Smooth or crunchy?’
It took a moment for his train of thought to hit hers. She pulled back and almost managed a smile. ‘Nothing but smooth in this house. It’s the only kind.’
‘No way! Peanut butter should never be smooth. Peanuts are crunchy.’
‘Butter is smooth.’
‘We might have to agree to disagree.’ He grabbed the tub from her pantry, holding it up with mock distaste. ‘The old peanut butter conundrum. Up there as one of the big relationship clinchers of the twenty-first century. So, tell me, Jayda, are you a Star Wars girl or a Trekkie?’
‘Star Wars, of course.’
‘And I’m a Trekkie. If people didn’t know better, they’d say we were incompatible.’
Silence.
In an attempt to chase the sadness from her eyes, he’d landed right in the middle of that ‘no-go’ zone. Big mistake. A hint of the R word when they’d barely scaled the one-night-stand scenario. None of which mattered, given the scale of the events that had followed.
Today wasn’t last night. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe they could go back to that moment before the world had splattered Jayda’s heart like a bug on a windscreen. Detours aside, there were other agendas to keep. Sex wasn’t one of them.
He passed her the tub. ‘Just as well we don’t have to worry about that, right?’ His brain gave a mental eye-roll. Writing was his life, yet he couldn’t string more than two words together with this woman.
Pathetic excuse for a save, man.
Her weak smile as she took the jar from his hands said she agreed.
Perched on the edge of her stool, all her energy was absorbed in smearing half of the tub onto her now cold toast. ‘I appreciate you waiting to see that I’m okay.’ She glanced up at him briefly before returning to her task. ‘I am. You don’t need to stay.’ Then, with a grand sweep of knife, peanut butter and hand, she added, ‘I hereby release you from your babysitting duties.’
She dropped the knife into the sink and stared blankly at the toast on her plate. Her hand wavered. Then she picked up a crumb and pushed it past her lips.
‘Starving yourself won’t help your sister, you know.’
Her head jerked back, eyes glistening. Grabbing the toast, she brought it to her mouth and sunk her teeth into the corner, gnawing at it like it was cardboard.
‘Who said I’m starving myself?’ The words were muffled, and as if to prove him wrong, she took another bite.
The second hunger overtook guilt, her eyes widened. Not quite enjoyment, but rather some relative of it, filled their depths.
She reached for her mobile, avoiding his gaze, still munching. ‘Time’s a-ticking and I’ve a mountain of stuff to do today.’ Blinking her over-moist eyes, she polished off the first piece of toast and reached for her second. ‘And I’m sure you must have somewhere else you need to be. Like work, for instance.’
This was not where he’d been leading the conversation. Or the situation. Her shoulders were squared, her expression identical to the one she’d worn when she relinquished her gun. He was being dismissed.
He’d hoped for an easier course, but it seemed the opportunity was long gone. That didn’t mean this was over. Instead, he’d just have to wing it.
‘Let’s clear up a couple of things before we continue.’ Elbows on the bench, he leaned in to capture her full attention, waiting until he had it. When her head lifted and her gaze met his, only then did he continue. ‘I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to. And, just for the record, I don’t plan on going anywhere in a hurry.’
Her eyes widened, and he couldn’t read whether
it was in fear or surprise. No matter. He’d just tethered the rope to her attention, now it was time to tug.
‘I have a proposition for you.’
Jayda’s heart lolloped in her chest as a thousand different connotations to Seth’s words scrambled through her mind.
And this wasn’t the time for pretty much any of them.
‘What exactly do you think is about to happen here?’ She shook her head and realisation clicked. Blow-by-blow, a replay of the past twenty-four hours strobed through her brain, and with every flash the pressure built.
Here he stood in her kitchen, looking like he’d been caught in a pile of cookie crumbs, an empty jar in his hands—a look of guilt, if she’d ever seen one.
‘You’ve got to be frigging kidding me!’ Her voice shook, each word a bitter sting against her tongue. ‘This is, what? Give me a stroke of TLC and then I return the favour?’
She stormed past him into the laundry. Dragging his jeans and shirt out of her dryer, she turned to find him standing in the doorway.
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t need empty excuses or deflections. She thrust her palm into his face. ‘What happened last night was nice, but don’t kid yourself it’ll happen again. I’ve just lost my sister, for god’s sake! Sex is the absolute last thing on my to-do list today, or anytime soon for that matter.’
She tossed his clothes at him and they fell unheeded to the floor. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed. No need for you to see me on your way out.’
As she pushed past, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She spun round and glared, her heart gunning like an AK-47.
He loosened his hold. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. What I’m offering here is a business proposition.’
‘Business, my ass!’ She yanked her hand from his grasp and stepped back, rubbing the brand of his touch from her wrist.
Seth raised his palms in defence. ‘Look, Jayda. You’re tired, you’re mourning and you’re pissed. I get that. I really do. Just do me a favour before you kick me out. Let me get dressed and then give me ten minutes of your time to explain myself.’ He bent to pick up his clothes. ‘And if you still want to kick me out after that, I won’t stop you. Just ten minutes, you owe me at least that.’
Lethal in Love Page 9