Before I know it, we’re outside and he’s lowering me into the car gently with a small smile. I don’t return it. I can’t. I just stare at him because I can hardly move, let alone manage an emotional response. He walks around the front of the car and I watch him pull off his jacket and shirt then grab another shirt from the back, having wiped his face on the bloodied one. It’s a comfortable movement, like he’s done it a thousand times before. His tattoo flashes at me under the streetlight and I suddenly realise he’s got something hiding in that brain of his that’s vicious, deadly even, certainly something more than I ever thought possible. As he gets in, I notice his knuckles again and briefly think about how much they probably hurt before the vision of the man’s face hits me again and I look across, hoping to clear the image. He stares back at me with no regret whatsoever.
“Is that who you’re hiding from me?” I ask. It’s more of a statement because I know the answer and clearly so does he because he just frowns a little and then starts the car. I have no energy left to fuel more conversation on the subject so I try to relax and gaze at the dashboard as he drives us out onto the road. His hand finds my fingers so I limply hold it and stare out of the window into the darkness as he makes two phone calls. One to Conner to let him know we’ve left and another one to an unknown voice. I switch off and close my eyes as I begin to drift into an alcohol-fuelled, numb sleep. The car purrs quietly beneath me and the low vibration lulls me down as I try to clear my mind of my day - one of the worst ones of my life and probably one of the most exhausting ones.
God, I’m tired.
Chapter 11
Elizabeth
I vaguely remember getting back here last night, just like I vaguely remember being put under a shower and then in this bed, but apart from that, I remember nothing. I think he watched me from the chair at some point because I remember waking up in the early hours and thinking he was sitting there gazing, but now I have no idea whether it was real or just a dream.
I roll over and see a glass of water and some painkillers. I feel the smile pulling at my face as I reach over quietly and grab the water. My head is already letting me know how much I drank last night and the idea of ridding myself of the ache before I get up is, frankly, awesome.
I glance at the clock on the table - seven. Okay, I‘ve got some time before I have to get myself to the shop. There’s only the party tonight to prepare for so I swallow the pills and sit up a bit. Clearly Alex isn’t here and I heave out a sigh as I begin to let myself think about last night. Having thought about the fact that I was very nearly raped for a few minutes, I decide that it isn’t worth thinking about because that is exactly the point - nearly raped, not raped, thank god.
My own emotionless response to the thought shocks me, but regardless, I am apparently more consumed with who the man downstairs actually is. It’s not that I’m not having a reaction to being assaulted; it’s just that watching Alex in full-on kill mode is more disturbing than the other thing that happened, or didn’t happen.
I lift my hand to my cheek and frown as I am reminded of the smack across the cheek that sent me barrelling across the room. Pushing against it gently, I am amazed to feel that it doesn’t hurt too much at all. Christ, I really did get away lightly with the whole situation. The thought makes me shudder. If Alex hadn’t have got there in time... Well he did, so I don’t need to think about it anymore. Where is he anyway?
Swinging my legs out, I head for the bathroom and try to work out how I feel about his behaviour in the cold light of day. My anger and confusion last night were clearly to do with the amount of alcohol consumed and the situation, because this morning, I can’t quite find the abhorrence that rolled across me last night. The feeling is now more like surprise or sheer astonishment. I mean, I knew he could fight. I remember him hitting that Draven guy in Rome but last night was lethal, absolute deadly brute force being aimed at another human being. He could have just hit him a few times and left it at that, but he seemed intent on killing him, which goes way past the normally allowed explosion of violence when put under pressure. It wasn’t defence of any kind. It was an unadulterated act of violent aggression, no holds barred, and more worryingly, it was as if he enjoyed every minute of it.
The way his frame moved around his vicious punches and kicks showed balance and precision in his ferocious delivery. It suddenly seemed even worse to me. It wasn’t a gung ho throw yourself at the maniac moment. No, he knew exactly what he was doing and he gave it everything. And then there was that changing clothes thing at the car. His face was completely relaxed as he wiped another man’s blood off it and put on another shirt. It seemed like he’d just left the gym or something equally mundane. Other people wouldn’t do that, would they? They’d be revolted by having someone’s blood on them, maybe even be sick or something.
What was that? Where the hell did he learn that level of ferocity, and more importantly, why?
~
A cleansing shower later, I throw on some slimline black trousers and a grey shirt, apply some foundation to cover the reddened marks on my cheek and forehead, then the rest of my make-up and make my way down the stairs to find him. I still don’t know how I feel about the whole beating the shit out of someone thing but decide that I’ll know the moment I look at him. I’m not afraid of him; I know that. I’m just confused about him, yet again. I duck my head around the study door to see if he’s there. He isn’t so I keep on walking to the kitchen and as the smell of freshly cooked bacon hits me, my stomach rumbles greedily. When did I eat last? Oh yeah, lunch at Mum’s, because that was so much fun.
“Morning, Miss Scott,” a woman’s voice says from around the corner. I look up, instantly startled. She stands there smiling at me with a frying pan in her hand. “One egg or two?”
“Umm... One please,” I reply as I look her over - probably early fifties, slightly greying hair. Quite a large lady but well dressed and very smiley. She seems honest or kind or maybe both.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself,” she says as she wipes her hand and offers it to me. “I’m Mary Jenkins. Please call me Mary.” Oh, Alex’s housekeeper! I clamp onto her hand and smile in return. Clearly she knows who I am.
“Nice to meet you, Mary. Is Alex around or has he gone to work already?” She hesitates for a moment and then swings her eyes to the garden with a frown.
“He’s out there, Miss Scott, been out there for about an hour,” she replies as she returns to the cooker. I gaze out and eventually see him at the very bottom of the garden, sitting on a bench staring at the park beyond.
“Why is he out there?” I mumble absentmindedly to myself as I cross my arms and wonder what to do.
“He was pacing, Miss Scott. He goes outside when he paces,” she says softly. My eyes shoot to her back. This is news to me. She seems completely unfazed, as if she's seen the act a thousand times. I return my eyes to the garden and then go down to the hall cupboard to retrieve my coat. Shoes? No shoes… “My wellingtons are in there if you want to borrow them,” she shouts to me. Is this woman a mind reader or something? I pull on the smallest green boots I can find and march my way back to the kitchen.
“Thanks for the wellies, Mary. Could you hold the breakfast for a few minutes?” I ask with a smile as I pull on the French doors.
“Already turned off, Miss Scott,” she replies with a wink and a hearty laugh.
“Please, Mary, call me Elizabeth or Beth. I’ve already had this conversation with Michael,” I say with pleading eyes. Her returning gaze is a little wary but she eventually smiles.
“Alright, Elizabeth,” she says as she plonks her tea towel down on the work surface in a determined fashion. Something makes me think Alex has already told her not to.
“Thank you,” I say warmly as I click the door open and walk into the cold December frost. Nice woman… I wonder how long she’s worked for him.
The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I make my way along the path towards him and take in my surroundi
ngs. I’ve never been out here before and I am truly awed by the beauty of it. The huge patio that I stepped out onto screamed modernity with its vast cream table and chairs but the rest of the garden is elegant and graceful, as if it has been tended with loving affection for hundreds of years. How the gardeners manage to get flowers blooming at this time of year is beyond me and the red and yellow flower beds and the short box hedging in strict rows shows award winning design detail. The massive lawn at the end of the first terrace of beds is large enough to play cricket on and framed with a low brick wall. There’s a summerhouse off to the left, which is obviously Victorian with its intricate detail and glass shimmering side panels. It actually might not be a summerhouse at all. It’s so big it could be considered a small house. Neatly trimmed tall hedges line both sides of the garden and at the end of the lawn, there is a selection of seating areas overlooking the park, and there he sits in a brown wool coat with a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. My heart lurches with love as I watch him tug at it and throw it on the bench beside him. For some bizarre reason, it reminds me that I never really see him with anything around his neck, no ties or scarves, only black tie events and he doesn’t keep them on very often for those.
I crunch on a bit further and he eventually turns to look at me. His warm smile is breathtaking so I return it gleefully and run to him as he extends a hand to me. I’m so in love with him, regardless of his animalistic tendencies.
“I see you’ve met Mary,” he says as he gazes down at my wellies. I giggle and snuggle into him as he wraps his arm around my shoulder.
“What are you doing out here? Beautiful as it is, it’s eight in the morning and you never come out here,” I ask as I gaze into the park beyond. It really is beautiful.
“I was thinking of you. The garden reminds me of you.” Oh well, that’s lovely, I think, unless he’s talking about weeds, not that there are any in this garden.
“Why?” Lovely as it is, I don’t have clue why a garden would remind him of me.
“The peace that’s on your face when you gaze out here is truly extraordinary. I thought I might come out and try to find some of the same emotion,” he replies as he tips my head back and gently kisses me. I melt. “Are you okay this morning?” I snuggle closer into him. Am I? I think so. He picks up his scarf and wraps it twice around my neck as he gazes at me. I nod at him and return to my snuggling. He’s so warm and his distinct spicy aftershave invades my senses as he kisses the top of my head.
“How’s that going for you? You know, the peace finding?” I giggle. He doesn’t respond, just sighs and rests his chin on my head as he strokes my hair. Minutes pass as we both look out and watch the horses going about their daily exercise with their riders on board.
“You wanted to protect me,” he eventually says quietly. What the hell is he talking about?
“What?”
“After all you’d been through and all you’d witnessed, you told Belle not to call the police,” he replies as he tightens his hold of me. “That was, actually it still is perplexing to me.”
“Of course I did. You would have been arrested.” My eyes lift to his in amazement; did he really think I would be so selfish?
“I probably deserved to be.” Well possibly, yes.
“Maybe you did, but I wouldn’t have been the one who allowed it. You were protecting me.” He sighs again and tucks me back under his arm.
“You are so strong, Elizabeth. You should be wrecked but yet here you are, with me and the fucked up offering I have for you. You have no idea what your trust in me means but I don’t deserve your compassion or loyalty. You could do so much better for yourself than me.”
Right, that’s enough of that Mr White.
I sit myself upright and turn to face him. He suddenly looks a little uncertain so I smile at him and run my fingers over his lips. How can this be the same man as the one I saw last night?
“I love you. My compassion and loyalty are part of that love. You have them whether you think you deserve them or not,” I say as I watch his eyes stare into mine. They’re smiling with something as I catch them crinkling at the corners, then his frown returns. Is he ever without one?
“I was so incensed, so furiously angry at what could have happened that I couldn’t think of anything but killing him,” he says as he runs his hand through his hair and then brings it down to rest gently on my cheek. He rubs his thumb over my bruise and stiffens. “And I would have had you not stopped me.”
“I didn’t stop you. Conner did,” I say as I gaze at him with a puzzled expression. “You wouldn’t stop when I asked you.” Begged you, frankly. His face softens and that warm smile creeps back across it as if something’s funny. It really isn’t. We’re discussing killing a man at eight in the morning, for God’s sake. His cool demeanour at removing the blood from his face flashes across my eyes again and I can’t believe it’s the same man in front of me. He’s done it before; I know he has and now I can’t deny how intrigued I am about it.
“What Conner said to me stopped me, baby. He’s not physically capable of stopping me and he knows it, but he is the only one who can talk me down,” he replies with a small shrug. What the hell does talk him down mean?
“What do you mean?” I ask hesitantly. I really don’t like where this is going. It’s as if he’s admitting he loses all normal levels of sanity on a regular basis, which I apparently can’t stop him from doing.
“He told me that I would lose you if I carried on, that I would destroy a future with the only woman I have ever loved because of my inability to control my anger. It was enough to clear the haze. You were enough to clear my haze,” he says reverently as he grazes my lips with his finger and leans forward.
“Oh, right... Well that’s...”
“You don’t deserve this in your life and I’ve tried to keep it under control, to be better, but when I saw you in there with his hands on you... I just couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to. Do you know what that would have done to me? You’re my world. Everything is you.”
Any thought I previously had about how much I love him has just tripled. I seriously don’t care if he’s a serial murderer at the moment because he’s just told me the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, even if it was in a random bizarre sort of way. I stare into his crystal clear blue eyes and watch the wind ruffle his hair about. He truly is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met and he’s mine, absolutely mine. I lean forward to kiss him and then decide that it would be far more comfortable to just get on top of him so throw my leg over his lap and dangle my feet behind the bench. He looks instantly shocked but quickly puts his arms back around me and shuffles me forward onto him with a smile.
“Okay, well given that I’ve now seen it, where does it come from? And more importantly, why are you so... well, accomplished at it? And frankly, a little too comfortable with it if I’m honest. Is it to do with your father?” I ask as the vision of him slamming his fist into the man’s face floats through my mind. I shiver as the same hand gently traces patterns on my back and wonder at the dexterity of that hand. “What else are those hands responsible for, Mr. White?”
He draws in a long breath and hugs me towards him so I wrap my arms around him and snuggle into his warmth. Unfortunately, I can feel his hesitance, his avoidance, and know without a shadow of a doubt that this conversation is finished for now. At least he isn’t trying sexual manipulation so we’re a step closer to normal.
“Always pushing for more,” he says into my neck.
“Always,” I reply as I kiss the side of his neck and feel him tilt his head back to allow more of it. My core clenches at my own thoughts surrounding this spot on him as his hand finds the back of my head and firmly holds me in place. Just as I’m actually feeling completely lost in the moment and ready for more, he abruptly stands up with me still wrapped around him and starts walking towards the house.
“Now’s not the time. It’s a long conversation and I have to go to the office for a meeting… As l
ong as you’re okay, that is?” he says with a sudden worried expression. I grin at him and kiss him again.
“I’m fine. You got there in time, and I think he came off worse than me in the long run.”
“He should be dead,” he growls as he hitches me up on him and looks across at the summerhouse with a quirk of his mouth, then shakes his head and keeps going forward. He was so thinking about sex. I smile and grind myself down onto him. “Stop it, Elizabeth.”
“What? I didn’t do anything,” I reply as he drops me on the floor with a snort of laughter and opens the door to the house. Bacon assaults my nose again and my stomach grumbles at me as he walks towards Mary and she smiles at him with a warm face. His body language softens around her and I watch on in fascination as he interacts with her. It’s nothing like his demeanour with Mrs Peters. It’s like the behaviour a son would have with his mother. She never touches him nor he her, but they fluidly move around the room together as though they’ve always known each other.
“Have a seat, Elizabeth,” she says as she puts the eggs in. His eyebrows shoot up at her familiarity as his gaze lands on mine. I narrow mine and stick my tongue out at him. He laughs and shakes his head, probably in amazement.
“Thank you, Mary,” I reply as I take my seat. He brings two cups of coffee over and sits opposite me with a paper so I instantly smirk at him and his Times broadsheet. That damned brow rises as if he senses my amusement and dares me to challenge him on the matter.
“With all the forms of technology around, you still choose to read an actual paper?” I laugh out as Mary places two delicious looking pates of breakfast in front of us.
“Paper feels better in my hands. It’s tactile, flexible,” he replies as he swipes his glasses from his pocket and puts them on. Wow, utter sexpot has arrived. He’s pretty damn good without them, but holy fuck... The black thin frames sit right on the bridge of his elegant nose and accentuate his bright blue eyes to perfection. He reminds me of all those teacher fantasies that girls talk about at school and I giggle to myself as the thought of canes crosses my mind. I dare say Mr. White is probably quite handy with one. “Something funny, Elizabeth?”
Feeling White Page 24