CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Brad

I did everything humanly possible to steer clear of Uma Thurman, the insatiable blonde sex fiend, who, after one taste of my chopper, had a thing for sausage-groping in public.

If I turned my back on her for even a nanosecond, her arms swaddled my waist whilst her wandering hands took a trip down south.

Christ, I am not one to decline some toe-curling neck, but the woman has unlocked a new level of irrational clinginess.

In all honesty, I am not in the mood for copulation. I am still reeling from the mental exhaustion of Chloe’s letter (suicide note?), the shock of having to sit in the lawyers’ office whilst the red-haired male used a swab to rub the inside of my cheek to collect DNA.

Within two working days, I will receive a phone call from Lorna Brante to confirm whether or not I am Dominic’s biological father. The verification of official documents is unnecessary, though. I know he is mine. I can feel it in my gut when reading the raw honesty bleeding through the pages.

You were once the biggest curse of my life.

Now, you are my only hope.

A curse.

That’s how the kid’s dead mother acknowledged me.

A taker.

I stole her purity.

Fuck, she made me sound like a bastard rapist.

I am an unapologetically promiscuous man.

I am a notoriously manipulative womaniser whose callousness causes offence and grief to women—and I do all of the above without an ounce of compassion.

Chloe’s frankness was brutal to accept and digest. I have never claimed to be perfect. I never lead women on or give them false hope or pretend to be more interested than I am.

Am I cocky? Sure.

Am I misogynistic? No.

I love women.

Life would be no life at all if not for the seraphic beauties of our sinister world.

Tucking the letter into my trouser pocket, I thrust a hand through my hair and leaned back against the brick wall.

It was consensual.

I kissed her.

She kissed me back.

Was there an ulterior motive? Yes.

Warren and Alexa fought.

Chloe decided to intervene.

I prevented a bloodbath.

If blondie stormed into the boss’s office, uninvitedly, he’d have pulled the gun on her in a heartbeat. I jumped her bones instead. And she wanted it. At least, I think she wanted it. Now, I am starting to doubt myself—question my sanity. It was her hands on my shirt, ripping off buttons at the seam. It was her tongue in my mouth, moaning for more.

What happened to the taste of your soft lips?

Where did the comfort and tenderness of your investigatory hands go?

Why did you bend me over and avoid contact?

Assumptions are often wrong.

One, I kissed you; that’s more than most females experience.

Two, I was too busy admiring your arse from behind (hands to the hips work well in that position).

Three, I fucked you the same way I fucked others.

I am in control.

I am not beneath her.

I am not looking at her.

“Hey.” Emma slid onto the floor next to me. “You know it’s raining, right?” Her arms enveloped her hiked knees. “You look lost.”

Sheets of rainwater swept through the cold, dank alleyway. “Yes.”

“And it’s late.” Her shoulder nudged mine. “As in, it’s dark. Why are you still here? Your team left hours ago.”

My head turned. “Are you stalking me, sweetheart?”

“Well, technically, you are outside my place.” Her chin lifted as she gazed at the stars above. “So, who is stalking who?”

Her face was sprinkled in raindrops, the dews on her lashes, drawing attention to her jade-coloured eyes. “You have nice eyes.”

“I am out of free coffee, so fish elsewhere.” It was supposed to be a joke, but I did not find it funny. “What?”

“It was a compliment. I wasn’t after free coffee. Plus, the coffee served at the cafe tastes like shit.”

“Then, why accept free coffee?”

“To be nice,” I said, short and argumentative. “Why do women assume the worst? I do not have a hidden agenda. I come here to pick up litter because I am obligated to do so by law. I drink shit coffee to avoid hurting your feelings. I speak to you because, in spite of what you might think about me, I reckon you’re a cool chick.”

Our glares collided.

“I am not trying to get into those ugly pants you wear or rip your grandma knickers at the seams. You can breathe easily around me.” My hands hiked in mocked surrender. “I promise not to take advantage of you for free coffee.“

Her head jerked back a touch. “What the hell is your problem? I came out here to see if you were okay. I did not elect myself for three-ton of insults.”

I expected her sharpness. “What part of what I said insulted you?”

“Ugly pants.” She counted on her fingers. “Grandma knickers—”

“I also said you had nice eyes,” I interrupted, her warm breath to the cold air forming mist between us. “So, either you cannot take a compliment, or I seriously need to work on my people skills.”

Emma’s eyes were wistful. “Bad day, big guy?”

“Something like that.” I could murder a bottle of Jameson right now. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How was your day?”

“Oh?” A slight wrinkle formed between her brows. “Boring.”

Shielding my eyes from the rain, I glanced at the front window above the cafe. “Is your kid asleep?”

“Carter is at Quinn’s house for a sleepover.” Pushing to her feet, she dusted her palms and extended her hand. “Do you want to come inside for shit coffee?”

The twin brother did not like me.

“What about Benjamin?” I stared at her upturned hand. “He’ll have a stroke if I walk in.”

“My brother is having wild sex this evening. I am not supposed to wait up for him,” she added jokingly. “Are you coming or what?”

I whacked her hand aside and headed inside.

Emma brought the “big guns” to the table: Captain Morgan.

Thanking her for the mug of rum, I sat on the wooden bench in the cafe and let the sound of her voice distract my thoughts for a couple of hours. I appreciated the room’s emptiness and peaceful ambience.

The free-flowing chitter-chatter, which ran late into the night, was the pastime I needed. It was unexpected but nice to discuss trivial matters, listening to stories about people I had never even met.

At one in the morning, I snaffled a pre-made sandwich from the cafe’s industrial fridge and a packet of ready salted crisps. I earned fodder. I hadn’t eaten all day, and my stomach noticed.

Emma returned from the bathroom and seemingly lost her hoodie somewhere along the way. Her black vest top had seen better days, but the scarcity of material flaunted her slender, olive-skinned arms and well-proportioned chest.

Falling into a cross-legged position on the bench, she clipped the table leg, knocking over the empty bottle of rum. It spun around on the rustic wood, the bottleneck landing in my direction.

My brow lifted lazily. “I’m pretty sure our days of spin-the-bottle are long gone, sweetheart.”

“Ass.” She fixed the overturned bottle. “And we are never too old for kissing games.”

My right brow greeted the left one. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Emma scarfed down a handful of smarties. “I watched a movie once where an adult couple rolled two dice, right? One dice read wet kiss, the other read neck.”

I’d rather do body shots. “Sounds PG-13 to me.”

“What’s wrong with kisses on the neck?”

“What’s right with sloppy kisses on the neck?”

“Well, the dice had other instructions. You could land on suck,” she explained, and I was momentarily fixated on her puckered lips. “Toes.”

I came back to reality. “Toes?”

She shrugged.

I gave her a scathing glare. “Christ, not another pervert fetishised by bony arse piggies.”

“I am not a pervert.” She lunged an orange smartie at me, and, by sheer luck, I caught it in my mouth. “Oh, wow.” Throwing a chocolate-coated sweet in the air, she opened her mouth to capture the drop, but it hit her in the shoulder instead. “Why do I suck at everything?”

Rum warmed my blood, but I was itching for a blunt. “Would you mind if I rolled?”

Emma strode across the cafe to unlock the front door. “I will leave the door open to air the room, though.”

Working the grinder, I sprinkled marijuana into the paper deck. “I can smoke outside if you want.”

Orange juice replaced the empty rum bottle. “No, it’s okay.”

“Do you want some?” I asked, and her lips pouted in contemplation. “Assuming you have tried it before.”

“A very long time ago.” Pouring juice into two clean mugs, she slid one across the table. “I got stoned once, belly laughed for fifteen minutes straight about absolutely nothing, then threw up in…”

I licked the rizla seam. “Threw up in?”

“My friend’s truck.” She rubbed the chill from her arms. “He was less than impressed.”

Twisting the blunt, I snapped off the end with my teeth and sparked the clipper’s flame. “Gangster,” I joshed, and her eyes rolled. “Did you message Hughie after?”

“Hugo,” she corrected. “And no. I don’t think I am ready to date.”

I have commitment issues, so her concerns were relatable. “What if he is not looking to date, either?”

Her crossed arms leaned onto the table. “Do you think he’s only looking for sex?”

How the fuck should I know? If I had to judge, based on the one occasion the pair interacted over coffee and free muffins, I’d peg him as a co-dependant halfwit. He’s desperate for female attention. Preferably Emma’s attention. He’s into her. That much is easily perceived. He’s not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kinda guy. At least, not from where I am standing.

Old patriarchal habits die hard. Men are hopeless, out of touch with their emotions, and taught to be apathetic to avoid emasculation from a young age. Heaven forbid the male population cried or showed weakness. Maybe that’s why his motives are unclear.

I made a noncommittal noise.

“What if I’m bad at it?” she asked, and my eyes jerked up. “What?”

“Bad at sex?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there such a thing as bad sex?”

“Well, what if the energy is off?”

I am lost.

Her hands faffed with the napkin holder. “And what if there is no sexual chemistry?”

I hit a dead end.

“What if he is inebriated and rushing and there is no foreplay or after play,” she babbled, “and he fakes an orgasm?”

“Christ, It’s just sex, Emma.” My eyes grew larger by the second. “Why look for problems that aren’t there?”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Listen, do you want my honest opinion?” I mused, and she nodded. “Hughie seems like a boring but decent guy. I think he might like you. Men pay attention when invested.”

Emma soaked up the conversation. “What do you mean?”

I don’t even know anymore. “I mean, the guy probably fucks like a pensioner, but he might surprise you and become a cunnilingus master.”

Her eyes were like saucers. “A what?”

“You know.” I gestured down below. “The ABC method.”

She burst out laughing. “Do guys actually do that?”

I stared blankly.

Her laughter diminished into concern. “What?”

Christ, I had an unusual tightness in the pit of my rioting stomach. “Nothing.”

“No, what is it?”

“It’s not important.”

Her frown morphed into a scowl. “Tell me a lie if it makes it easier.”

I stared, long and pensive. “I have gone down on many women.”

“Oh.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Same.”

It was my turn to chuckle.

Her fingers curled around the mug. “Why?”

“Eating pussy does so much for me,” I replied, the silence of truth replacing insouciance. “Christ, it’s my favourite pastime.”

Her scowl softened.

“I am not inexperienced,” I said after a long period of no communication. “I can pleasure a woman orally, but it’s not something I enjoy.”

Emma was an outspoken woman, so it came as no surprise when she asked, “Is there a specific reason?”

Everything in life had a logical explanation.

Our heart-to-heart went off on a tangent, so I chose not to answer.

“Hey, if it’s any consolation.” She thought of a lie on the spot. “I love sucking cock, too.”

My smirk was low and taunting. “This conversation just got wildly inappropriate.”

Smiling from ear to ear, she stuck out her half-filled mug for me to clank. “To us and our hate for bush diving.”

I choked on orange juice mid-sip.

She tossed a handful of napkins at me. “Wipe it up, big guy.”

“Bush diving? And they say romance is dead.” Dabbing my lips with the bunched-up napkin, I raked my eyes over her. “Although to clarify, I keep it clean-shaven. Do not put me in the same region as ungroomed scruffs.”

Emma looked at the half-smoked blunt in the ashtray.

I swallowed orange juice, the sharp, bitter taste oddly granular. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” She set her mug aside. “What’s up?”

“You are drunk. I am drunk. I come onto you, and sex ensued as a result.” Unable to meet her piercing stare, I doffed the suit jacket and draped it over the bench. “Am I taking advantage of you?”

Her lips formed a circle. “Is this a rhetorical question?”

My head shook.

“Well, it’s an open-ended question, big guy.” Her pretty face screwed up. “I need more details before I can give an honest answer.”

“Right.” Shirtsleeves rolling to the elbows, I threaded my fingers. “So, I met this woman through a mutual friend.” It’s not easy to explain without mentioning Warren and Alexa. I decided to lay it all out on the table. “Okay, I might bore you with the extension of humdrum elaborateness but bear with me.”

Emma listened.

“Warren is a good friend of mine,” I said cautiously, and a small breath left her lips. “He met this woman, Alexa. They fell in love and got married and all that malarkey, but they started as, I want to say, friends with benefits? I don’t know. Anyway, Alexa encountered danger, and Warren moved her into his penthouse for temporary safety measures. Her roommate tagged along.”

Emma’s finger circled the mug’s circumference.

“I am an overly confident, libidinous man. If I like what I see, I am not ashamed or too embarrassed to express myself…” I sounded like a tool. “Hey, if I think a woman is beautiful, I am going to compliment her. If I want to feel her beneath me someday, I will try my luck and see if she is game. I don’t lie or pretend to be in love to get what I want. I am a shameless flirt—flirting is not a crime—but I only pursue if the woman reciprocates coquettishness, right?”

Her head dipped.

“The woman in question…” Do not talk in the past tense. “She is gorgeous, confident, flirtatious—and strictly prohibited. I might like the idea of fucking her—I am not interested in anything else—but she is off-limits. Boss’s orders. He cannot rock the boat between him and Alexa.”

“I get it,” she said. “Your lack of commitment can make waves for other people. Alexa’s friend may or may not want more post-sex. You, however, only want a good time.”

“Exactly.” Lack of commitment, I thought. “Fast forward a couple of months. It’s Warren’s thirtieth birthday. Alexa throws him a surprise party at the club, and her friend is on the guest list.”

Do I tell Emma why I chased Chloe that night?

“Warren and Alexa argued, which was normal. The pair were toxic as fuck. That will probably never change. Her friend was less than impressed. It was none of her business, but she made it her business. I intervened. I stopped her from bombarding his office.”

Emma’s head tilted. “How?”

“I kissed her.” I took her head in my hands and shut her up with my mouth. “I know. I fucked up. I was told not to go there, and I did it regardless.”

Her lips glued together to suppress a smile. “I mean, that’s so wicked of you, big guy. You lip-locked with a woman.”

I gaped at her.

“You kissed. Big deal.” Her shoulders bounced once. “What happened next?”

“I backed her into a private room.” My mind flashbacked to the night we were together. Her mouth devoured mine. Her hands tore my shirt. Her fingers worked the buckle of my belt. My fingers ran through her long, blonde hair as I rolled her beneath me on the floor. She pushed into me, eager and dripping. I felt her arousal on my fingers before lining up and thrusting inside her. I never wore a condom. Fuck, I hadn’t considered protection. But I recall her tightness, her soft, throaty moans and pale curves. “We ended up on the floor. I bent her over, and you know how the story ends. We fucked. I pulled out.”

Emma’s bottom lip was trapped between her teeth. “Anything else?”

“I regretted it instantly,” I said with truthful guilt. “It was a mistake. She was a mistake.”

Her shoulders squared.

“When I tucked myself away,” I admitted with a wince. “I saw blood.”

“Shit, Brad.” Her eyes bulged. “How hard do you fuck?”

I like rough, hard sex, but I kept that information to myself. “No, she was a virgin,” I corrected, and those judgmental green eyes turned into slits. “How the fuck was I to know? She never told me.”

“Right.” With an elbow plonked on the table, her cheek fell into her hand. “Then, what?”

“I handed her the discarded dress on the floor, waited by the door to lock up and led her back to the function room before heading upstairs to speak with Warren. I never exchanged numbers or asked to see her again.” My arms crossed. “There you have it.”

A string of awkward quietude unravelled.

Emma sighed. “Did she say no?”

“No.” My stomach coiled. “Not once.”

“Was it sexual coercion?”

“She was not obligated or under duress.” Not taking my eyes off her, I put the mug to my lips. “I am not sex-deprived. I don’t need to force someone to sleep with me, Emma.”

“Did she show any signs of embarrassment, fear or panic?” She railed off questions. “Anything?”

Chloe was happy until she realised it was only sex. “No.”

Her shoulders tensed as if bracing herself for a setback. “Is there a rape allegation?”

I did not like the unmasked panic in her eyes. “No, but she said I took advantage of an emotional woman.”

A breezy exhale escaped her lips. “You had consensual sex with someone who, later in life, regretted sleeping with you. That’s not rape. That’s self-disappointment. You are not blameworthy or accountable for another person’s mistake. She needs to accept what happened and move on from it.” Her voice was laced with pity. “You are not a rapist, big guy. You are, however, vainglorious and, no offence, insensitive. But that’s your personality, right? So, if women sign up for insensitiveness, thinking they’ll be the one to change you, the joke is on them. Not you. You can stop interrogating yourself now.”

It was a short, intense conversation that lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. I needed someone to talk to, preferably a woman, because the brothers will defend me until the cows come home, whatever the reason or outcome, rightly or wrongly, then laugh at the ridiculousness and tell me to burn Chloe’s letter.

Alexa is the only female friend I have, but Chloe is her day-one—and Alexa is still in the early stages of bereavement. I will not put her in an uncomfortable position.

I swirled the dregs of juice in the mug. “Shall we get back to the rum?”

Emma dumped the orange juice before scuttling upstairs to steal alcohol that Benjamin stored in his bedroom.

Whiskey is good poison. Rum is adequate, though. I enjoyed the first round, accepted the refill and told myself, for one night, to forget the letter and the impending paternity results.

Nate texted: Josh is hallucinating.

I replied.

Me: You got it covered?

Nate: Sure.

Nate: Where are you, though? Alexa is worried.

Me: I am taking the night off.

Nate: Can you do that?

Me: I am Command. I can do whatever I want. Christ, I need some time for myself, Nate. I have been in over my head lately.

Nate: I understand, man. It’s no big deal. I can hold down the fort for one night.

Nate: You good, though?

Me: Blissful.

Nate: Who is she?

Me: What?

Nate: You must be with a bird.

Me: It’s not like that.

Nate: It never is with you.

Emma gave me a tour of the flat above the cafe. It was incommodious, the doors in the narrow hallway mere inches apart, but the grey carpet under our feet was soft, and the upcycled furniture provided a homely touch.

“This is the bathroom.” Drinking rum straight from the bottle, she jostled open the door to a box room. “Do you like the shower curtain? I bought it for a fiver on eBay. Free delivery.”

I glared at the offensive, leaf-patterned shower curtain.

“This is the airing cupboard.” Her knuckles rapped on the closed door, the wood rough and paint-peeled. “You don’t need to look in there. It’s just a water tank and folded towels.”

Did she say, water tank? How old is this flat? Where is the modern alternative?

“Kitchen.” Turning on the room’s light, she showed me the smallest kitchen in the city of London. “I did the tiles myself.”

I eyed the black and white mosaic wall tiles above the kitchen sink, the single fridge freezer and the four-seater table, which swallowed most of the space. “You can tile?”

“I can peel adhesive tiles and stick them.” She was proud of her achievements. I did not want to bust her balls, so I looked away to prevent laughter. “Living room.”

Sage green walls and wooden furniture. It was my favourite part of the tour so far. I bet everything was second-hand, but the fur throw blankets, textile cushions, half-melted pillar candles and old-fashioned fireplace revamped the room.

“Ben’s room.” Bypassing her brother’s bedroom, she opened the door covered in stickers. “Carter’s room.”

Carter’s bedroom had blue walls and white furniture. His single bed was neat, in order, the sheet and duvet tucked at four corners.

I followed her inside to see the model cars on the shelf. “Whatever happened to Hotwheels?” I admired the plethora of vehicles: Mercedes, Ferrari and Lamborghini. “Your boy likes cars, huh?”

“He is obsessed.” She came to my side. “And he saves pocket money for months to buy new models.”

I spotted the jar of pound coins on the desk. “What’s his next purchase?”

“A Porsche Turbo. It’ll be his biggest buy yet. If he hasn’t saved enough before Christmas, I’ll buy it for him.” Turning off the bedroom light, she headed for the door. “Are you coming?”

Emma disappeared.

Unzipping the leather wallet, I extracted four fifty-pound notes, tucked them into the kid’s jar, then closed the door behind me.

“I know,” she said, placing the rum bottle on the vanity table. “My bedroom is small, but it’s mine, and I love it.”

Her bedroom was small, much like the rest of the flat. It was cosy, though: double bed, an eighteen-inch plasma on top of the chest of drawers, two shaggy rugs and a wooden wardrobe threatening to splinter.

“I had to share a room with my sister growing up. I hated it.” Her legs swung over the armrest as she dropped into the chair. “She is older than me. I had to go to bed early because, well, school. And she was rocking up at three in the morning, drunk and disorderly, after a night out. I lost so much sleep back then. Also, she used to sneak a friend inside. My eyes were closed, but I heard far too much.”

Swiping the rum bottle, pulling a long swig, I parked on the edge of the bed.

“It confused me,” Emma said with pinched brows. “I never understood.”

I was mystified by her rambling. “What confused you?”

“Nothing.” She gave me a fake smile. “So, do you have any annoying siblings?”

No, but I received special treatment for being an only child. “You are one of…?”

“Five.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “What should I text him?”

This woman thinks I am a mind-reader. “Who?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she brandished the phone. “Hugo.”

I am not the right man to provide dating advice. “Emma,” I said, and her eyelids peeled open. “There is nothing sexier than a woman who knows what she wants.”

“I don’t want to be sexy.” Leaning over the armrest, she threw open the wardrobe door, clothes spilling onto the carpet, and pulled out black and white Aztec genie pants. “Is this a slumber party?”

I smiled at that. “Do you hog the blankets?”

“Yes.”

“Do you share the pillows?”

“No.”

“Do you kick in your sleep?”

“You bet.”

“Then, I’ll stay.” I stood to unbutton my shirt. “Can I borrow your brother’s joggers, or will he stab me whilst I sleep?”

Emma left the room to change into comfortable pyjamas.

Studying the wall-pinned tapestries, the colourful crystals on the bedside table, I stripped down into black boxer briefs, folded everything into a neat pile on the chair and recapped the rum bottle.

“Right.” Emma returned to the bedroom. “Grey, black, white…” Her eyes landed on my bare chest, then slid south for an investigatory glance. “Or basketball shorts?”

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” I said in a hoarse voice, and her stare raised in unhurried bewilderment. “Don’t be shy. Flattery works on this geezer.”

She chose the grey joggers. “That’s not normal.”

“What?” Yanking on the tight-fitted grey jogging bottoms, I ogled myself in the free-standing mirror. “Christ, I look like a prima ballerina. Look at the state of my arse. Are you sure these aren’t tights?”

Emma’s Aztec-patterned pants hung low on her hips, revealing a slither of her flat stomach, where pale, grey stretch marks peeked out. “Do you stuff socks down there?”

“I—what?”

She motioned to my groin area. “That’s not normal.”

Feigning dumb, I asked, “What’s not normal?”

Her eyes zeroed in on my crotch. “Your size.”

“Cheeky,” I teased and pink-tinged her cheeks. “You cannot estimate a man’s size when it is clad in cotton.”

“True.” She hurled the bed’s decorative pillows across the room blindly. “I can approximate, though.”

I was all ears. “What’s the approximation?”

“I daren’t say.”

I huffed out a laugh. “Well, I get no complaints.”

“I bet.” She climbed into bed. “You can sleep by the wall.”

“Did you have a spare toothbrush?”

“In the bathroom.”

I went to the bathroom to scrub the night of rum out of my mouth. I am unsure if Emma locked up before turning in, so I ventured downstairs, checked the locks throughout and killed all the lights.

It was dark in Emma’s bedroom. I closed the door in case Benjamin came home, saw us in bed together and had a hissy fit.

I crawled onto the bed. I was not drunk but partially intoxicated; I only noticed when lying on my back, feeling a wave of dizziness.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

Tucking an arm behind my head, I relaxed underneath the duvet. “I can handle my drink.”

She shifted to get comfortable. “Can you handle rum, though?”

I scoffed. “Behave.”

“Brad,” she said, meek and hesitant. “Is kissing on the first date mandatory?”

My stomach dropped.

“I am not talking about us.” Suddenly, the lamp turned on, and she was propped on one elbow, looking down at me. “Hugo. I texted him.”

I scratched my chest. “You waited until I left the room to text him.”

“Yes, I told him I am free next Wednesday if he’d like to go somewhere.” She removed her bobble and long, messy hair unravelled. “Will he expect sex?”

“Why?” I rolled onto my side, mirroring her outstretched position. “Are you seducible?”

She looked conflicted.

Why is this woman so anxious?

“Emma,” I said, and her wandering eyes came back to me. “You know sexual anxiety is a thing, right?” Her gaze lowered to the space between us, and I caught the slight twitch of nervousness in her wrangling fingers. “What happened to you?”

“What?” She fell onto her back. “Nothing happened to me. It’s been a long time since I dated, that’s all.”

No, you do not obsess about something as menial as kissing without reason. Her possible date with Hughie has occupied her thoughts all night. “Are you afraid of men?”

She turned off the lamp. “Would I let you share my bed if I feared men?”

I leaned over her sprawled-out body to turn the light back on. “Then, what’s the problem?”

Her eyes homed in on my face. “Are we friends?”

I guess.

“Are we inebriated enough to excuse possibilities for one night?”

I am beyond confused. “What are you asking, sweetheart?”

Emma bolstered up on her elbows, her neck craning slightly to look at me. “Will you kiss me?”

Assured I had misheard, I shot her a double-take. “What?”

“I don’t want sex with you,” she stuttered, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or offended. “Just…” Her breath came in rushed and heavy. “Okay, here me out. I lost my virginity very young. I kissed two boys,” she emphasised the word boys. “There was no tongue action. We were kids. I had no business having sex, and…” A deep blush of embarrassment warmed her face. “You know what? Ignore me. That was stupid. I am stupid.”

The lamp switched off.

Her unintelligible speech distorted my brain.

I laid down, the pillow soft to my cheek, and listened to Emma’s uncontained breathing. She was agitated and distressed, which was unfathomable. I never dismissed or ridiculed her.

“I can’t have my new friend falling in love with me,” I said in a serious undertone, and she muttered something indecipherable under her breath. “That would suck, Emma.”

“You’re safe. Just forget I said anything. It was a stupid idea, anyway.” When I slid an arm under her neck, she tensed from head to toe. “What are you doing?”

I am not good with words of encouragement, so I chose not to speak as my mouth lowered to hers for a gentle kiss.

“Big guy,” she whispered against my lips, her palms sticking to my chest.

My free hand slid to her neck. “I can’t speak for Hughie—”

“Hugo,” she tweaked, and I smiled. “His name is Hugo.”

I know his name. “For me, a good kiss is a combination of hands.” My thumb traced her skin from chin to throat. “And a slow introduction. An overzealous tongue is sloppy and, quite frankly, a huge turn-off.” The pad of my thumb crossed her delectable lips. “Let him lead. You can follow.”

Emma agreed breathlessly.

I leaned in for another kiss, and this time, she reciprocated, her lips greeting mine. And that’s how we stayed for a few minutes, exploring each other’s lips, then I took the lead as soon as the opportunity surfaced. Her lips parted, and I lazily flicked my tongue inside her mouth.

It was hard, not losing control. I was in the moment. I wanted to explore her body further, to feel her fingernails raking down my back and her legs wrapped around my waist.

Her tongue met mine for a long, sensual dance, and I groaned involuntarily. “Pull back,” I whispered, and her lips replaced her tongue. “If you keep those hands flattened to his chest, he might take the hint and bounce.”

Emma’s hands unfastened from my chest. “Where do you want them?”

My head dropped to her shoulder. “I don’t care where you put them, but body language is important, and the huge wall between us exudes uneasiness.”

“I am uneasy,” she said, her lips close to my ear. “So, was I too sloppy?”

No, she can kiss, albeit she trembled the whole time. “I am good at reading people.”

Her hands smoothed down my arms. “Me too, big guy.”

I traced her collar bone with my fingertips. “Did someone hurt you?”

It was quiet, then she replied, “Yes.”

I thought so.

“I’m over it.” Her fingernails drew patterns down my spine, and my skin sprouted in goosebumps. “To a certain degree.”

That’s how it worked.

You can forgive but never forget.

Emma’s lips touched mine unexpectedly.

It was her turn to lead.

Her mouth overpowered mine as her hands wound their way to my hair. Her fingers pulled strands, and I fucking loved when women did that. “Harder,” I said, throaty and deep. Her fingers tugged the root of my hair into her fists, and I shivered. “Christ.”

My body braced above her, palms to the pillow astride her head, and I deepened the kiss, slow and agonising. I forgot the real reason behind our unforeseen intimacy. I was enjoying myself far too much to break away.

Holding the top of her hair in my tight grip, I kissed her jawline, the spot beneath her ear, and made my way back to her lips. “I have to stop,” I said tightly, the hardness of my length pressing up to her inner thigh. “I’m not your average hot-blooded male. Consequences mean nothing to me. I’d throw you down without a second’s thought.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “What if I want it?”

That’s the alcohol talking. “I’m a nasty fuck. You couldn’t handle it.”

Knowing I am right, she put her hands to my chest. “Meaning?”

“I am a selfish lover.” It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. “If you are looking for someone to teach you the basic principles of sex, I am not your guy.”

Emma fixed the twisted chain around my neck. “We’d only regret it.”

“You would regret it.” I collapsed onto the mattress beside her with a raging fucking hard-on. “I will still come back next week for shit coffee.”

I felt her eyes on me. “Are we still friends?”

“Unless you convince me otherwise.”

“Good.” She laid stiff as aboard. “And I don’t serve shit coffee, you entitled ass.”

I adjusted the ache in my boxers. “I’m all wound up now.”

She respired a ragged breath. “Same.”

Her phone screen lit up on the bedside table.

“Oh, God.” Snatching the phone, she shot up to read the notification. “Hugo replied.”

Right, back to Hughie. “What did he say?”

She unlocked the phone. “How about a nice picnic in the park?”

“A picnic in the park?” I snorted at the horrific visual: wicker basket, chequered blanket, cheddar cheese and crackers. I would top myself first. “Have fun.”

“What’s wrong with picnics?”

My mouth grimaced. “Don’t be disgusting.”

The lamp turned on. Again.

Her thumbs typed out a reply.

Swiping the phone out of her hand, I speared it across the room; it fell on the armchair amidst Benjamin’s pile of stolen jogging bottoms. “Reply tomorrow—and turn off the bastard lamp. I’ll have epilepsy by the time I leave.”

The lamp turned off.

“I am nervous and excited.” Her body huddled closer. “If you wake up before me, put your number in my phone. I might need you on standby.”

Now, she is taking the piss. “I am not your fucking dating coach.”

“If you say so,” she mumbled as the sound of a door unlocking jangled in the hallway. “Shit. Ben’s home.” Pulling the blanket over my face, she cocked her leg over my body, suffocating the life out of me. “I am fine,” she called out, the bedroom door creaking open in the background. “Yes, I stole your rum. Yes, I will buy some more tomorrow.”

I had no room or air to breathe.

“Calm down,” Ben replied. “Just checking in.”

My eyebrows incurved.

“Did you get any more phone calls?” he asked, and Emma flinched. “I am worried sick, Em. What if—?”

“Goodnight, Ben,” she clipped, and I heard him sigh in exasperation. “We can talk in the morning. I am half-asleep.”

“Okay,” he said with great reluctance. “Goodnight, sis.”

The door closed.

Emma reappeared under the duvet. “Sorry about that. Ben doesn’t like you very much.”

I am not bothered by the overprotective brother. “What phone calls?”

“It’s nothing.” Her whispered lie pissed me off. “Brad, it’s not your problem. Don’t worry about it.”

I wish I could see her expression. “Are you worried?”

She paused as if to contemplate whether or not she should open up, but she chose to lie. “No.”

“Well, Benjamin sounded worried, so that’s not very reassuring.”

“Big guy.” Her palm came to my cheek, and the events prior to her thumb outlining my jaw re-emerged. “It’s half five in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Don’t go there, Jones.

I coaxed her arms around my neck, the tips of my fingers subtle against her skin, rolled her beneath me in one, fluent movement, settled between her thighs and delved in for another long, bruising kiss. I knew she’d regret us—regret me—and I knew fucking her could change the dynamics of our serendipitous friendship, but I was too selfish to care. At that moment, I wanted her, plain and simple. My hand tightened around her throat. Tongue sweeping into her mouth, the slightest of flicks, I breathed her in, devoured her with an insatiable hunger, the steady rock of my hips stimulating her most intimate area.

“Brad,” she moaned between raw kisses.

Our shoulder blades grazed as my hand covered her mouth, silencing her erotic whimpers. “Do you want this?” My nose nudged her temple, and she nodded. “Can you stay quiet for me, sweetheart?”

She pried my hand down from her mouth. “Yes.” I almost turned her over, face-down, arse up, but her hand latched onto my wrist. “Not like that, big guy.”

Reaching for the curtain, I drew it back, the streetlight casting low light across her body.

I stared at her through hooded eyes.

We were too broken to fix together, even if it was one night of no-strings-attached sex. I know she has demons, and I know she senses mine.

I considered Chloe’s letter.

It was the position she hated, too. “Why?”

She gave me a sad smile. “I think you know why.”

I fell back on my haunches.

My head swam with questions.

Questions for Emma.

Questions for Chloe.

It was a rarity, but I wanted to understand. “You were violated, weren’t you?”

Emma struggled to answer, so she nodded almost imperceptibly.

My blood simmered. “Carter?”

“My son is the best thing that ever happened to me,” she said fiercely, her eyes glassy. “He is not born of rape. He is here because I wanted him regardless of the circumstances. Do not pity him or me. We are happy.”

Arms crossing over my chest, I chewed my cuticles until the skin tore and blood coated my tongue.

Emma sat up, the duvet falling to her waist. “I think it’s time to blame the alcohol.”

Yes, I agree. I can only fuck a certain way and vice versa. Alas, one night together is not worth the aftermath or the roadblocks between us. “For both of our sakes, I have to leave.”

“Okay,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest. “Post the keys through the letterbox when you lock up.”

“Hey,” I whispered, cupping her cheek. “I am a prick most days, but I like you. You are the friend I never knew I needed.” It took honest conversations to realise how much I valued her and her opinion. “So, I won’t fuck this up. Got it?”

Her smile warmed my chest. “Got it.”

I dropped a kiss to her forehead, the same way I kissed Alexa goodbye, changed in record-breaking speed and, as instructed, posted the keys through the letterbox after saving my number in her phone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Bleu

I sold Vincent’s painting for a whopping nine grand, which meant the discarded art would sell for more than the buying price. The male gallerist mentioned the painter’s name during the exchange, not that I took note. I am not an art-lover. Even if he is a wheeler-dealer, the sale, in my eyes, was a huge success.

My next stop was the hairdressers for the stylist to fix my tawdry image. I lost the hacked, peroxide hair and embraced the youthful pixie cut with strawberry blonde layers and highlights.

I missed the waist-length blue hair, but an extreme transformation was necessary to stay off Vincent’s radar. I jumped feet first into the River Thames the night his men chased me down, and I will never understand how I survived the ice-cold water and frigid temperatures for two hours. The guardian angel on my shoulder, whoever it may be, talked tirelessly in my ear as I dragged myself onto the muddy embankment, which is where I passed out until dawn.

I omitted transportation and busy streets in fear of exposure, walking the longest route back to the bed-and-breakfast to reclaim the canvas. I resembled a drowned homeless person for the first half of the morning, but my clothes had dried by the time I uncovered the charity shop to buy three outfits, fabrics and white daps that I’d typically avoid. I dumped the knee-high boots, the ruined clothes on my back, changed into floral textiles and checked into a hostel.

The hostel is filthy, the walls smoke-stained and furniture outdated. I heard the couple next door bickering every morning and scuttling rodents beneath the floorboards at night.

Presently, I am consuming coffee in an American style diner. I ingested loaded potato skins earlier, smothered in thawed, melted cheese and crispy flakes of bacon, dipped in moreish sour cream, so I am not starving, not by a long shot, but the man chomping condiment besmeared hotdogs at the end of the high gloss red bar beguiled the gluttonous binge eater within. I ordered the steakhouse burger, another coffee and cola refill.

Hell, I had nothing better to do. I am still jobless but not penniless. I can afford to overindulge until I collapse into a sluggish food coma.

I wore red, non-prescribed, oversized glasses—I bet Sally Jessy Raphael would be very impressed—to alter appearance; nowadays, I rarely recognise myself.

“I changed my mind.” The distressed woman with the lightest shade of red shoulder-length hair in the leather booth behind me is on the phone, and I am bored enough to eavesdrop. “What do you think?”

I dunked two fries into the cardboard ketchup pot.

“He is not here,” she hissed, and I felt sorry for the person on the receiving end of her belligerence. “It’s a sign. Yes, it is. I should not be here—because it’s not worth it.”

Licking ketchup off my lips, I bite into the flavoursome burger, the caramelised fried onions and soggy lettuce caked in mayonnaise sequencing through the seeded bun.

Her head shook mildly. “It’s not always about money.”

I beg to differ.

Money makes the world go round.

“This is insane.” She held the phone with white knuckle urgency. “He is a criminal. Do you know what that means, or must I spell it out for you? Danger. Danger. High voltage.”

Scandalised by the most disgusting reference in human history, I sipped cola through the plastic straw to wash away the taste of intemperance on my tongue.

“How can you say that to me? Do not guilt-trip me into doing something like this. How can you be so selfish? Where is your compassion?” Her rufescent cheeks were puffy and bloated. “Fuck you. I am not doing it. If you want money so badly, get your arse off the sofa and find a job.”

Sucking mustard off my thumb, I watched her scurry out of the booth, the bright orange handbag hanging from her elbow, and dash down the narrow aisle to the exit.

My eyes went to the folder she’d left on the round, wooden table. I could follow her to return forgotten property, but I skivvy round for no one.

Using the paper napkin to eliminate grease on my hands, I skated across the warm leather seat where she once sat and infringed on her privacy.

Name: Alice Montgomery

Age: Thirty-Nine

I read Alice’s previous line of work and letters of recommendation. She has a level three diploma in childcare and education, NVQ level three in early years care and education, level three BTEC national certificate.

Alice has the ability to make close and trusting relationships with parents and children. She has an excellent imagination and can plan exploration activities that will help the child’s development, the appropriate techniques to cope with unexpected situations and stay calm when under pressure.

Apparently, Alice has a lot of energy and stamina. Feeding, bathing, changing nappies and dressing young children will not be a problem. She has the right qualifications to teach fundamental skills. If the child is in nursery/school, she can drop the child off and collect.

Cleaning, household chores, laundry service and grocery shopping can be requested in advance or on request.

Alice attended The Kingston University of London to study psychology for her master’s degree to practice in the field as a case manager, employment specialist, or social worker.

I extended a low whistle.

This woman is impressive. I almost envied her.

I closed the folder, ready to revisit lunch when two suited males became seated on the leather bench directly opposite me.

Time stood still. I did not blink, breathe or move a muscle.

I recognised them as Vincent’s men.

I tried to disguise myself, but they found me effortlessly.

No, I will not die today. I had to be there for my father.

“Brad Jones,” the blond male with the blowout hairstyle introduced himself. “This is a close friend of mine, Nate Alzaim.”

My soul left my body.

Brad is the man I bricked in the face. He is here, looking right at me, yet there is no sign of recognition in his soft, whiskey-coloured eyes.

Perhaps the incognito of exaggerated embroideries and bespectacled gormlessness worked.

Why did they join my table, though?

“You cut your hair.” Nate placed a laptop on the table. “Botox?”

Am I hallucinating?

Is this a dream?

How is lack of remembrance possible? Even with the altered appearance, I was almost sure they’d identify me the second we crossed paths.

The debonair male with painfully transfixing green eyes slid a photo of Alice across the table. “You look younger in person.”

My guardian angel fluttered to my shoulder to provide positive words of support once more. I listened to the voice with bated breath. I can stay calm throughout the accidental get-together, then run for the hills the second their backs are turned.

Nate’s pointer finger tapped the photo.

When wariness lowered to the image of Alice, I was taken aback by our semblance. It is uncanny how much we looked alike. We could be sisters.

These idiotic psychopaths think I am someone else.

“It improves skin elasticity,” I spoke for the first time since they arrived, praying neither of them identified my voice, not that I recall vocalising anything the night I ran from them. “And I prefer short hair. It helps to avoid dead ends and knots.”

Brad was reading Alice’s portfolio with serious studiousness.

“Are you hungry?” Nate’s ringed fingers struck the laptop’s keyboard as he typed something into the search engine. “I could eat.”

“Same.” Brad passed the folder to his friend. “What do you want?”

It took ten seconds for me to understand the question. “I am not hungry.”

“I insist.” He tossed the laminated menu in front of me. “It won’t read itself.”

My voraciousness is at the counter alongside the banquet of half-eaten food. I cannot swallow another morsel without vomiting, especially in such humid conditions. Yes, it rained outside, and cold winds blew for miles, but here, opposite them, I might very well pass out for the second time this month.

I selected the salad.

“Add the lasagne to her order,” Brad instructed, and the waitress, togged up in black cotton and white frills, scribbled the pen’s nib across the notepad. “Do you sell liquor?”

“Bottled beer,” she said, and his lips grimaced in distaste. “Hey, it’s cheap and cheerful.”

I nearly snorted.

Cheap and cheerful is an alternate world for these brutes. I bet they grew up with silver spoons in their mouths and parents who wiped their tooshies. Look at their suits, designer labels and solid gold jewellery. Even their scent reeked of extortionately priced cologne.

Money is no object.

“It’s not cheat day.” Nate’s long, inked fingers dented the menu. “Fuck it. I will have the half-pounder cheeseburger with extra bacon and salad. Filthy fries. Onion rings.” His eyes scanned the pricelist. “Macaroni cheese. Hot wings. Garlic and chilli king prawns. Lightly spiced shrimp. What’s up with the ribs?”

I no longer felt like a gluttonous pig.

“You can order the half-rack or full-rack.” Her pen aimed at his menu. “There is a selection of sauces.”

Nate’s straight white teeth flashed. “Surprise me.”

She gave him a kittenish grin. “What if I get it wrong?”

“I trust you to do right by me.”

I observed their flirtatious interaction with open-mouthed, vicarious embarrassment. If I have to sit here and witness their eye-fucking for another second, I will gauge my eyes out.

“What about you?” Her fluttering eyes went to Brad. “You look like a large hot dog fan.”

This time, I snorted, loud and unladylike. “That might have worked, but the sexual innuendo came from you, not him. Now everyone, including myself, believes the man has a predilection for large, wobbly sausages.”

A team of critical eyes turned to me.

I gulped air. “Maybe you do favour sausages and I—”

“Shut up.” Brad’s chastisement raked goosebumps across my cold flesh. “Who asked you to speak?”

I scowled at him, face incandescent with irritation. “Excuse me?”

“You need to learn your place and fast,” Nate cautioned as I wrapped my head around their shameless disrespectfulness toward women. “Unless you don’t want the job.”

Oh, Alice was here for an interview. Her wretched phone call with the unemployed person who sat on the sofa came down on me like a ton of bricks. So, this is why she freaked out. She sought employment and desired extra money but working alongside Vincent’s men frightened her, and rightfully so.

“No hot dogs.” Brad draped the doffed suit jacket on the booth’s chrome rear. “I will order seasoned fries and two beers.”

She wrote it down. “Do you want Budweiser, Becks or Stella?”

“I don’t care.” His voice came out harsh. “Alice, what’s your poison?”

The meddlesome woman glimpsed at the half-eaten banquet on the bar. “Do you want me to bring—?”

“No,” I cut her off before she threw me to the wolves. “I’ll have a glass of ice water and make it quick.”

Tucking the menu under her arm, she ducked behind the counter to tap our order into the cash register then ventured to the kitchen.

“Miss Montgomery.” Nate pushed black-framed reading glasses up his perfectly proportioned nose. “You went to Kingston University.”

What is this? Twenty-one questions? He can read the portfolio, so why is he interrogating me?

His pierced brow curved. “Miss Montgomery?”

“Yes,” I said after a beat. “I did that—that thing you just mentioned.”

“Home away from home?”

“I loved the halls.” Please, for the love of God, answer correctly. “It was delightful, living with different students. And the building was located close to campus facilities.”

“Your recommendations are outstanding.” He is reading the second page of Alice’s portfolio. “I have contacted all three of your previous employers, and they speak very highly of you. Particularly Mr Anderson. He said the way you handled the situation with his son, Niall, was second to none.”

I nodded incessantly. “Niall is a great kid.”

Nate’s head cocked. “Was.”

“Pardon?” My hands shook like a leaf beneath the table. “Was there another question?”

“Niall was a great kid.” Nate closed the folder. “He lost his battle to leukaemia six months ago, remember?”

“Fuck. Excuse my French. That’s what I meant. Niall was a great kid.” Looking at the ceiling, I willed tears to my eyes. “Sorry, talking about him still affects me.”

I am going to the burning pits of hell.

Lucifer is waiting for me.

Brad’s jaw tightened. “To what extent did Niall’s death affect you?”

“Well, I had bonded with him. He did not deserve to die. I mean, no child deserves to die, but it was awful to watch him deteriorate. And his poor family. Heartbroken, I tell you. I doubt they will ever recover from such a tragic loss.”

Nate is typing something on the laptop. “What is your current state of mind?”

“It is a painful memory,” I lied, having never met the family before. “However, after months of therapy, I feel as though I am in a better place. I look forward to tackling the future.”

Nate eyed me over the laptop. “Do you prefer to child-mind babies, infants or teenagers?”

I am not maternal. I doubt I will ever bear children. “I am flexible. All children, no matter their age, are hugely rewarding.”

“Brad’s son, Dominic, is not one until October,” Nate said, and I had to stop myself from looking at the man in question. It never occurred to me that the criminal was married with children. “As explained on the phone, If you agree to work at the Jones Estate, I will need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement.” A stapled document landed on the table. “You will live there on a full-time basis.”

I made a nervous sound in the back of my throat. “Okay.”

“I will put you on three-month probation.” Nate put a pen on the document. “Your boss, Mr Jones, will monitor your performance, capabilities and appropriateness until the probationary period comes to an end. If you are successful, I will have you sign another contract. The average salary for live-in nannies is approximately forty-two grand. Here is the first three months payment in advance.”

Brad extracted a brown envelope from his trouser pocket.

I accepted it with trembling fingers. “How much is in here?”

“Around ten grand.” Brad never blinked. “Ten thousand five hundred if you want to be technical.”

“Okay,” I squeaked, swallowing the gasp threatening to spill from my lips. “I will put it…” My bag is by the bar. “May I be excused? I need to use the ladies room.”

Brad’s hand latched onto my wrist, tight and punishing. “Leave the envelope on the table.”

“Right, of course.” I did what the man demanded, then hastened to the restroom, even though I had no urge to use the toilet.

I timed how long it would take to pee, wash my hands and fix my appearance before returning to the cafe. Ever so subtly, I swiped the bag on the floor by the stool and, hiding said bag underneath the occupied table, relaxed against the booth’s red leather.

“I will drive you to the estate after lunch,” Brad said the second I got comfortable. “I want you to take a look around and familiarise yourself with the facilities before Dominic comes home.”

I had to play smart and think ten times smarter. “I look forward to it.”

What’s the worst that can happen? I could spend one night at his house, shower and sleep uninterruptedly, then wake up at sunrise to abscond.

Brad will be disappointed that his nanny let him down, but I am sure he can find a decent replacement by the end of the week.

Plus, I am not a qualified childminder.

I can barely take care of myself, never mind someone’s kid.

Nate motioned to the document.

Clicking the top of the pen, I turned the page and scribbled Alice’s signature across the dotted line.

Alice Montgomery.

Brad noticed the bag under the table. “Where is your suitcase?”

“Everything I need is in the bag.” When the men held a silent conversion with their eyes, I explained meticulously. “I did not see the point in hauling unnecessary clothes here, there and everywhere. I will buy appropriate clothing once settled at the estate. Online shopping will give me something to do until Dominic is home.”

The waitress reappeared with our drinks.

I thanked her for the water.

Brad stood to his full height. “If you will excuse me.”

I watched him follow the waitress to the back of the cafe, the pair disappearing through the private door.

Did he just leave the interview to screw the buxom blonde?

Nate never batted an eyelid, which I found most odd, considering he was the one to show the woman interest initially.

I sipped water. “Are you upset?”

He peered at me from over the glasses. “What?”

“Your close friend is with the waitress.”

His brows furrowed. “So?”

“So, doesn’t it bother you that she is with him?”

“Why would it bother me?”

I stared blankly.

“Miss Montgomery, if I were you, I’d keep my nose in check. Our business is not your business.” He smirked, low and wolfish. “You ain’t here to cast judgement. You are here to change shitty nappies, so learn your fucking place.”

My lips pursed at his rudeness. “No problem.”

A male waiter organised plated food onto the table.

I reached for the lasagne and salad. I had to portray willingness, even if it meant water intervals and portion-controlled mouthfuls.

Brad decided to make an appearance thirty minutes later, albeit dishevelled and blatantly fucked. He tucked into stone-cold seasoned fries half-heartedly whilst his friend devoured everything in sight.

I set the half-eaten lasagne aside. “Thank you for lunch.”

Brad pulled a swig of beer. “Let’s bounce.”

“I ain’t finished.” Nate downed beer to unclog his throat. “You can go ahead, though. I will meet you at the Warren Manor later this evening.”

I did not want to leave with this man.

“Grab your bag,” Brad ordered, and I seized the handle with great reluctance. “Move it.”

Stuffing the envelope in my bag, I stood, the knot in my stomach twisting and tightening. “It was nice to meet you, Nate.”

“Likewise.” His eyes toured me from head to toe. “I ain’t going nowhere, Alice. You will see a lot more of me.”

His strong London accent held a warning. He is waiting for me to step out of line. I am not privy to whatever conversation they shared before the interview, but I get the feeling Nate is not sold on the idea of Alice living at the estate full-time.

***

Mr Jones’ property, located at the heights of landscaped gardens and breath-taking, picturesque views, is accessible through the gated entrance only. The long, unfading driveway fringed in a dense thicket of giant sycamores stretched and climbed for miles.

Gravel crepitated under the tyres as the vehicle slowed. I peered at the majestic mansion in the heart of prestigiousness and splendacious outbuildings in complete and utter awe.

My boss rose from the car, slamming the driver’s side door in his wake. He never delivered orders or instructions. He entered the house through the ornate iron and glass double doors whilst I mentally dawdled predefined paths of feasible departure.

I had to get out of here, in one way or another, before the man became fully aware of who I am, the thieving woman who managed to out-smart dangerous criminals and evaded consequence.

Still, I knew better than to run hastily. I had never seen mobs of armed men in the close proximity of life-threatening disadvantageousness. I bet they’d shoot before I reached the electronic gates if I left. I had to make good decisions, to conform to new rules and obligations until the opportunity to flee into the night supervened.

The foyer’s wrought iron bifurcated staircase with vine-patterned balustrade is a stark contrast to the all-encompassing Bianco Carrara marble. The colossal crystal chandelier trumped the exceptional high-ceiling and graceful archways enriched in sculptural motifs.

It was architectural elegance at its finest.

Awe-inspired by such magnificence, I held the bag strap with idle fingers and scrutinised my impermanent home.

Stone-faced men donning business suits passed on by with long strides (their identities unknown), but they never so much as blinked in my direction.

A woman resplendent in designer labels, red-bottomed heels and belted blazer dress descended the stairs, her diamond-laden fingers tracing the artisan hand-rail admiringly. “You must be Alice,” she said, her dark silken hair falling down her back in airy waves. “I’m Alexa. Brad’s adopted sister.”

I think it was a joke. “Hello,” I replied meekly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I am here to give you the grand tour.” Her eyes brightened when the besuited male from the formal dining room appeared. “Alfie, will you be a gentleman and collect Miss Montgomery’s suitcase from the Bentley whilst I show her around?”

He nodded curtly.

“Actually,” I interjected, wondering why the man only wore one leather glove, “I have everything I need.”

Alexa eyed the bag in my hand.

“I plan to buy new clothes,” I explained, not that I should have to. “I didn’t see the point in overpacking. I’ll get a feel of the place first, see if there is a specific dress code, then I can overload the bedroom.”

“Oh,” she said with a bogus smile. “Well, if you insist.” Accepting the leather-bound folder from Alife, she unclasped the gilded clasp and boasted the estate’s floor plan. “I will start with prohibited sectors. You have no reason to venture to the west wing. Your boss has a reasonable expectation of privacy. Do not enter the ground floor office without prior permission. If he is home, knock on the door before entering.”

Is there any need to speak with an air of snobbishness?

“What else did he say?” she was talking to herself, not me. “Oh, that’s right. You are not allowed to use the underground’s iron door unless in the event of an emergency. I cannot stress this enough, Alice. Your boss will be furious.”

I nodded agreeably, but her stern warning had piqued interest. I mean, what is punishing about the maze of forbidden unknowingness beneath?

“You do, however, have free-reign to the east wing. Your en-suite bedroom is beautiful,” Alexa harped on. “It offers an adjacent seating area with recently purchased furniture, balconies with garden views and the most impressive walk-in wardrobe. Honestly, I am jealous.”

I smiled flatly. “It all sounds wonderful.”

“Dominic’s bedroom is also in the east wing.” She turned the page. “I covered the checklist, but if you think I missed anything—particular clothes, specific furnishings, etcetera—you can use this,” she handed over a black Coutts card, and my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, “to place orders. Let me give you some friendly advice. Your boss is generous, but he is not soft. He is trusting you to spend wisely. It is not your money to waste.”

The card came with stipulations and a death threat. “Is there a limit? How will I know what is acceptable and unacceptable when purchasing for Dominic?”

“Dominic has unlimited funds,” she said, which really meant, ′you do not, bitch’. “Nate Alzaim—I believe you met him earlier—is Warren Enterprise’s trusty accountant. He handles all of the financial documents for the organisation and its employees. He will inspect and analyse Dominic’s account quad-weekly.”

Bloody hell. It’ll be like living with a permanent microscope shoved up my arse. “Fine by me.”

“If you will follow me,” she said, ascending the stairs with graceful steps. “I will show you to your room.”

I followed her to the next level.

“There are empty stables on the estate. I doubt you wish to see them, but I thought I’d mention it. You have access to the indoor and outdoor swimming pools, tennis court, fully equipped gym, home theatre, Tudor-style library—do you read?”

Yes, I loved books. “Not really.”

“The monotonous chores of everyday life are not a concern for you.” Her casual stroll led us down the regal hallway. “Brad assigned a personal chauffeur for you and Dominic. You will meet him soon.”

Great. I have someone watching my every move.

“Brad is self-sufficient, but he is married to the job. He doesn’t have the time or patience to manage dependents. So, the live-in housekeeping staff and personal chef reside on the ground floor on the north side of the house. I met some of them earlier. You will love them.”

I have to like people to enjoy their company. “Is laundry service included?”

“That’s what housekeeping is for.” She unlocked the door to my bedroom. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

Hiking the bag strap over one shoulder, I drifted into the room, the rich, marble floors and opulent furniture stealing the air I breathed. I had a leather king-size bed bedecked in velvet and satin. I could not wait to crawl under those sheets and sleep without fear or disturbance. It was the balcony that stole the show, though. I imagined the wind on my face as I read books beneath the stars. It was the perfect place to unwind.

I could get used to living here permanently. Hell, I’d be foolish to turn down such a great opportunity. I missed the days when money was of no importance, and life treated me well. However, affluence is not worth death. I am on borrowed time, and I will die if Brad uncovers the truth.

“It’s a little masculine.” Alexa studied the room’s minimalist details and dark shades. “You almost had a four-poster, but Brad would not budge. He insisted on leather and hard edges.”

My bag landed on the fringed rug. “I am not overly girly.”

Alexa put the room key on the coffee table by the leather u-shaped sofa. “Do you want to see Dominic’s room now or later?”

“I thought I could meet him first,” I said, stupefied by her staggering beauty. “If that’s okay.”

“He is not home yet.” Her steady voice gave nothing away. “You will see him in a few days.”

So, what do I do for the next few hours? I suppose I could enjoy the facilities, catch up on sleep and take advantage of the indoor swimming pool first. I am excited just thinking about the water on my face as I swim laps. “So, what’s expected of me until Dominic is home?”

“Well, you will be pleased to know that uniforms are not mandatory. You could use the computer in the library to order new clothes. I took the liberty of sorting skincare products and beauty cosmetics. Everything you need to luxuriate is in the en-suite.”

I thanked Alexa for the overly polite exaggeration of buying on behalf of another, even though I hated to be beholden to someone. Everything in life came at a high price. I have experienced my fair share of indebtedness in the past. History will not be repeating itself.

“I will pay you back,” I insisted, and she frowned. “I like to pay my way, Alexa.”

“Right,” she said, her hands sliding to her hips. “Well, if you insist. Do you want to cover the bill now or pay instalments?”

I unzipped the bag to extract money from the envelope. “How much?”

“Off my head?” Her eyes lingered on the ceiling. “Well, the Chanel revitalising and replenishing night concentrate was five hundred and fifteen pounds,” she said as if the outrageous price was no big deal. “Do you want a breakdown of each item or the final bill?”

I hesitated with the envelope. “I think I will just accept everything with humble gratitude.”

“Good.” Alexa looked relieved. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

“No.” Shoving the envelope back in the bag, I glanced at her slight bump. “You are pregnant.”

“Yes.” Her hands fell to her stomach automatically. “I apologise in advance if I annoy you at any point throughout the pregnancy. I am very excited to meet him.”

I sat on the leather sofa. “It’s a boy.”

“Oh, I don’t know for sure.” Her shoulder leaned into the doorframe. “Brad and the others believe it’s a boy, so I am leaning towards blue.”

I flinched at her innocuous word choice. “When do you find out the sex?”

“I decided to wait.” She looked away, but I had already caught the glimmer of sadness in her hazel-coloured eyes. “The baby’s father had to go away for a while. I think it’s only fair that I wait until he is home. That way, we can find out the baby’s gender together.”

I had a lot to learn about these people.

“Anyway,” she said with a breathy sigh. “Enjoy your first night.”

Alexa closed the door behind her.

I had to get the hell out of here.

First, I will sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Emma

My phone jittered on the kitchen table. Yet again, the obstinate caller withheld the number to privatise identity. If I answered the calls and replied to the blank text messages, would the person speak or respond? I don’t believe so. I think he will wait until our lines connect and, to put the final touches on abnormally heightened apprehensiveness, taunt in complete silence.

Text message received.

My breath shuddered.

I placed the ceramic coffee mug on the counter, slid onto the metal chair and unlocked the phone.

Hugo: Good morning, gorgeous.

Amidst sweaty, suffocating clamminess, I expelled an anxious breath, typing a short response.

Me: Morning. Did you call?

Message read.

Hugo: No, why? Is everything okay?

I knew Hugo was not responsible for scaring the living daylights out of me, but wishful thinking stumped reality, even when optimism was short-lived and unrealistic.

Me: Everything is fine 🙂

Hugo: Good.

Hugo: What are your thoughts on a second date?

It is too early for this conversation. I have a mild dependence on coffee, so two cups of caffeine ensued for brain function, followed by a warm shower, then I replied.

Me: I’d like that.

Previously, I left Carter in Ben’s care for the evening to meet Hugo at the local park for an old-school picnic. He packed two freshly baked baguettes, cured meats, an assortment of cheese, flavourful salad, red cherries, plastic cups and sparkling wine. He unfolded a chequered blanket onto the grassy knoll beneath the giant oak tree, the leafy branches shielding us from the fading sun.

He even unclasped the sandals on my feet.

It was the perfect date.

Hugo was great company and very easy to talk to. Many conversations flowed throughout the night. He was funny, too. I laughed until bleary-eyed, the smile on my lips leaving a stitch in my side.

I received a goodnight kiss. It was soft, gentle and, to my dismay, non-gravitational.

He is handsome, sweet, charming, polite, chivalrous—the type of man most ladies appreciated; the whole package—but I felt no spark or thrill of excitement, and it has weighed heavily on my mind ever since.

Hugo: What about a late-night movie?

I won’t chuck the towel in yet. He is a nice guy, and I want to see if our unexpected friendship will blossom into something more.

Me: Only if I get to pick the film.

It was a joke.

Hugo: Okay, don’t hate me, but I already bought the tickets.

I frowned.

Me: Expectant!

Hugo: Pre-emptive.

Hugo: Did I upset you?

No, he did not upset me. His self-assured impulsiveness was a little daunting, though. Now, I feel obliged to go because he spent money.

Me: No, it’s fine 🙂

Hugo: Phew. I’d hate to mess this up.

I put the phone down.

“Hey.” Ben entered the kitchen with a towel knotted around his waist, freshly showered hair sticking out behind the ears. “Have you seen my wallet?”

My brother is a slug. He leaves a trail of personal belongings everywhere he goes; phone in the bathroom; right boot at the bottom of the stairs; left boot on the kitchen floor; coat on the coffee table; keys in the hallway’s plant pot. “It’s on the windowsill in the living room.”

“Thanks.” He guzzled milk from the carton. “Are you okay?”

I smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re my twin.” He deadpanned. “We share a telepathic connection.”

“Twin telepathy is not scientifically proven.”

“Whatever.” He pulled out a chair. “I can tell when something’s up.”

Ben is anxious about the withheld phone calls. If he thinks for one second that the O’Shea family might be back with a vengeance, he will sell the cafe, load the boot, board a ferry and drive us to Spain.

Madrid is our next destination.

We have outlived all four nations in the United Kingdom. England is the last resort. But I don’t want to live in Spain. I am happy. Living here, in London, is the reason for happiness. I have a place to call my own, friends I cherish and adore, and a son who, after months of loneliness, friendlessness and unhappiness, is eager to wake up and get to school in the morning.

Carter was even invited to a pool party next weekend, which is all he’s talked about since he stuck the colourful invitation on the fridge. He needs stability. I will not continue to disrupt his life, dragging him from pillar to post because I am terrified the past will repeat itself.

My son has suffered enough.

“Em.” Ben’s hand found my knee under the table. “Talk to me. Is it the calls? Do you want me to answer next time to see if the person speaks?”

“Oh, that.” I interlaced our fingers, his hand too large beneath my palm. “It’s nothing to worry about. It was a sales company trying to flog furniture.”

He released my hand as though the touch burnt him. “A sales company?”

I nodded.

“Really, Em?” His nostrils bristled. “What, we lie to each other now?”

My lungs freeze. “I am not lying.”

“It’s O’Shea, isn’t it?” A flush of anger crept to his honed cheeks. “I know it’s him. You can lie to me all you want, but we have played this game enough times to recognise the signs of impending doom.”

“I will not run,” I said, and his cold green eyes gleamed with venom. “To hell with the O’Shea family. They can call and text and knock on our door, but I am taking a stand. This is our home, Ben. We cannot let them drive us out anymore. I refuse.”

“Have you forgotten what they did to us?” His face was beet-red. “What they did to me!”

How could I forget?

Ben’s past suffering will haunt me for the rest of my life.

“They’ll take him from us,” he whispered, his contemptuousness deliberate. “Is that what you want?”

My eyes welled up. “How can you say that to me?”

“You have lost touch with reality,” he retorted, the legs of the chair scraping on the floor as he jumped to his feet. “You were never supposed to keep him.”

My palms struck the table as I stood. “He is my son.”

“And Killian’s,” he reminded me, and my heart crashed into my ribs. “Whether we like it or not, Carter is an O’Shea. That means something to them, Emma.”

My pulse thrummed. “Well, it means absolutely nothing to me.”

“I almost died protecting you.” He stared, teary-eyed and speechless. “I don’t think I’ll live to talk about it next time.”

With a searing look of disappointment, Ben stalked out of the kitchen.

Listening to his heavy footsteps fade, I sucked in a sharp breath and dumped the mug into the sink of hot, bubbly water. I hate arguing with my brother. I can fight like cat and dog with anyone else but not him. Never him.

Ethan’s throat cleared by the doorway.

I squeezed suds out of the scourer. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” His backside claimed my chair. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

I like Ethan and Wyatt, but this is a family matter. Plus, I don’t know how much Ben’s told them. “No, it’s okay.”

There was a pause.

“I came up to grab the keys,” he said, and I opened the kitchen cupboard to grab the loop of keys on the bottom shelf. “Wyatt is downstairs with the delivery guy.”

“Thank you, Ethan.”

Ethan hesitated. He’s a good friend to Ben, but he cares about me, too. “Come and find me if you need someone to talk to,” he said, taking the keys down to the cafe’s kitchen.

I went to Carter’s room to give him a nudge. “Baby, it’s time to get up for school.”

“Okay,” he grumbled into the pillow but made no effort to move. “I’ll have jam on toast.”

I crouched beside the bed. “I’ll make the toast after you shower.”

Rolling onto his back, he rubbed his tired, puffy eyes. “I had a bad dream.”

My fingers combed through his dark, messy bed hair.

“I was in school. It didn’t look like school, but I knew it was school. My friends were scared. And the teachers screamed.” His legs alternately kicked their way to the top of the blanket. “There was the most gigantic dinosaur in the playground. He was eating everyone. Even the caretaker. And it was the worst dinosaur. Like the one in Jurassic Park with the big mouth and sharp teeth.”

“Who let you watch Jurassic Park?”

He yawned, stretching his arms and legs. “Uncle Ben.”

Benjamin Hughes will be the death of me.

“Come on.” Drawing the curtains, I opened the window to air the room. “I don’t want you to be late for school.”

Carter’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind. “Mum,” he said, his head buried in the dip of my spine. “I love you.”

I squeezed his forearm. “I love you more, baby.”

***

Brad showed up for community service at midday. I was starting to think he wasn’t coming back. It felt like a lifetime ago since the night he almost stayed in my bed.

On numerous occasions, I was tempted to text to see if he was okay, but I knew better than to hound him. He lives life without female complications. He said as much when we opened up to each other.

So, the last thing he needs is the girl at the cafe stalking him to death. I had to learn boundaries, which is hard because I am an overbearing mare at times.

Brad’s supervision officer, the beautiful blonde woman in formal pinstripes, is currently yapping in his ear. Usually, he’d engage in conversation or smile, wink and flirt. Today, he is less responsive. He nodded when she spoke but rarely opened his mouth. In fact, the rubbish on the floor received more attention.

I served two customers, then made shit-tasting coffee for the ungrateful sod outside. Honestly, I just wanted an excuse to talk to him and break the ice. I’d hate to think the kiss we shared had a negative impact on our newfound friendship.

Brad looked up when detecting advancing footsteps. He hurled overstuffed black sacks into the yellow skip, discarding his gloves with a snap.

I handed him the coffee.

He blew over the coffee’s steamy surface.

No words were exchanged.

I stared.

He stared.

Someone had to speak.

“Hey,” I said, and the hint of a smile on his lips did something to my chest. “I was ready to send out a search party.”

His tongue swept over his upper lip. “You changed the coffee brand.”

I smiled guiltily.

“It’s worse.”

My smile dropped. “You are such an ass. I went all the way to Morrison’s to buy that coffee.”

“I’m kidding.” Lowering his mouth to my shoulder, he nipped exposed skin, and I had to pretend the innocent yet startling action hadn’t caught my breath. “If we are exchanging gifts, I’ll give you these.”

I captured the tube of pink smarties.

“Found them for a quid at the petrol station.” He licked a toothpick to the front of his teeth and nipped the end of it. “Smarties are your favourite, right?”

“Yes.” I tried not to overthink the thoughtful gesture. “Thank you.”

Pleased with himself, he tipped an imaginary hat. “You’re welcome.”

His supervision officer is watching us from her parked car.

I poured smarties into my palm. “I think she might be a problem.”

Brad grunted.

“What happened?” I asked, and a grim shadow crossed his face. “You disappeared.”

“Life,” he said cryptically. “So, I have a kid.”

With a delayed reaction, I did a double-take. “What?”

“His mother left me a note before she committed suicide.” He spoke, but I was too nonplussed to follow. “His name is Dominic. I had to do a paternity test. I received confirmation last week. Now, I am supposed to bring him home tomorrow, yet I have no idea what to do. Am I meant to love him? Hold him? I don’t know, Emma. I am not father material.”

My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.

Brad has a son? His son’s mother committed suicide? How and when did this happen?

“I organised everything. I bought a new house and hired staff to help.” His fingers curled a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I don’t fucking want this. There is no room for a child in my life…” He wanted to say more but stopped himself. “You know I am a renowned criminal, don’t you?”

A cold chill danced down my spine. “An uncharged criminal.”

“I work for Warren Enterprise.” His back rested against the skip. “Don’t act delusional. You know what that means.”

Yes, I am aware that Liam Warren is in prison. I have also heard horrific rumours regarding the aforementioned friend over the years, but I have no reason to fear these men. Maybe if I had met Brad under different circumstances, I might have had a different attitude. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“No.” His lips curved. “I want you to see where I am coming from. How can I raise a kid when the syndicate is my utmost priority? Sure, I can provide. He will want for nothing. I’ll be absent, though.” He gazed into nothingness. “He is my son, yet I dread the future because of him. What does that say about me?”

I think he should cut himself some slack. “Most fathers have the entire pregnancy to form bonds. They witness the labour, which is crucial for the father and the mother. They enjoy the excitement of getting to know their newborn and everything else that follows. You only recently found out he existed. It’ll take time. You might surprise yourself.”

Brad’s stare was piercingly intense. “Fingers crossed, huh?”

I gave him a flat smile.

“I should get back to work.” Trying to be helpful, I picked up the heavy black sack on the floor and threw it into the skip at the exact moment the wind decided to be vicious.

The skip’s massive, heavy lid slammed down on my hand.

Ten painful seconds later, I screamed, the burning sensation travelling from hand to shoulder. “Brad!”

“You docile bitch.” His arm swept around my waist to prevent collapse as he disengaged the locked skip, the metal lid crashing on the brick wall. “Why would you do that?” Everything hurt. “I never asked for your fucking help.”

Holding my forearm with trembling fingers, I chanced to look at the damage, the severe pain worsening with each hitched breath. “I think I broke it. Why the hell did I come out here?” I hadn’t realised I was crying until tasting tears on my lips. “Is it bad?” His tender touch to my elbow sent a shooting pain to my wrist. “No, don’t touch it.”

He was close, his breath tickling my ear. “Can you move your fingers?”

My knuckle twitched, the side-splitting throb ripping a pained wince from my lips. “No.”

Brad stared at the apparent deformity in my bent wrist and cursed. “Do you have your phone?”

My lips quivered. “It’s in my pocket.”

“I’ll drive you to the hospital,” he said, and I protested. “It’s not up for debate, Emma.” He pinched the phone from my back pocket, and I quickly told him the password. “Hughie texted you.”

“I don’t care about Hugo right now.”

Brad jogged to the Bentley with a personalised licence plate parked at the end of the alley. “I texted Ben. He will probably call.”

I waited until he unlocked the doors, then slid onto the passenger seat. “What about Carter?”

He adjusted the driver’s seat.

“Someone will need to pick him up if I am not home in time.”

Typing out another message on my phone, he leaned over me to lock the seat belt in place. “Ben can grab your kid.”

His nearness was oddly pacifying.

I broke eye contact first. “Do you think it’s broken?”

“Yes.” Grasping the back of my headrest, he glanced over his shoulder and reversed the vehicle one-handedly. “You’ll be fine. I have broken more bones than I care to remember.”

I felt sweat trickle at the nape. “I have never even suffered a sprain.”

His left hand held onto the gearstick continuously as he worked the steering wheel. “Lived life in bubble wrap, huh?”

No, I managed to escape situations unscathed—physically.

“This is a really nice car.” Admiring the leather interior and personalised features, I shifted in the seat, feeling out of place. “It must have cost a fortune. Or is it a hired car?”

“No.” He sounded offended. “I own this baby.”

I wouldn’t like to know how much this man is worth.

“It was a gift.” He paused by the red traffic lights. “Warren bought it for me.”

I think I underestimated their closeness.

Warren must love Brad a helluva lot to give him the keys to a top-of-the-range Bentley.

***

An X-Ray confirmed wrist fracture.

I have to wear a forearm cast for a minimum of six weeks.

The doctor prescribed codeine and over the counter pain relief. I chose to wait until later to swallow pills, though. Beer will suffice for now.

Ben: You are impossible.

Me: Because it is my fault the lid closed on my hand.

Ben: Your job is to serve customers behind the cash register, not help lowlife criminals load dumpsters.

Me: Ben?

Ben. What?

Me: Give it a rest.

Ben: I apologise for giving a shit.

Me: Ben, I love you. But this overprotectiveness is starting to get on my nerves. I am a grown woman. I can make my own decisions. And mistakes.

Ben: Since when was Jones a choice?

Me: He is my friend.

Ben: Until he wants more.

Me: I am ending this conversation before it gets too personal.

Ben: When you are reckless, I am left to pick up the pieces. How is that fair?

My thumbs hovered over the phone screen.

Ben: You know what? Do what you have to do. Don’t come crying to me when he lets you down.

Why is my brother so against Brad?

Me: Thank you for picking up Carter from school.

Ben: Don’t thank me for taking care of my nephew.

Me: I appreciate everything you do for us.

Brad returned from the unlively bar bearing bottled beer and a glass of whiskey. “Here.”

I thanked him for the drink.

Reaching behind his back, he yanked the grey hoodie over his head, the swift tug revealing his muscular back as the white T-shirt bunched up momentarily.

Adjusting the ruffled tee, he sat down on the leather bench, his thigh too close to mine, and sipped whiskey with a tired sigh.

His phone vibrated on the table. He never paid it any attention.

I was nosey. “Who is Cherry?”

“No one,” he said, and I could not understand the logicalness behind his lie. “Why? Are you jealous?”

I chuckled. “Very.”

He read the text message. “Cherry’s a friend of mine.”

Cherry is more than a friend, I thought.

“We fuck.” He confirmed unspoken reservations. “It works for now.”

Brad’s insatiableness for multiple women belatedly occurred to me. “You are a manwhore.”

He smiled impishly. “Guilty.”

This is why Ben is worried. My brother knows me like the back of his hand. I don’t waste energy on men or dating or even consider the possibility of love. Yet, I have unwittingly entertained this man for a while and without hesitation. Of course, my brother is worried by his sister’s recent spouts of uncharacteristic behaviour. He thinks I am invested.

Sure, I am not looking for more than friendship, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him.

Brad is undisputedly the most handsome man I have ever met.

I allowed myself to study his masculine features, his sharp, angular jaw, dusted in stubble, his lips thick but not too plump, his eyes, so beautiful yet beguiling, his blond hair perfectly wild. He truly is a fine specimen of a man (an allegedly dangerous man), and I must be dumb to think that whatever this is between us might not escalate into more.

Hell, we kissed. We nearly had sex. That may be the norm for him, but it was a big deal for me.

“Eat.” He slid a basket of salted fries across the table. “You must be hungry.”

I nibbled fries, then went in for the burger. “I apologise in advance,” I said, holding the burger bun cack-handedly. “I normally use both hands.”

Brad’s teeth sank into his burger. “It’s good.”

“Do you want to sign my cast?” Dismantling my burger with a fork, I noted the slight raise of his brow. “What?”

He dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Your days of sporting graffitied casts are long gone, sweetheart.”

“Well, I always envied kids with colourful, signed casts growing up,” I said, and he snorted at the absurdity. “What? I felt like I was missing out.”

When the leggy waitress sauntered past our table, Brad clicked her down. “Give me the marker.”

She patted herself down, found a spare marker and left it on our table.

Brad uncapped the marker with his teeth. “I’ll sign it.”

“Really?” I felt a strange flutter in the bottom of my stomach. “You won’t draw a huge penis on there, will you?”

His smile was wicked. “Are you fishing for a permanent visual of my cock, Emma?”

I hurled three fries into my mouth. “Only you could make something as innocent as cast signing sexual.”

His teeth gnawed his lower lip as the marker’s soft, felt-tip scrolled across the cast.

Brad’s bitch.

I choked on nothing. “Really?”

He added another.

Brad’s annoying friend.

“Now, you’re winding me up.”

Brad’s favourite person—sometimes.

Okay, I might have liked that one a bit too much. “You can be really sweet when you want to be.”

He coloured the smallest black heart next to our names.

My stomach coiled. “You know the heart is synonymous with affection, right?”

“Well, I am fond of you.” He outstared the signed cast with a confused countenance. “Eat your food.”

And just like that, he was back to his broody self.

I stole the pen. “It’s my turn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to sign you.”

His eyebrows crashed. “I am not wearing a cast, sweetheart.”

My eyes swept over his muscular frame with playful intent. “Your skin works.”

“You are not using a permanent marker on my body.”

“It’ll wash off…eventually.”

He considered it. “No.”

My bottom lip jutted out.

“Fine.” His overturned arm landed on the table. “I want to know what you plan to write first.”

Without permission, I scribbled on his forearm.

Emma’s bitch.

His eyes rolled. “Very funny.”

Emma’s annoying friend.

He downed whiskey in one mouthful.

Emma’s favourite person—all the time.

“Cute,” he mocked as I re-capped the pen. “You have nice handwriting.” His arm extended across the booth’s rear behind me, not that he seemed to notice. It was absent-minded. “So, how was the date with Hughie?”

He never looked at me when he asked the question.

“Hugo,” I tweaked, “is a nice guy. I am not sure if it’ll go anywhere yet, but I want to see it through, in case…”

“Nice is overrated.” He dunked fries into a dollop of mayonnaise. “In case, what?”

I want to continue to see Hugo in case I feel chemistry or a sexual connection.

“You’ll wait forever,” he said as if invading private thoughts. “I stopped looking for love a long time ago.”

Brad’s honesty robbed me of the ability to speak.

His jaw steeled. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“I never pegged you as a one-woman man.”

“I’m not. At least, not anymore.” He forked shredded lettuce to the side of his plate. “I tried when I was younger. Christ, I fucking craved intimacy like no other.”

I had many questions. “Who was she?”

“It’s not what you think,” he said with snarled lips. “I have never been in love. No one broke my heart in the past. I simply have issues due to negative shit I refuse to discuss.”

My stomach dipped.

I was scared to ask any more questions.

“I have witnessed love, though. It is almost instantaneous. What they felt for each other was there at the very beginning, but it took them months of unnecessary heartbreak and periods of separation to realise it.”

I wondered if the undisclosed people he discussed were still together.

“If you feel nothing for Hughie now,” he added, taking a huge bite of his burger. “You’ll feel nothing for him in six months. Why bother wasting time and energy on what I deem a preventable failure.”

“Unlike you, I want to settle down someday, fall in love and have more children.” I was more than ready to put the past behind me for a happy future. “If I have to date the wrong men to find the right man, I will do it.”

His phone vibrated again.

My lips pinched tight. “I think your friend is missing you.”

Deleting Cherry’s text message, he tucked the phone in his pocket. “Do you want to catch a late showing?”

I cannot imagine him doing something as normal as visiting the cinema. “Are you asking me out on another date?”

Brad set our half-eaten dishes to the side. “I don’t date.”

“I think a meal at a four-star restaurant is a date.”

“It’s a three-star restaurant. And it’s not a date. It’s greasy burgers with a friend.”

“Okay.” I’d have to check with Ben first. He is minding Carter for me until I come home. “One condition.”

He covered the bill. “What?”

“I get to pick the movie. And If I want to stuff my face with popcorn, smarties and fizzy drinks, I will do so without any heffa comments.”

“One, I do not use the word heffa. Two, eat the entire menu as long as you share.” He pulled on the hoodie as he stood, the material gathered around his neck. “Three, you can pick whatever movie you want because I am nice like that.”

Grinning at his snide remark, I read Ben’s text messages. “You are far from nice. Arrogant is more like it.”

Ben: Carter is asleep. Have a nice night.

Ben: We can talk tomorrow.

Me: Thank you.

“Come on.” He held my elbow as I rose to my feet. “You good?”

His countless acts of thoughtfulness were starting to do a number on my heart. He’s incorrigible most days, but these reserved moments of kindness did not go unnoticed. “Thank you, big guy.”

Brad’s hand stayed on the small of my back as we exited the restaurant.

He never paid attention.

But I did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Brad

Josh looked like death, his complexion pale, his eyes protuberant yet unfocused. He is on the single bed, washed-out and half-dressed, black tracksuit bottoms low-slung on his waist, one sock rolled down on his ankle. Both wrists are handcuffed to the headboard now. Judging by the trashed room, broken furniture, launched bed linen and pools of vomit on the floor, additional restraint was imperative.

“We had no choice.” Alexa, too cautious of Josh’s current state of unpredictability, paused by the open door. “Jax uncuffed him, thinking he’d shower without a fuss, but he kicked off. He punched three of the guards, Jax included, and made it to the front of the Manor before Bruno attacked.”

Well, that explained the missing sock.

“Bruno never hurt Josh.” She stepped aside for two female cleaners to enter the room. “The dog’s barking scared everyone, though. He can be quite vicious.”

Bruno is a Roman rottweiler. He is a beast, weighing in at one hundred and thirty pounds of black-tan fur and solid muscle. Hell, if he came at me, I’d scream like a bitch, too.

I squatted next to the bed. “How’s it going, Sailor?”

“Brad.” Josh’s dry, chapped lips scabbed at the corners. “I can’t fucking do this. My stomach hurts. I swear there was blood the last time I threw up.”

When I glanced at Alexa for validation, her head shook.

“No blood,” I assured him, but he did not believe me. “Frequent clonidine administration?”

“Yes.” Alexa watched the cleaners mop the floor. “Nate changed the IV bag recently, too.”

“Where is Nate?” I used a cold compress to smooth sweaty hair out of the lad’s face. “He should be here.”

“Nate drove to Gateway to collect imported goods. I think he’ll be on the streets until the morning.”

Yes, the man took charge of drugs and firearms distribution. Once he delivers crates to our errand boys, he’ll demand a percentage of their previous earnings and bank the money for Warren.

“Nate also mentioned a woman’s name,” she said with puckered brows. “He had to pick her up from somewhere. Essex, I think? Then drive her to the estate…”

I love it when Alexa probes for comprehension. It’s not an instant demand. It’s a soft, unforceful voice and false nonchalance to acquire knowledge, and if the other person is muted and unforthcoming, she’ll switch it up, raise her voice and argue until satisfied.

It was easier for everyone to be open and honest with Warren’s wife. And less of a headache. Besides, I trusted the woman with my life, so I had no reason to conceal information.

Josh had fallen asleep.

I binned the wet cloth. “Bosqui’s daughter.”

“Oh.” A pleased smile teased her lips. “I would like to meet her.”

“No,” I said, and she huffed. “You are pregnant.”

Her face was calm, but her eyes brewed a hellacious storm. “I know.”

“Then you understand why I will never put you in compromising situations.”

“I only wish to talk to the woman.”

My boss’s wife is out for blood. Her thirst for vengeance is to be expected. She is missing her husband. Warren is supposed to be here. Instead, he is in the pound, brushing palms with Russians, the backstabbing traitor. Nonetheless, this little firecracker will not rest until the man is home. Someone has to be held accountable and feel her wrath, or else she will not get closure, the sweet taste of revenge.

My thumb and forefinger snatched her chin. “It’s not happening, sugar tits.”

“Will she not be restrained?”

I smiled wickedly. “That’s not the point.” Her jaw fell into my hand. “You will not go within ten miles of adversaries until Bean is out of the uterus. Got it?”

Her furious stare visited the ceiling.

“Alexa,” I whispered, and her downcast eyes came to me. “If anything happens to you or the baby, I am a dead man walking. Warren will kill me. You know that, right?”

“My husband loves you.”

“Not as much as he loves you,” I said, and her tense shoulders relaxed. “I would not stand a chance. So, if you care about me even half as much as you portray, be a good friend and do as your bastard told.”

“Fine.” Her agreeableness was reluctant. “I just figured Bosqui’s daughter might trust a woman more. You lot are intimidating.”

I know she is right, but I stand by my decision. “Hey, I will take you here, there and everywhere after the pregnancy. How does that sound?”

Alexa had adopted an attitude problem somewhere down the line. Rather than voice appreciation, her head turned with dismissive acceptance.

“Get this room back in order,” I said, and the cleaners made their way into the en-suite. “And spray some air freshener.”

I followed Alexa to the kitchen.

The room’s motion sensor detected movement and the lights came on automatically. I gravitated to the marble kitchen island to get an eyeful of the silver platters: crustless sandwiches, savoury finger foods and colourful sticks of peppers and cucumbers. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” Alexa popped the kettle on. “I order a selection of cold dishes every other night for the guards to give them a break from takeout.”

I tossed a cherry tomato in my mouth.

Alexa made herself a cup of tea, then slid a glass of Macallan across the counter. I stared at the amber liquid in nostalgic musing.

It’s Warren’s favourite brand.

I have a limited-edition bottle in the guest bedroom, which I plan to store at the casino for when he comes home. Only then I will pour a glass.

Alexa sat on the stool, mug of tea in hand. “How’s community service?”

“Same as yesterday.” I delved into sandwiches. “Infuriating.”

“Were you at Club 11?” the intrusive bint asked.

“No, I went to the cinema with a friend.”

Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “You went to the cinema.”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“With a friend.”

My scowl hardened.

“Brad Jones willingly,” she emphasised for dramatic effect, “spent the night watching movies with a friend.” Her fingers curled around the mug. “Who is this friend?”

“It was one movie, and why the obtrusive exaggeration?”

Alexa gazed at me in mute bewilderment.

I was left bereft of comprehension. “What?”

“Nothing.” She chewed a carrot stick. “So, what did you watch?”

I have no idea.

Emma picked the moronic movie. I paid for the tickets and the assortment of sugary snacks. I might have fallen asleep the moment we became seated; I blame the comfortable recliner chairs.

I did, however, wake up to snivels. Emma is an empathic soul who cannot endure injustice. She was emotionally invested in the movie and the protagonists’ anguish.

Alexa’s eyes sliced.

“Okay, I was bored, so I never actually watched the film.”

“Oh.” She studied me over the mug’s rim. “Why not leave?”

Emma was enjoying herself. “What’s with all the questions?”

“I am nosey,” she said as though I weren’t already aware. “You still haven’t told me her name.”

“Emma. And don’t get excited,” I added, and her lips stretched into a smile. “I am not remotely attracted to her.”

Well, that’s a lie. Emma’s pretty. Most men would kill to have her on their arm, but I liked her more as a full-time friend than a part-time fuck buddy—not that I haven’t considered sex since the night it got hot and heavy between us. I am a man, after all. And, first and foremost, men think with their cocks.

I pinched the mug of tea and sipped. “She is refreshing and easy to talk to. I can completely switch off when I am around her.”

Emma is a breath of fresh air. I can still be myself without the weight of life in the foreground.

“Hey, maybe I can bring her over some time,” I suggested. “You will love her.”

“Really?” Alexa’s eyes dazzled with excitement. “You would invite a woman here.”

“I’d invite a friend to the Manor to meet my family,” I corrected, and she looked away to hide mirth. “What?”

“Emma sounds wonderful,” she said, her voice honest and sincere. “I cannot wait to meet her. It’ll be nice to have female company. God knows I need it.”

Yes, her friendship circle consisted of men only.

“I love you and the guys, even though you are annoying most of the time.” Her mouth bent into a wry smile. “But I miss girl talk and ice cream parties.”

“Look at you,” I teased with a wink. “Stealing my girl already.” When her eyes widened fractionally, I rectified the error. “She’s a mother. Her son, Carter, is nine, I think? He seems like a cool kid.”

Alexa reclaimed the mug of tea. “Brad, be careful.”

I was waiting for that. “What do you mean?”

“Walk away if you think for even a second that sex might complicate whatever this is between you both. Emma is a mother. Her son is old enough to get attached. Do not treat them like pariahs once you get bored. That’s not fair.” When I never replied, she searched my eyes, then picked up where she left off. “I haven’t met her yet, but she must be a decent mother and good person if you are keen to stay in her company. It tells me that she is not like the women you are used to playing with, either.”

Emma is the polar opposite of the birds I took to bed. She is sassy and confident, two attributes I admire in women, but she is not a good-time girl. Being a young mother matured her overnight. Every decision she makes, good or bad, is centred around Carter. Even if I wanted to pursue casual sex, she would turn me down because she is in pursuit of normalcy. A family. A loving partner. A man who is worthy of her kid’s love.

“Just be mindful,” Alexa said, and I put her advice to the back of my mind. “So, how’s Alice?”

I blinked. “Who?”

“Dominic’s nanny?” Her gaze darted over my face. “Jesus, Brad. Your son is due home tomorrow. Where is your head at?”

My son, I thought.

She regarded me quietly. “You are nervous.”

“Of course, I am fucking nervous.” Impossible dread reawakened. “I never asked for complications.”

Her lips pursed in indignation. “A child is a blessing, Brad.”

“Being a father is not my idea of happiness.” This entire ordeal has chagrined me since Chloe’s letter fell into my possession. “You got lucky with Warren. Sure, he never wanted any children, but that’s stubbornness. We both know that he’ll be fiercely protective over Bean because love is enough. I am not him. I am incapable of remoulding myself. I have tried.”

Her sad eyes dropped to the counter. “You should never underestimate your capabilities.”

“I hurt people even when I don’t want to.” It’s true. I have walked into situations with the belief that I could refrain from violence if I so choose, but I have become a victim of my own disassociated state. “My son is not an exception.”

Alexa fiddled with silk napkins. “You have never hurt Liam.”

“Yes, I have,” I said, and she gave me a puzzled look. “I have lashed out in the past and said some unforgivable shit. He tolerates me.”

Warren is stronger than I am. If I lose control, he’ll silence me with his fist until I reawaken in calmness.

“In fact, the entire brotherhood is an assemblage of tolerance. All the founding brothers,” I tugged the military chain around my neck, “have a gruesome story to tell. That is not a coincidence. Warren chose us for a reason.”

“And what might that reason be?”

“Beyond redemption,” I said whispery. “We are married to the syndicate. We can step out, ever and anon, to be sinners, but that’s where debauchery ends.” Extreme primitive anger followed by unconsciousness is the result of worrisome thoughts. “Our loyalty is to the boss. I have been on a tight leash since the very beginning because he knows I cannot handle emotional stress.”

Alexa was on edge. “Are you on medication?”

I ignored the ridiculous question.

“Have you tried therapy?”

Yes, when I was younger, not that any therapist helped. I never felt comfortable enough to share the darkest side of myself or explain the voices in my head. Even when naive and lost, I knew how crazy I would have looked.

“How do you keep anger inside?”

“Warren,” I admitted, and she paled. “He’s the only one that understands.”

With his voice alone, he can tap into that unhinged part of my brain and bring me back.

She scrutinised me. “What about Nate?”

I shook my head.

“When you were young,” she said, hunting for the right words. “I mean, what did you do to control it?”

This is where I end the conversation. “It’s not important.”

Her eyes softened. “Brad…”

“No.” I drew a line under our heart-to-heart. “I am allowed to keep personal shit to myself.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her fingers reaching across the island to hold my clenched fist. “For what it’s worth, I think you will be a great father someday. You just need to trust yourself.”

Alexa’s faith could not be further from the truth.

***

After packing the rest of my belongings at the Warren Manor, I loaded the Bentley with suitcases and drove home. It was strange, cruising down the estate’s never-ending driveway to pull up outside the mansion. I have owned properties before, but this new purchase is long-term. I will no longer crash on Warren’s sofa or claim one of his many guest bedrooms. I had to be here, even if I wished to be elsewhere because my son is due home tomorrow. He needed routine and stability.

I handed the night guard the Bentley key and told him to unload the boot. He can convey the suitcases to the master bedroom. Housekeeping can unpack.

It was dark inside the foyer. I made my way to the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards for whiskey. I found a bottle of Jameson, poured myself a drink, and sat on the plastic-covered leather sofa to roll a blunt.

Smoke travelled down my throat.

My head lolled on the sofa’s rear as I puffed into semi-consciousness. I nearly fell asleep, the blunt smouldering in the glass ashtray, when I overhead stealth-like footsteps in the hallway.

I am used to nightwalkers—security is twenty-four seven in our world—but these determined steps were softer, almost undetectable.

Reaching for the Glock on the low table, I sat straight, shoulders tight, and listened to the furtiveness of an intruder.

Someone crept across the kitchen.

I cocked the Glock.

Sucking in a sharp breath, the person froze mid-step.

“You must have a death wish.” My spine uncurled as I stood. “How did you get in?”

“It’s Alice.” Her voice trembled. “I wanted a glass of squash.”

My guard lowered. “What’s with the unobtrusiveness?”

“I did not want to wake anyone up.”

Turning on the kitchen light, I placed the Glock on the stonework island.

Alice was immobilised.

I expected pyjamas and a face free of makeup, but the woman is wearing black leggings, an oversized hoodie and scuffed white trainers. “Do you often wear clothes to bed?”

“I smoke,” she said, and I hummed disbelievingly. “Am I not allowed outside?”

Suspicious, I gave her a once over. “I don’t buy squash.”

“I ordered three bottles. I like tea and coffee but enjoy cold drinks mostly.”

I studied her blue eyes, having not noticed the sharpness of colour the first time we met. “Where are the preposterous bifocals?”

“Upstairs.” Her shoulder grazed mine as she went to the fridge freezer. “It’s not as though I can wear them to bed.” A bottle of blackcurrant squash came into view. “Do you want one?”

I pulled a face.

“Never mind.” Uncapping bottled water, she mixed her drink and headed for the back door. “I will be outside if you need anything.”

“Alice,” I called, and her hand stilled on the door handle. “If you even attempt to flee the estate with advanced wages, the men will shoot you down.”

Her body stiffened. “Why would I flee?”

“I don’t know.” Bridging the gap between us, I snatched the nape of her neck, and she gasped, her back colliding with my chest. “Inclination, I guess.”

“Look, I apologise if I upset or offended you,” she stuttered, her arse wiggling against my crotch as she flailed in my inexorable claws. “This is very inappropriate, Mr Jones.”

Thinking she meant maltreatment, I asked, “What’s inappropriate?”

“Your arousal,” she said breathlessly. “It’s also unprofessional. You are my boss.”

Taken aback, I burst out laughing. “I am not aroused.”

Her jaw ticked. “Your hard-on suggests otherwise.”

My cock is completely flaccid.

Repulsed by the scent of her shampooed hair, the feel of her against me, I pushed her away with necessary force and backed up.

Her hands struck the kitchen counter to evade fall. Ever so subtly, she side-eyed my groin and gulped. “You should tuck him up. Men of your size make adjustments.”

“Why would I tuck him up? I have a big dick. Get over it.” Irked by her unsightliness, her asinine suggestion, I reclaimed the unfinished blunt. “I have work tomorrow, but I will be home at four-thirty. Lorna and child services will be here at five. I need you on standby.”

Alice nodded.

“As I am Dominic’s biological father, I claimed parental responsibility after his mother’s death,” I explained, and her stare drifted sideways in a discombobulated state of contemplativeness. “You will take care of him. I am reachable via email or text message.”

“Am I entitled to any time off?” she asked, and I looked up. “Only, I will need the occasional day or evening to myself.”

I relit the blunt. “To do what?”

“To destress.” She stopped pacing. “To regroup and recharge.”

Her demand was reasonable. “We can discuss it tomorrow.”

“Very well.” Her teeth ground together. “I will take that cigarette now.”

Alice slipped outside.

Taking a deep drag on the blunt, I went to the window and watched her venture across the garden. I imagine she will hide in those abandoned stables a lot to avoid her boss.

***

Uma Thurman is hypersexual this afternoon. I might feed her my cock just to cork her mouth for half an hour. If I have to sustain this level of licentious flirtatiousness any longer, I will not be held accountable for my actions. I will eliminate the problem, whether here in broad daylight or at her house at night. Her death will be next on my list, come hell or high water.

“Come on.” Her painted talons trailed down my spine. “I even took off my underwear for easy access.”

Right, because an untrimmed minge sans lace is more appealing.

Why did I kill Tool again?

I scrubbed the fresh graffiti on the brick wall. “You are driving me round the fucking bend.”

“I love it when the sun is out.” Her chest welded to my back as her hands splayed across my abs. “I get to see your admirable chest.”

Christ, where did I put my T-shirt?

When she pinched my nipple, I went ballistic. “Will you have a fucking day off? Every day, I have to endure this irritating coquettishness, and it is draining the goddamn life out of me. I do not want to fuck you. Do you understand? Must I dumb it down for you? I will not shove my cock in your gammon alley. Do us both a favour, go and find another fucker to torment or buy a chick dick. I don’t care. I will even pay someone to take you off my motherfucking hands.”

Her jaw slackened. “You weren’t saying that when I had your cock in my mouth.”

“Well, you made it easy,” I argued, and her cheeks flared crimson. “No man turns down a blow job, Uma. You gave me head. Well played. I give you an A for bastard effort. Now that we have concluded that we are both whores, can I get back to the job, or do I need to snap your fucking neck first?”

Uma cackled like a crazy witch stabbing a voodoo doll. “You cannot threaten a supervision officer.”

“I whacked the last officer, so don’t think you are special.” Ripping the gloves off my hands, I scrunched them into balls and hurled them in her face. “You need to bounce, lady. I am a little tetchy right now.”

“I will file a Violation of Probation with the court.” Ramming her bony shoulder into my chest, she stomped down the alleyway. “Watch your back, Jones. Law enforcement will arrest you.”

“Yeah? And I’ll have you sacked and jailed for abuse of power,” I yelled, and she spun around to face me. “A sexual relationship with a high-risk criminal. How many years will you get for misconduct in a public office, Uma?”

Her mouth spluttered. “You have no evidence.”

“Surveillance footage.” I pointed to the camera above Ben’s Cafe. “And I have a sweet video on my phone.” It’s a lie. I never record sexual encounters. “How can you deny footage of my cock in your gob.”

Uma was appalled.

When she scuttled down the alleyway, I knew the chance of us seeing each other again was slim. I doubt she’ll even come back.

Propping one foot against the wall, I glanced at the group of community workers exiting the cafe with takeaway containers.

Emma’s quiet today. I thought she’d be out with coffee by now.

I took out my phone to shoot her a text.

Nate: I am behind schedule.

Me: That better not mean Bosqui’s daughter is AWOL.

Nate: No, I put her in the boot. I had to stop at the services, though.

Nate: Flat tyre.

Me: I thought you’d be at the estate by the time I got home last night.

Nate: Minor complication.

Me: Tell me about it later.

Deleting the message thread, I tapped Emma’s name.

Me: Where are you?

Message received.

Message read.

Emma: I am working.

Me: Where is my coffee?

Emma: Come and get it. I am not your skivvy.

Me: Look out for the one-star review on TripAdvisor.

Emma: I will murder you.

I was about to head inside when someone familiar appeared through throngs of community workers. Tucking the phone in my pocket, I kicked away from the wall and met him halfway.

“I thought it was you.” Jace, attired in all black, closed in. “Dare I ask?”

“Community service.” Happy to see a friendly face, I gave him a fist bump. “What are you doing on this side of the borough?”

“I had to get away from the shop.” He knotted a leather jacket around his waist by the sleeves. “Clear my head.”

I was curious. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing.” His tongue piercing dragged between his teeth. “So, Warren’s case was brutal. How are you holding up?”

“I do what I have to,” I said, and he nodded. “You should visit Alexa. I think she’s lonely.”

“Yeah, I’ll pop over one day next week.” He exhaled audibly. “I wanted to give her some space.”

Emma is on her way over with coffee.

I’d have teased her by now, talked shit about her coffee, but seeing her in a slim-fit black vest and tight denim shorts stole the words from my mouth. Pleasantly surprised by her flawless figure, I eyed her from head to toe.

Her smile morphed into something indescribable.

What’s wrong? I mouthed and, just as Jace’s head turned to see who I was talking to, she lunged behind the communal skip.

Jace popped an eyebrow. “Am I boring you?”

“No.” My heart rate picked up. “I thought I saw someone…”

He shrugged. “Anyway, I need to get back.”

We clasped hands.

“You should come over sometime,” he prattled on. “I’ll give you a freebie.”

“Perhaps.” My body is too perfect to be marred by ink. “Catch you later.”

Jace walked ahead.

I never moved a muscle until he strolled into the next alley.

Emma had managed to slip between the skip and the wall.

Going down on one knee, I reached for her arm, and she sucked in a startled breath. “It’s me,” I whispered, dodging the spilt coffee on the floor. “What the fuck was that about?”

“I…” Her lips quivered as she respired. “I am scared of bees, and one flew in my face. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Her blatant lie annoyed me. “Really, Emma?”

“We might be friends, but I do not have to tell you everything.” She swept strands of hair out of her face. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Emma’s coldness was unwarranted. Still, I held her hands and helped her squeeze through the narrow space.

Standing on unsteady legs, she composed herself. “I have to go—” I snatched her wrist before she could leave. “Big guy. I need to pick up my son. Release me at once.”

Carter is in school until three.

“Emma…” My tight grip on her wrist reduced when her eyes filled with tears. “You’re right. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

I did not like it.

And that’s why I stepped back because her sadness should not bother me. Yet, I stared at her with this overwhelming need to protect her.

Alexa was right.

I have no business here.

Not when I bring more catastrophe than salvation.

She hugged herself. “I can get you another coffee.”

“No, it’s cool.” I never wanted coffee anyway. “You should get your kid.”

Emma slipped past me without a backward glance.

I sent another text message.

Me: Well?

Burton: I’m working on it.

Me: Work harder. If I have to spend another day picking up other people’s shit, I will drag you down here to labour on my behalf. Let’s see how you handle a couple of empty crisp packets shoved down your throat.

Burton: And how the fuck am I supposed to explain that to the Met?

Me: Do I care?

Burton: For fuck’s sake, Jones.

Me: I cannot do this anymore.

Burton: It’s only a bit of litter.

My eyes went to the cafe.

Me: No, it is so much more than that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Emma

Quinn and Steph bickered. If it were a typical day, I’d intervene, calm the pair down and send them in opposite directions. But time was of the essence, and I was not the best candidate for peace-making in my current mental state.

“Emma.” Steph’s long, honey blonde hair is weaved into two braids. “Can you come here for one second?”

Quinn tapped the male customer’s order into the touch screen cash register with furious fingers. “I will hand in my notice if she raises a grievance.”

I paused by the door adjacent to the flat’s small, box-sized entrance hall.

“Em?” Quinn’s eyes inspected every inch of my face. “Is everything okay?”

I never uttered a word, but my friend knew something was wrong.

“Hello.” Steph, the girl I never hated but never quite liked, waved a hand in my face. “Earth to Emma.”

“Shut up, Stephanie.” Quinn was at my side within six strides. “I’ll handle the cafe. Go upstairs. We can talk later.”

Nodding numbly, I took the uncarpeted stairs two at a time, unlocked the front door to the flat and headed straight to Ben’s bedroom. Borrowing his black hoodie and ball cap, I gripped the ring of keys on the kitchen table and, phone in hand, exited the cafe.

Light showers replaced the afternoon sun. I sprinted full pelt down the alleyway, reaching the parked car. Thrice, the keys fell on the floor due to the clumsiness of fingers. I fell onto the driver’s seat, locked the seatbelt in place and slammed a foot down on the accelerator.

Brad’s Bentley was gone, but his team still collected litter and scrubbed graffiti in his absence. It was only whilst looking for his friendly face I realised how much I had grown reliant and fond of him.

Ripping out of the alleyway, I drove onto the main road while thumbing through contacts on the phone.

I braked at the red traffic light.

Holding the phone to my ear, I kept a hand on the steering wheel.

“Good afternoon—”

“Hello,” I interrupted the receptionist. “It’s Emma, Carter Hughes’ mother.”

“Hello, Miss Hughes. What can I do for you?”

“I am on my way to collect Carter. I need you to take him to the office.” My palms were sweaty. “Do not let anyone pick him up today, not even Ben. And do not let him out of your sight.”

“Miss Hughes…” She was worried. “Is everything okay? Should the school be concerned? I can put the headteacher on the phone if you’d like.”

“Everything is fine.” Accelerating when the green light flashed, I switched gears. “But I need you to listen to me. Please, go and get my son and keep him somewhere safe until I arrive.”

“Carter is playing football on the field,” she told me. “Look, I’d hate to overstep, but if it’s not the case of an emergency, I think you should allow him to finish at the appropriate time. He is happy and content, which is what everyone wants. I’d hate to disrupt him when it has taken months of persistence and patience for him to be here.”

When I recognised someone walking past the chain of department stores, I dropped into second gear and slowed the vehicle.

Jace looked exactly how I remembered, tall, stone-faced, miserable and decked in all-black. He turned into the next street, disappearing in the crowd, and for some illogical reason, I followed.

“Miss Hughes,” the receptionist probed. “Are you there?”

Ending the call, I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. To avoid exposure, I stayed three cars behind, never taking my eyes off him.

It would be twelve minutes later when he approached the tattoo parlour nestled between tenant buildings.

Pierced and Inked.

Steering into the middle of two parked vehicles, I turned off the engine, hunkering low to watch.

Jace’s footsteps faltered when a woman exited the shop. I think she is a customer or friend because they seemed to know each other. At least, that’s what their closeness indicated. Their exchange was tense, though. He was angry, his arms gesticulating furiously from left to right. She was upset, gesturing just as wildly. When her rage became tears, he attempted to console her, but she rejected him.

Lowering the window to listen, I slipped cheap sunglasses on.

He snatched her by the elbow.

“No.” She wiped her blotchy cheeks. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The woman re-entered the shop.

Jace stared at the closed door, even when she was gone. Pushing a hand through his brown, unruly hair, he spat out a curse and kicked a pebble across the pavement in exasperation.

Grabbing the phone, I typed Jace’s name into Google.

Human Remains Discovered in Missing Child Investigation.

The Albanian Experiment that Placed Missing Children with Paedophiles.

British Authorities Identified the Remains of Three-Hundred and Thirty-Two Victims of Human Trafficking, with Two-Hundred and Eighty-Three Victims being Children.

Seven-Year-Old Summer Williams’ Body Found in Woodland Compound Months after Disappearance.

I clicked on the article.

Father of Murdered Summer Williams Carries Coffin into the Church.

Jace Williams Led Mourners at Summer’s Funeral.

Hundreds of People Lined the Streets to Pay Tribute to Summer Whose Happy Smile Captured the Hearts of Londoners. A Horse-Drawn Carriage Conveyed Summer to the Church, where Close Friends and Family Attended the Funeral Service Privately.

Tears pricked the back of my eyes. I skimmed the article, the pictures, and focused on the image of Jace and his best friend, Tommy. Evoked by memories, I closed my eyes.

I heard the bedroom door creep open.

My sister snuck into the room, the straps of her stilettos hanging from her wrist. Carefully placing the house key on the vanity table, she stripped out of the shortest of black dresses and crawled onto her single bed in nothing but white underwear.

“Emma,” she whispered, and I grumbled into the pillow. “I know you are awake.”

I bolted upright. “Where did you go?”

“To a friend’s house. Do not tell mum and dad.” I could not see her face without the lamp on, but I knew she was staring at me. “By the way, I caught your little boyfriend hiding in the garden. I think he is trying to get your attention.”

My lips puckered. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Well, the boy slash friend who stalks you, then.”

My eyes rolled.

Killian is not my boyfriend, nor is he a stalker. He is my best friend.

We met at the pier a few months ago.

I was buying candy floss.

He was drinking slushies with friends.

I smiled at him.

He asked if we could be friends.

The rest is history.

Alas, I am not permitted to have male friends. And it’s not because I am young or a girl. My father is strict with all his children, the boys included. If he followed my older brothers to the arcade this weekend and caught them with the identical Morgan twins, he’d beat them black and blue.

You see, the Hughes family abided by stringent, uncompromising rules. Mormonism is not the chosen faith amongst siblings, but it is the sermonised anachronistic moralities of our parents. No sex before marriage or same-sex relationships. No alcohol, drugs, tea, coffee or cigarettes. No gambling. No foul language. No abortion. No pornography (my brothers already failed this one). And, my all-time favourite, no dating until sixteen years old. Even if we decided to date when of age, which benefited three of my older siblings (Ben and I are not so lucky), we cannot jeopardise virtuousness. That’s reserved for complete fidelity after marriage.

I went to the window.

My sister is right. Killian is in our back garden, looking for stones to throw at the window. “He is impossible.”

Her sigh was heavy. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know.” Drawing the curtain back, I waved at him to prevent pebble hurling. “I think he wants me to go outside.”

“At this time of night?” My sister sat up in bed. “You cannot. Dad will be furious.”

I removed the pyjamas. “You can cover for me.”

“No,” she whisper-shouts. “Emma, please. Go back to bed.”

“Well, I always cover for you when you sneak out with Patty.” I dressed in denim jeans, ankle boots and a knitted black jumper. “Come on, sis. I never have any fun.”

“Fine.” She stretched across the mattress. “But take your phone and text me every half an hour so that I know you are safe.”

I kissed her cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Unlocking the window, I reached for the wooden trellis outside and, inhaling a hopeful breath, descended the vines. “You can come here,” I said in a low, almost undetectable tone of voice. “Do not throw stones at the window, though. My dad sleeps with a baseball bat.”

“I just seen ye sister.” Killian captured the drop, his hands coming to my waist. “The viper threatened to rip off my balls if I touched ye.”

I chuckled. “My siblings are very protective.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Ye brother, Ben, is the worst.”

I loved his Irish accent. “When did you meet him?”

“This mornin’.” Interlacing our fingers, he hauled me down the side of the house, the fallen leaves of winter crunching beneath our feet. “He told me to stay away for ye.”

Oh, but it’s okay for my twin to hang around with the girl who lives at the end of our street until the early hours. Talk about double standards, the ass. “Where are we going?”

“Do ye trust me?” he asked, and I nodded. “Good. I am takin’ ye to a party.”

“What?” My feet cemented to the ground. “Are you insane? I cannot go to a party. My father will have a heart attack.”

“Who is gonna tell him?” A challenge sparkled in his eyes. “Ye?”

I daren’t get myself in trouble. “What type of party?”

“Poppa Hughes won’t like it.”

My stomach knotted. “That’s not very reassuring, Killian. Will there be alcohol?”

He smirked cheekily.

“Drugs?” I asked, and his amusement heightened. “Sex?”

Hiding mirth, he kissed my cheek. “Ye watch too many movies.”

“Killian do not coax me to drink or smoke. My parents will smell it on me.” My sister came home from school once, reeking of cigarettes, and my mother screamed like a banshee until midnight. “Why are you smiling? This is not a laughing matter.”

“Come on, las.” He goaded the little daredevil within me. “Live a little. Ye can grab a shower in the mornin’. They’ll never know.”

He was the worst kind of influence. “One beer.”

“That’s the spirit.” His arms enveloped my waist from behind. “I got a beer with ye name on it in the truck.”

I regretted every step. Tonight’s antics will backfire on me. “Did you steal your father’s wheels?”

“No, Martin is drivin’.” He led me down the street, where an old truck revved as the impatient driver, Martin, Killian called him, flashed the headlights. “He is a friend.”

“Hey.” Martin watched as I climbed into the backseat. “Don’t get any mud on the leather.”

I buckled up. “Sorry.”

“Chill.” Killian relaxed in the passenger seat. “Emma is good people. Be nice, or I’ll lamp ye.”

My fingers twitched nervously. “So, where is this party?”

“A friend’s house.” Killian sparked a cigarette. “Do you want one?”

I declined his offer to smoke.

Martin drove on the main roads for fifteen minutes before he ventured down dark, meandering country lanes, the floor uneven and bumpy.

Unnatural fogs intensified restlessness. I could not see a damn thing beyond thickets of overgrown hedges.

Martin hit the brakes. “I’ll leave the truck here.”

Unbuckling, I jerked the door open, slid down from the truck and snatched Killian’s hand. “It’s too dark,” I said, and his hand holding mine tightened. “Do not walk off without me.”

We trekked in silence toward the security fence, and I knew, without confirmation, that it was an obstacle we had to clamber.

“Isn’t there another way?” I asked, and they both snickered. “It’s not funny, Killian. I have never scaled a fence before.”

“You’ll be fine.” Martin’s fingers grasped the wire fence and shook it twice to test resilience. “I’ll go first.”

“Ye got this.” Killian let go of my hand. When I hesitated, he sighed. “Do ye want to wait in the car?”

He is crazier than he looks. “In the middle of nowhere? Yes, that’s a grand idea. I’ll stay in the car whilst you two get drunk. Let’s hope there aren’t any serial killers lurking, shall we?”

“There are no serial killers.” Martin’s muttered voice came from the other side of the fence. “Is she coming or what?”

“Aye.” Killian cleared the fence effortlessly, dropping to the ground feet first. “Hurry up, Emma. It ain’t difficult.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” My hands shook as I clung onto the fence. “You are bigger than me.”

“Are ye callin’ me fat?”

Killian is tall, and it’s advantageous. “No.”

“Emma.” He aimed the torch in my face. “I’d hate to leave ye behind.”

I rose to the top of the fence, holding on for my dear life. “Will you catch me?”

“Aye,” he promised, his arms opening wide. “Drop. I got ye.”

Eyes squeezing shut, I let myself fall into his arms. He groaned on impact but stuck to his promise. I never landed face-first in the mud.

“See?” He steadied me onto two feet. “I came through, huh?”

“I can’t stay out late,” I said, trudging behind them. “My father will go crazy.”

“No crazier than mine,” Killian joshed, but it was hardly funny. “What? Ye pops is sleepin’, right? I’ll have ye back before mornin’.”

I waded through waist-high spears of grass. “I better not stand on any hedgehogs.”

Martin is sick of my querulousness. He broke into a light sprint to get away from me.

“Where are ye goin’?” Killian’s voice echoed into the night. “Son of a bitch left us.” His attention came to me. “Are ye scared of hedgehogs?”

“No, I am not scared.” Mud squelched under my feet. “I don’t want to hurt them.”

A gigantic, detached house emerged across the expanse of the field. Clangorous music amplified as we gravitated towards stationed vehicles, where youngsters, under the influence, danced near the campfire.

Killian’s arm draped over my shoulders. He talked to almost everyone, the popular sod, whilst I persistently checked our surroundings, half-expecting my father to appear from nowhere.

Martin made his way to the crowded campfire.

“Let’s get ye a drink.” Killian took the concrete steps to the front of the house. “Alcopop, right?”

Nodding, I tugged on the sleeves of my jumper.

I imagine the house was beautiful before the unsupervised teens arrived. “Tipsy” by J-Kwon pounded. Marijuana fogged the entertainment room, and empty beer bottles and cans littered the hardwood floors. Two half-dressed girls danced on the coffee table, surrounded by a sea of heads. Everyone partied and guzzled alcohol like tonight would be their last.

Kilian’s chin tipped as we passed two lads by the kitchen.

Not wanting the party to swallow me whole, I held onto the back of his hoodie.

He stopped by the kitchen island, where an uncountable amount of alcohol was stockpiled. “Watermelon?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

“Lean Back” replaced J-Kwon, the music switch stealing most of the commotion in the kitchen. With a sense of relief washing over me, I watched people disperse, thanked Killian for the bottle and downed liquid courage.

“Easy,” he joked, his hand on my lower back drifting to my hip. “We have all night.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” A guy togged up in all-black joined our duo. “Go home, Killian.” His leather jacket landed on the island. “Tommy will have a fucking fit.”

“Emma, this is Jace.” Unfazed by the guy’s chastisement, Killian introduced us to one another. “He is my brother’s friend and a royal pain in my arse.”

Jace’s green eyes swept over me with curious laziness. “Shouldn’t she be tucked up in bed?”

My face heated.

“Lay off,” Killian scolded, and he meant it. “Emma’s old enough.”

“Yeah?” Jace’s stare roved over my face. “What’s your figure, jailbait?”

“Fourteen,” I said, and his lips twitched. “What? Killian’s fifteen. Don’t be misogynistic. What’s fair for him is fair for me.”

Jace’s pierced eyebrow raised.

If he weren’t such an ass, I’d admire his handsomeness. He was not like the boys who attended my school, not by a long shot. But he is an ass, an arrogant ass, so I spurned him instead.

Whilst the boys talked, I uncapped another bottle, then another, until boredom settled. “Killian,” I said, but he was too engrossed in conversation to hear me. “I need the bathroom.”

He ignored me.

Shaking droplets of alcohol onto my tongue, I binned the empty bottle and left the kitchen in search of a bathroom.

Dodging people in the halls, I stepped over unused condom wrappers on the floor, squeezed through the group of loud-mouthed girls on the bottom of the stairs and went to the next level.

I found the bathroom.

Relieving my bladder, I pulled the toilet flush, washed my hands in the basin and checked my reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. I should have borrowed my sister’s make-up. Jace was right. I looked young compared to the other girls here.

I returned to the kitchen.

Killian and Jace poured neat vodka into three shot glasses. Naturally, I thought the third glass was for me, but as I moved closer, I noticed another lad. He was tall like Jace, his shoulders broad and sinewy, his fair hair shaved at the sides, longer and messier on the top.

“Emma.” Killian tugged me in by the hem of my jumper. “This is my brother, Tommy.”

When Tommy’s eyes collided with mine, I drew in a breath and held it. He was everything mothers told their daughters to avoid, leather, ink and unapologetic haughtiness. His eyes drew in my appearance greedily as he pulled a swig of beer. I should have broken eye contact or looked elsewhere, but I was too lost in his penetrating stare.

“Tommy, this Emma Hughes.” Killian, oblivious to our tenseness, knocked back a shot of vodka. “I like her, so be nice.”

Jace smoked weed, the smell wafting up my nose, the fumes gyrating above our heads.

“Emma.” Tommy’s Irish accent was huskier than Killian’s. His large, tattooed hand closed around mine as something inexpressible passed between our locked gaze. “How old are ye?”

“Fourteen,” Killian said, and Tommy’s hand released mine quicker than I could blink. “Got any smokes?”

Tommy’s Adam’s apple bopped. He tossed Killian a cigarette. “Go home, Killian.” His piercing stare lowered to the necklace around my neck when he said, “Take the girl with ye.”

“Don’t be a ball ache,” Killian complained. “Martin is drivin’, and he ain’t ready to leave yet.”

“I’ll take them,” Jace offered, and Killian groused. “Shut up, Killian. You shouldn’t be here anyway.”

It felt as though I was the reason for Killian’s ruined plans. I bet if I weren’t here, Tommy would let him stay. “You don’t have to leave,” I said quietly to my friend. “I can call a taxi.”

Killian was conflicted.

I had the sudden urge to cry.

Why did I think sneaking out of the house and partying with people I didn’t know was a good idea?

Killian’s phone brandished. “Let me order the cab—”

“No.” Tommy snatched the phone. “Ye ain’t puttin’ the girl in a cab by herself. Find Martin and drop her home.”

When Killian protested, I shouldered past him to leave. I blame the vodka because sober Killian would never cast me aside like an annoying hanger-on. He’d make sure I got home safely.

Pushing open the front door, I descended the few steps and walked ahead, the campfire’s licking flames crackling embers.

Martin gave me a two-finger salute.

What an asshole.

Paranoid, I lifted the collar of my jumper to my nose. It smelt like smoke. I’ll have no choice but to dump it before sneaking back into the house. I cannot afford for my parents to catch me in the act of unplanned rebelliousness.

Someone’s hand seized my arm. “Wait,” Tommy said, and I froze. “A friend of mine lives here.”

Okay?

“I’d hate for him to get into shite because somethin’ happened to ye,” he added, not that I understood his concerns. “Killian is all bark. Ye know that, don’t ye?”

I chanced to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sayin’, if somethin’ were to happen, Killian ain’t the one to help.” His strong, angular jaw set. “He couldn’t fight his way through a wet paper bag.”

Against my better judgement, I chuckled. “I can handle myself.”

“Can ye, though?” he mused, and I found myself craning at the neck to look at him. “Killian should know better. He shouldn’t have brought ye to a place like this.”

My stare narrowed. “It’s just a party.”

“No, it’s not.” Tommy forced me toward the sleek black truck parked on the grassy knoll. “Get in.”

He is crazy. “No.”

“Get in the truck, Emma.” He opened the passenger side door. “Move it.”

Reluctant, I ducked into the truck and yanked the seat belt across my chest. “None of this makes any sense,” I said as he reclined in the driver’s seat. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know ye sister.” He started the engine. “She’ll want ye home.”

“How do you know my sister?”

He offered a flat smile.

“Gross,” I muttered, thinking he’s one of her late-night conquests. “Spare me the details.”

“I ain’t fucked her.” His throaty laughter sent a blush to my cheeks. “We’re friends.”

Oh, I will be interrogating her when I get home. “She’s never mentioned you before,” I said with slit-like eyes. “What’s her name?”

He drove through country lanes. “Mary.”

I was unconvinced. “How friendly?”

“Friendly enough to rock up at the site every weekend to spend the night with my cousin, Patty.”

Killian lived in a caravan amongst his community. I have never visited the site, but he’s talked about it in detail, so I have a vivid image in mind. “Yes, I know they are friends…” Wait. I never knew Patty was a gypsy. “Patty is your cousin.”

His head dipped.

Why had Killian held this information from me? And why hasn’t my sister mentioned her closeness with Killian’s older brother?

Tommy’s former words belatedly dawned on me. “Spend the night?” I asked, and he avoided my eyes. “Isn’t Patty a girl?”

“Yes.” He glimpsed at the wing mirror, then steered into the next lane. “What of it?”

Is he always this cryptic?

“My sister is not a lesbian,” I defended her, and he burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Are ye homophobic, Emma?”

“I am not.” My parents were, though. They’d disown us for even considering the same-sex. “I don’t believe you.”

“Good for ye.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Believe what ye want to believe. I know different.”

I would not admit it, but I did believe him. He had no reason to lie, did he?

“Oh, shit.” Rubbing my temples, I eased back against the leather seat. “What, is it serious, or is she experimenting? I mean, she likes boys too, right?”

Tommy ignored the question.

I stared pensively. “Killian never mentioned any of this.”

The steering wheel threaded through his fingers. “That’s because ye sister told him not to.”

I felt betrayed. “Then, why did you tell me?”

“If ye ask me somethin’, I’ll answer honestly.” He passed me a quick glance. “I have no reason to lie for anyone.”

“Right,” I said airily. “Okay. Why did you want me to leave tonight?”

He steered out of the lane and onto the main road. “I answered that already. I’m bein’ a good friend to ye sister. She wouldn’t want ye there.”

My lungs deflated.

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t want ye to be there, either.”

Ouch. Duly noted. “That’s fair enough.”

Tommy knew where I lived. He drove down my street, straight past my house, and mounted the curbside by the neighbour’s house. He turned off the engine. “Are ye datin’ him?”

“Killian?” I asked, and he stared wordlessly. “No. We’re just friends.”

“Does he know that?”

“What?” It was an odd question. “Obviously.”

He watched me closely. “Ye look nothin’ like her.”

“She’s my mother’s double.” I knew he meant my sister. “I’m my father’s daughter.”

“No,” he disagreed, and my eyebrows tugged inwards. “Ye pops is dog fuckin’ ugly. Sayin’ ye look like him is an insult.”

I was incapable of swallowing. “How do you know my father?”

“I know everyone,” he said cockily. “Ye should get inside.”

Yes, I should. I never moved, though. “Killian’s never invited me to the site before.”

“Good.” He stood by his brother’s decision. “Ye don’t want to be goin’ there, las.”

I did. “Why not?”

Tommy leaned over me to open the door. His cologne, a mixture of wood and spice, drifted between us. “Go home, Emma.”

Our lips were millimetres apart.

“Thanks for the ride.” My erratic heartbeat thumped rapidly. “Tommy.”

I blinked away the memory.

Respiring a choppy breath, I palmed the phone, typed the parlour’s name into Google and clicked onto an article. The flat above the shop is looking for long-term tenants. I dialled the number.

“Jared,” the guy answered after six rings. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, quick question.” My throat cleared. “Is there still any rooms available?”

“Rooms? Oh, you mean upstairs. Hang on. Let me check.” In the background, he called someone, the line crackling. “I have the landlord here. I don’t think he is renting out any more rooms, but it’s worth asking.”

I waited.

“Hey,” Jace said, and vomit thrust to the back of my throat. “It must be an old article because I leased the rooms out months ago. I can take your details for future reference, though.”

Jace is the landlord.

“Um…” I lost the ability to speak. “Yeah, that would be great. Do you own the studio, too?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone low and dubious. “Why? Were you looking for ink?”

I ended the call.

Me: We have a problem.

Message delivered.

Message read.

Ben: What?

Me: Jace is in London.

Message read.

Three dots danced on the screen.

Ben: Don’t fuck with me, Emma.

Me: I am deadly serious. He owns a tattoo parlour twenty minutes away from the cafe. I saw him.

Ben: Fuck.

Ben: Get home.

Me: I have to grab Carter first.

Ben: Hurry up. Be safe.

Chucking the phone over my shoulder, I put the car in reverse, ready to pull away from the pavement, when a dark shadow fell over me. I glanced at the window, and the blood drained from my body. Before I had the chance to react, Jace ripped the door open.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Emma

I shot between the middle console into the backseat to retrieve the phone. Jace justified the inexorableness of his predictable vexation by locking both arms around my waistline in lieu of agonising hair-pulling. That’s how he’d handle our serendipitous encounters in the past. He’d snatch the scruff of my hair and back me into a corner.

“Stop.” He wrestled me out of the car, the frantic kick of my legs, knocking him in the shins. “Emma!”

“Jace,” I screamed, writhing and twisting in his powerful, muscular arms. “Please, I don’t want to do this! Let me go!”

He spun me around to face him, to sustain the wickedness in his cold green eyes and shoved me against the car. One arm at a time, he caged me in. “You.” His confused voice was low-key and whispery. “You are here.”

I had no response.

Hell, I had nothing to say to him.

I hated Jace almost as much as I hated the man blameworthy for years and years of suffering.

Jace’s gaze inventoried the lines of my profile as if to refresh memory. He snatched the sunglasses and ball cap, hurling both items on the floor. “A couple of cheap props cannot hide a traitorous face, Emma. I know you,” he snarled, and I whimpered with shivering pitifulness. “I know the real you.”

I was someone he knew, but that was a very long time ago. Times have changed. People grow and live worlds apart. I am not the same girl he remembered. “Jace…”

“You got some nerve coming here.” With a disgusted look of repugnance, he swiped the phone out of my hand. “Who were you going to call? The police? This is my street. You came to me. You harassed me, not the other way round.”

Although scared, I scoffed at the absurdity. “Harassment is a matter of perspective.”

He stared at the phone screen. “Benjamin? Is that your hired help? Is he coming to save the day? Good. Let him visit. I have plenty to say to that motherfucker, too.”

Jace will not get any wild ideas. If lying through my teeth protects my twin, then so be it. “I do not recall the last time I saw my brother. He went north. I went south.” My shoulders upheaved in simulated insouciance. “You understand.”

“Bullshit.” His eyes, framed with long, black lashes, seared into me. “You are like two peas in a pod. If you are in London, Benjamin Hughes isn’t so far behind.”

“False.” I cringed when his head lowered, and we became eye-level. “Ben abandoned ship after the last assault nearly cost him.”

He squinted in rumination. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend to be clueless,” I spoke with nervous breathlessness. “We both know what happened back then.”

Frowning in puzzlement, he scratched his ink-lined jaw. His daughter’s name, written in a cursive font, merged into the full-neck piece of tattooed intricacies. “Where is he?” His murderousness flickered to the backseat. “Where is Carter?”

My core muscles tensed. “You will not drag my son into this mess.”

“How can you say that?” His mixed emotions were a maelstrom of anger, bitterness and sadness. “Carter has an entire family, Emma.”

Flushed with anxieties, I wiped the moisture from my eyes.

He exhaled lightly, then nodded. “I have to tell Tommy.”

“No, you don’t.” I will not let this man forestall my judgement. “We can walk away like this never happened.”

Jace laughed, loud and contemptuous.

“I am not here to ignite the egregiousness of our past,” I said, not that he cared to hear what I had to say. “I saw you whilst driving. I thought it was a mistake. There is no way in hell Jace would be living in London. He’d never leave his family behind.”

Jace stared ahead, devoid of any emotion.

I glanced at the tattoo parlour. “But you do live in London. You own that building. I followed you to be sure.”

“Right.” His scowl turned to me. “Now that we have established our neighbourly bond, I have to make a call.”

“By the time Tommy O’Shea lands in London, I will be long gone. I am not beholden to you or them,” I spat, the distressing thought of the O’Shea family breathing the same air as my son leaving an acidic taste in my mouth.

“You have no right.” His shoulders rolled back as he squared up to me. “Carter is not a fucking pawn. Parental alienation is wrong.”

I wanted to slap him. How dare he claim the moral high ground. “As if you could possibly know the difference between right and wrong.”

“Oh, we’re back to that.” His hands moved to my shoulders. “You ruined them. You ripped their family apart and then took away the only ounce of hope they had left—”

“Fuck you.” I shoved him in the chest, but he never budged. “They denied Carter the second I found out I was pregnant.”

“Of course, they doubted the pregnancy, the biological father. You had a reputation. You are a compulsive liar who never takes responsibility. You blame other people for your mistakes. And you had multiple—not one—multiple sexual partners. I think that’s enough reason to question someone’s integrity, don’t you?”

Jace’s defence statement is coherent but incorrect. I was young and foolishly in love with one boy. I never looked at other males or went within ten miles of their flirtations.

“They turned an entire community against me.” My fingers wrangled between us. “Have you ever, even in the smallest of measures, considered how I felt in that situation? I lost everyone I loved overnight. So, please, don’t stand there and defend them. Not to me.”

His eyes rounded in disbelief. Then, to add salt to the wound, he said, “Not even your parents believed you.”

Jace’s cruel, unsympathetic words slammed into me.

I was pregnant before marriage.

My parents were shame-faced.

My older siblings were too scared to challenge their authority.

My mother refused to look at me

My father kicked me out without saying goodbye.

My twin, Ben, is the reason I survived back then. He abandoned our family to stay with me. He was there to comfort me when I cried. He protected me when the gypsie community burnt the one-bedroom flat loaned to us by the council to the ground. He travelled cities and climbed mountains to escape the wrath of the O’Shea family. He abandoned any hopes and dreams of going to college and worked full-time in dead-end jobs, working graveyard shifts for the minimum wage to pay the bills and put food on the table. He attended every hospital visit and antenatal appointment and bought the necessities in preparation for the baby’s arrival.

Although unconventional, Ben held my hand when I gave birth to his nephew. He was there to cut my son’s umbilical cord. He stayed up throughout the night to do bottle feeds. He rocked him to sleep, bathed him, dressed him, smiled at him, doted on him.

My brother, who was too young to mind a baby, parented on behalf of his sister because she could not look at her son, never mind love him.

That’s the unglamorous reality of mothering a child you never wanted. I was incapable of cuddling Carter when he cried or feeding him when he was hungry. He was alien to me, forced upon me. He looked like his father, and it used to sicken me.

Ben understood the mental conflict I endeavoured. He never judged or pressured me into accepting the truth. He was my anchor, the guardian angel who pieced me back together and healed the broken fragments of my heart. He let the bond between mother and baby grow, naturally and organically, and stood aside with a lopsided smile the first time I reached for the baby without his attentiveness.

My twin did all of the above with the world and its brother against him. I will never, not in this life or the next, forget the pain he tolerated by choosing, in the eyes of most, the wrong side. He was his sister’s greatest advocate when everyone turned their backs and damned us to hell. He believed me when no one else did, and for that, he suffered the consequences. Our mother and father disowned him. Our siblings stopped calling. The O’Shea family tracked us down, day and night, to deliver a tidal wave of pledged revenge and unforgivable violence. He was cornered, jumped and beaten unmercifully, time and time again, for defending the person who, in their warped opinion, was responsible for Killian O’Shea’s death.

Ben walked home from work one evening when a truck pulled up beside him. He’d only started the newsagent job that morning. It was his first shift stacking shelves and unpackaging delivery boxes. Tommy and his loyal entourage snatched him off the street, chucked him in the boot, drove him to the middle of nowhere, pummelled him within an inch of his life and left him for dead.

I called the police when my brother never returned home that night. Authorities found him twenty-four hours later, lying in the dirt, in his blood, beaten to a pulp.

Ben was hospitalised for six weeks.

I almost lost him.

I thought the pain I felt subsequent to Killian’s betrayal was unsurmountable. But nothing, not even the memory of being shoved in the wet, frosted leaves of encroaching winter, surpassed the heartache I felt when praying for my brother’s recovery.

When the hospital discharged Ben, I packed the bare minimum and paid for the first available coach to London. It was our last chance saloon, our final destination before Spain. He had it all figured out. We’d move abroad, live by the sea and raise Carter in a safe environment.

My son had seen his fair share of temporary homes, impermanent schools and short-term sports clubs. He’d settle, make new friends, then be told it was time to leave again. He never understood the reasons why because I’d never scare him with the truth.

I fabricated tales instead.

The flat is too small.

The street is too noisy.

The neighbour is too grouchy.

Carter asked no questions until his seventh birthday, when I cancelled celebrations. He was so excited. He’d talked about the sleepover for two weeks. Five boys from school were due to stay over, watch movies, eat pizza and play on the console. He was in the middle of unwrapping presents when Ben spotted a vehicle parked across the street. He panicked, unlocked the pantry cupboard and extracted three pre-packed, emergency suitcases.

We left through the backdoor whilst someone broke through the front door.

Carter cried. He was worried for his friends. He wanted to bring all his presents.

Why do we always run away?

That’s what Cater asked the night Ben drove to a nearby hotel.

I never got to say goodbye to my friends.

Ben landed a job at the cafe two days after our arrival in London. Paul, the original owner, leased the flat to us and locked Ben in the kitchen at unsociable hours whilst I stayed indoors with Carter.

I never left the property, and it was unhealthy, but I was tired of watching my back. Whenever we got too comfortable or complacent, the past would meet the present, and we’d be back to square one.

Carter was supposed to be in school, though. Fear or not, I robbed his education and chances of meeting new friends. I remember the initial moment I stepped into the alleyway with my son’s hand in mine. I walked him to the bus stop, never taking my eyes off him or the roads or approaching vehicles. I dropped him at school and sat outside the gates until three o’clock, or, in most cases, until the headteacher called because Carter was sick, sad, or reluctant to work and talk to classmates.

I was responsible for Carter’s broken-heartedness. I pulled him from pillar to post, not considering the repercussions, so when my son lashed out, cried, or pretended to be unwell, I was patient and understanding. I allowed him to misbehave.

My brother found his passion. Ben loved to cook. Paul, the once-top-chef looking over Ben’s shoulder, mastered his culinary skills. He’d knock dishes together until the early hours and bring leftovers upstairs for me to sample. He’d learn new recipes and study tutorials online to turn easy, simple dishes into gourmet exquisiteness.

It would be ten months of no menacing encounters, hounding phone calls, bricks through our windows, verbal abuse or physical violence when Paul had a heart attack. He was pronounced dead when paramedics arrived at the scene. Ben was devastated. He admired and respected the man and grieved him for weeks. Our short-lived life of luxury was slipping through our fingers. We needed another game plan because our time in the cafe, our home in the flat, had ended.

Then Paul’s lawyer knocked on the front door one morning to hand proprietorship to Ben. Paul included him in the will the same month we’d moved in, which left us utterly speechless. He was a nice, thoughtful guy, but we were tenants, not loved ones. We did not deserve all his hard work. The lawyer explained that Paul had no family. It was either Ben or auction.

Finally, luck was on our side.

Ben was like a bottle of pop. He hired Wyatt and Ethan, then Quinn and Stephanie. And, of course, I jumped on the bandwagon. We worked as a team to redecorate the rooms, add colour and life to the ambience and put our hearts and souls into making Ben’s dream a reality. Sure, he envisioned a brighter future. He imagined himself in a five-star restaurant someday, with a dedicated team of chefs and customers immersed in fine dining, but he’d never desert the back-alley cafe, not for love nor money.

We are happy and free from tribulations.

Jace will not be the reason life obliterates.

“My mother and father are despicable,” I said, the fierceness in my voice surprising the two of us. “You remember my father. He is a pathetic excuse of a man. I was denied consolation because I dared to walk the road of premarital birth—as if I had a fucking choice!”

Jace’s fist slammed down on the roof of the car. “It was consensual!”

“It was rape!” Tears blurred vision, but I would not cry. “I said no, over and over again. I begged him to stop!”

“You are a fucking liar,” he seethed, denial aflame in his green eyes. “You fucked him then regretted it and feared the backlash of pregnancy. Admit it. You lied to save face.”

“How could I fear the backlash, Jace? My parents forbade termination. I had to keep the baby whether I wanted to or not. You are an intelligent man. Do the maths. I filed rape charges months before I found out I was pregnant. Regret and family disownment had nothing to do with my decision to hold said rapist responsible for what he did to me!”

He snatched my jaw. “I don’t fucking care anymore,” he whispered against my lips. “I am not interested in your tears. You might hate Tommy, but I love him like a brother. He wants to be in Carter’s life. It’s what he’s always wanted.”

“Are you deaf?” My hand grappled his T-shirt. “The O’Shea family renounced their son’s bastard child. If Tommy wanted to be there for Carter, he’d have shown up with a better fucking attitude. His thirst for vengeance outweighed everything.”

“Can you blame him? If it weren’t for you, Killian would still be here.” His fingers dug into my cheek. “How do you sleep at night?”

When Jace uprooted his phone to make the call, I took desperate measures. “Brad will be furious,” I said cautiously, and his eyes jerked up. “He is my friend. He promised to protect me.” Oh, shit. Brad is going to kill me. “I didn’t want to involve him, but you leave me with no choice.”

Jace’s painful grip on my jaw lessened. “What?”

I feigned braveness. “Brad Jones—”

“How the fuck do you know Jones?” His arm dropped to his side as he stepped back. Then, as if expecting Brad to appear, he glanced from one end of the street to the other. “You saw us, didn’t you? Is this another lie, Emma? You’d fake an alliance and use subtle threats to prevent the inevitable. There is something seriously fucking wrong with you.”

Jace was calling my bluff. He truly believes that I am a pathological liar who will do anything to evade repercussions. “It was not a subtle threat. I am not playing games. If you involve Tommy O’Shea, I will involve Brad.” His eyes twitched, so I knew the extemporaneous speech had leverage and power. “Go ahead. Try to turn our lives upside down. I dare you.”

He schooled his features. “I ain’t worried about Brad.”

“No?” I licked the underside of my teeth. “So, you won’t mind if I call him? Good. I’ll get right on that.” My thumb unlocked the phone. “It’s only fair. I am a woman, after all. Why should I be in the throes of two dangerous men without reinforcement?”

“Cut the bullshit for one second.” His hand touched mine anxiously. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you done enough? Killian is dead. Quintin is in prison. Tommy is half the man he used to be. Brigid is a broken woman.”

I felt a twinge in my chest. “They did it to themselves, Jace,” I said, not that it’s what he wanted to hear. “I am sorry that I am the reason for Killian’s suicide, but I will not apologise for standing up for myself. I have a voice. I am entitled to use it. My son,” I whispered, and his countenance twisted. “He is innocent. What do you think calling Tommy will achieve? More confusion? More questions? Feelings of abandonment? Carter is finally happy. He attends school willingly. He’s made new friends. He’s content and settled and looking forward to the future.”

He rasped a gravelly exhale.

“We never got here overnight. It’s been a long, tiring road for us, for Carter. Please, if not for me, then for my son. Let us live in peace,” I implored as he watched the single tear roll down my cheek. “I know you are loyal. I know how much you love Tommy. But this is bigger than warring families now. There is a child involved. He deserves better.”

Jace looked heavenwards, the cloud-obscured sun and speckles of raindrops circulating in his sad eyes. “If I had a child out there,” he said hoarsely, “I would want to know.”

Carter’s not Tommy’s boy.

“Please.” I am not above begging. “We don’t have to run away. We can stay here and be happy. At least, if nothing else, you know our whereabouts. You can go to bed at night, knowing Carter’s safe.”

His lips flattened. “You want me to lie.”

“By omission,” I said with cautiousness.

“It’s wrong,” he whispered, at war with himself. “It’s betrayal. Tommy is my day one, Emma. How can I look him in the eye with this knowledge and say nothing?”

“Jace…” Licking my dry lips, I voiced the unthinkable. “What if I reached out?”

He unclenched his jaw. “You don’t mean that.”

“I am tired of running.” I burst into tears and regretted it instantly. “I am so tired.” With a heaved sob, I wiped my cheeks. “Is it genuine? Is Tommy interested in Carter or revenge? I need to know.”

His hardened expression softened. “Of course, it is genuine. Tommy misses his brother. Carter is the only connection he has left.” When I snivelled, he swore under his breath. “Tommy’s not a kid anymore. He’s a man now. He sees the world differently.”

I was sceptical. “I am willing to hear what Tommy has to say.” It’s what Carter hoped for when seeing the photos, to meet his uncle someday. “But it will be on my terms, not his. We will meet in neutral territory without friends or foes. If he shows up and threatens me, in any shape or form, I will take my son and vanish.”

“You mean that.” He came closer. “You’d give him a chance.”

What choice did I have? I had to contact Tommy directly or allow Jace to intercede.

“Unlock your phone.” He waited for me to do as instructed then created a contact. “Text him right now.”

I stopped breathing. “What?”

“With your track record, it’s hard to believe anything you have to say. So, text him. Reach out and prove me wrong.”

With twitchy fingers, I typed a short message.

Me: Tommy, It’s Emma. Can we talk?

Message delivered.

“There.” Fear pushed to the surface. “I did what you asked. Can I go home now?”

Jace’s arms folded. “Wait until he replies.”

I am an idiot.

You cannot contain two belligerent parties.

Texting Tommy was the worst decision I had ever made.

It’s asking for trouble.

My phone vibrated.

Tommy: Hughes?

Please, do not make me regret this.

Me: Yes.

Message read.

Tommy’s number flashed on the screen.

Me: I will not accept the call. Text only.

Call ended.

Message read.

Me: Are you willing to meet up if I arrange a time and place?

“Done.” Tucking the vibrating phone in my pocket, I opened the car door. “I have to collect my son from school.”

“What’s he like?” He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Carter, I mean.”

“He looks like his father,” I said, the pain in my chest intensifying. “He is the best thing that ever happened to me.” My head hung low as I hesitated by the open car door. “I’m sorry about your baby girl.”

It was quiet.

“Yeah.” His eyes revisited the sky. “Me, too.”

Jace walked away.

Falling into the driver’s seat, I grabbed the steering wheel with knuckle white urgency.

I had to face my brother’s wrath.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Bleu

I met Edith, the manager of household affairs, this afternoon. She is a middle-aged, grey-haired, stern-faced female with a stiff upper lip and a pronounced lisp. Lilith and Iris, the mirror image brunettes in slate-grey button tunics, black tights and laced loafers, introduced themselves shortly after.

Gilbert, the bald, cantankerous in-house chef and Jonah, the fresh-faced landscape-gardener and swimming pool service technician, also came forward to avoid social awkwardness.

All members of staff knew each other, including the cool, calm and collected guards, whereas I felt like an observant outsider. I spoke when addressed and nodded when appropriate, but ultimately, I did not belong in this profession, and it was dangerously perceptible.

Delivery boxes awaited in the bedroom. I unpackaged new purchases, folded labelled clothes into neat piles and stacked them in drawers.

Boredom is unmotivating.

Last night’s uninterrupted sleep was highly energising, but I had no productive plans or assigned chores without baby duties.

I sat on the sofa to count advance wages.

I dusted dustless furniture.

I whistled tuneless tunes.

Damn it. I am bored.

If it weren’t for Mr Jones, I’d have fled already. I was so close to escaping the estate when his unexpected voice interrupted. He was drinking alcohol and smoking drugs in the dark kitchen when I skulked across the threshold toward the back door. He sensed sneakiness and turned on the light, his narrowed, whiskey-coloured eyes conveying suspicion and distrust.

I lied through my teeth, scarpered to the old, weather-beaten barn and smoked marijuana until I passed out on the cold floor. Hell, even if I had managed to evade Mr Jones’ watchfulness, the armed men prowling the perimeters would have caught me red-handed. It is pointless. I am stuck in this hellhole whether I like it or not.

My only hope was the day of rest the impossible man had yet to grant. I will leave the estate, hopefully unchaperoned, visit my father one last time, then ride a train to no man’s land.

Someone knocked on the bedroom door.

Stuffing stacks of cash inside the duffle, I checked the room’s tidiness and gathered scattered thoughts. “Come in.”

The door opened.

Mr Jones appeared. He wore a royal blue three-piece suit and polished leather shoes. His blond, shoulder-length hair styled into a loose topknot. “Did you prepare a programme for Dominic?”

As a matter of fact, I did write a to-do list for the baby. Of course, I had to Google child-care requirements, but the task seemed easy enough. All I have to do is bathe, change nappies, prepare and feed meals, provide play and stimulation and keep the nursery clean and tidy.

“Yes,” I said, watching him stroll to the window. “Unless there are specific obligations you’d like to discuss, I think I have it pretty much handled.”

“No.” He was expressionless. “Lorna is downstairs with social services. I’d like you to attend the meeting.”

Am I right to believe he is nervous?

I slapped on a fake smile. “That’s fine.”

“Here.” He handed over a photo frame. “Dominic’s mother.”

I studied the beautiful image of mother and son. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“It belongs to him.” He gazed at the photo with pinched brows. “I imagine he’ll appreciate it someday. Perhaps it can go in his bedroom. You decide.”

Hugging the frame to my chest, I followed him into the hallway. “You could enlarge it.”

“What?” He was bewildered by the suggestion. “Are you dense?”

My cheeks scorched. “Well, it’s Dominic’s mother, and it’s probably their only photo together. He mightn’t care much now, but it will mean the world to him when he is a young man. You could transform it into a canvas and have it hung in the family living room.”

“I am not having that woman’s face plastered around the estate.” When he noticed the cinch in my displeased expression, he explained further. “Look, I appreciate the thoughtful gesture, but Dominic’s mother, in my opinion, is not important. I will never bad-mouth her in front of my son. I will, however, resent her for eternity. She deliberately misidentified Harold Stone as the father of our child and put his name on the birth certificate. If it were not for their abusive marriage, I’d still be none the wiser.”

I stared unblinkingly.

“I might have forgiven her.” His whispered voice tickled my cheek as he spoke directly in my ear. “Most would find it hard to believe, but if she’d come to me, even after…” His words died mid-sentence. “A difference of opinion was feasible.”

I was lost between the lines.

“Instead, she killed herself. Her actions were selfish. What about her son? Was he not enough reason to overcome hopelessness?” He opened Dominic’s bedroom door and waited for me to place the photo frame on the chest of drawers. “I will hate her until my dying breath.”

I felt his final words to the bone.

Lorna and two males from social services, modelling business suits, leather briefcases and firm frowns, stood in the grand foyer. Brad greeted each individual with a stiff handshake and led them to the office, where Nate and another gentleman I did not recognise anticipated everyone’s appointed arrival. When we became seated, I detected the car seat in Lorna’s hand. Two cotton-clad feet and a knitted blue blanket.

Brad leaned against the desk with legs crossed at the ankles and folded arms. His friend, Nate, towered beside him, and the bespectacled, besuited male chose the seat between guests. He unclasped his leather briefcase on the low table, accepted documents from Lorna and read them thoroughly.

Pretending to know what the fuck I was doing, I perched onto the edge of the sofa, fingers threaded, knees bopping.

Lorna’s optimistic demeanour and bright smile soon dwindled. “Is that necessary, Mr Bishop?”

“Yes.” The man with black-framed reading glasses looked up. “Mrs Stone’s father will make an appeal to the court. We need to know if he will be problematic.”

“Grandparents do not have automatic legal rights or parental responsibility.” Lorna glanced at her exasperated associates. “However, they can seek contact with Dominic.”

Mr Bishop passed the document to Brad.

My boss read the highlighted column. “No,” he said, and the tension in the room started to rise. “Dominic will not benefit from grandparent contact. I do not know these people, nor do I want them in my life.”

“Mr Jones.” Lorna tiptoed around the conversation. “Mrs Stone’s parents are good-natured people. I can assure you. It would be beneficial to Dominic to have both grandparents involved.”

“No.” Brad held tenacious defence. “I am not part of their world. Return this pitiful letter,” he tossed the folder onto Lorna’s lap, “and tell them I am not interested in anything they have to say.”

My head whipped between them.

“Mr Jones.” Lorna was insistent. “I am inclined to ask you to reconsider.”

“His decision is final.” Nate’s deep voice bristled the hair on the back of my neck. “Move on.”

“Very well.” Lorna tucked the file in the briefcase. “Although, I should warn you. They will re-apply to the courts for visitation.”

Goosebumps pricked my skin as I eyed my employer.

His low smirk was meaningful. “The joke is on them.”

Hell, I gulped.

Brad and Nate have no idea who I am, but I know them and their precarious capabilities, and those five words stole the air from my lungs. It was a threat. He is unfazed by the outcome of Lorna’s forewarning because Mrs Stone’s parents will not obstruct the man’s plans.

“Right.” Lorna’s throat cleared. “Well, if you can sign this—” Mr Bishop snatched the document to read it first. “We can be on our way.” She turned to the man wearing glasses. “Honestly, Mr Bishop. And here, I thought, you were the law.”

“One is presented to the highest bidder,” he responded with a cocky grin. “It is business, Mrs Brante. Do not take it personally.”

Everyone stood, so I copied, rising amid impending animosities.

Mr Bishop proffered the document to Brad. My boss clicked the top of a pen, leaning onto the desk to sign three separate signatures. “You can see yourselves out,” he said, terse and unkind. “Alice?”

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I listened to Lorna’s heels click on the floor as she hurried away with her mute allies in tow.

“Alice?” Brad shook Mr Bishop’s hand. “Do you need a bastard hearing aid?”

“I’m sorry, what?” I looked from one man to another. “Did I miss something?”

“Why do you not respond to your name?” He blinked twice beneath furrowed brows. “Would you rather a sobriquet?”

I had no reasonable explanation. “I apologise, sir.”

“Cheque or bank transfer?” Mr Bishop asked.

“Here.” Brad offered an envelope. “Cash. Get one of the men to escort you off the premises.”

My Bishop bid him farewell.

“Let’s hope there is no shit this time.” Nate crouched in front of Dominic. Hurling the blue blanket at me, he unclasped the car seat’s belt and stood with the chunkiest baby in his arms. “That car seat is too small. He should be in a forward-facing seat at this age. I will have one ordered to the estate by tomorrow morning.”

I expected Brad to take the baby from his friend’s hands, but he collapsed on the chair behind the desk instead.

“I see it now.” Nate studied the baby’s features. “He’s got your eyes.”

Brad slipped a toothpick between his lips.

“For you.” Nate’s sharp cologne embosomed me as he transferred the weighty baby into my arms. “Lorna left Dominic’s bag in the foyer. Take it with you.”

I held the baby to my side. He was strong, alert and babbling nonsense whilst chomping on his fist. Wrapping the blanket around him with great cautiousness, I excused myself and stepped into the hallway.

Nate slammed the door in my face.

Enraged for reasons I could not fathom, I glared at the grey changing bag on the floor. Leaning down, I tugged the strap over one shoulder and headed straight for the colourful nursery—to hide and regroup, if nothing else.

I laid Dominic on the padded mat. He rolled over, pushed onto his feet, his weight shifting from one leg to another, and waddled to the well-stocked bookcase.

Okay, the baby can crawl and walk, albeit unsteadily, which was unforeseen. I thought he was going to be smaller and less active.

Within five minutes, the little boy had trashed the room. Everything was on the floor: books, stuffed animals, building blocks, bead mazes and soft, bright-coloured balls. He climbed onto the sofa, knocking the anchor patterned display cushions overboard, and stood to look out of the window.

I might not be maternal, but I knew the scene was potentially hazardous. I mean, is he allowed to climb onto furniture? He could fall, right?

“No,” I said, and he peered over one shoulder, his hands latched onto the windowsill. “You cannot go on there. What If you fall?”

When I gripped his waist to pull him down, he chuckled. It was breathless and sweet to my ears.

I smiled, returning him to the mat where it was safe. “You are mischievous.”

Dominic repositioned onto his stomach. His white sleepsuit looked far too tight. I went to the drawer, selected pale blue pyjamas and fluffy socks and changed him for an unhampered playdate. I will bathe him later and dress him in a roomier sleepsuit for bed.

I glimpsed at the photo frame. He had his mother’s soft smile, but that’s the only semblance perceivable. He is his father’s son—transfixing eyes, perfectly shaped nose and blond hair. It was all Brad. Yet, his father hadn’t so much as looked at him. He never sought him during the meeting. He never held him before I stepped in for duty.

Nate intervened and handled the car seat issue.

I watched Dominic stack multicoloured blocks with an ache in my chest. He is obligated to be here because his father’s blood pumped through his veins, but he is not loved or acknowledged.

“Don’t worry, little man.” Pulling the baby onto my lap, I helped him stack the blocks. “I won’t let you down.”

***

I gave Dominic warm Weetabix mixed with formula milk before bath time commenced. Only, there was a huge problem. None of the taps worked. I went to every bedroom in the house, excluding the master bedroom, and not one bath provided cold or hot water. Yet, the showers and sinks operated as usual.

There is nothing more satisfying than a hot bubble bath at the end of a busy day, but forget about what I favoured, the baby cannot stand in the shower cubicle to wash. He required a bathtub.

A member of security fixed the issue. Apparently, the baths and showers had different water systems, and someone had to turn on the valves beforehand.

What in the world?

According to the guard, I must turn off the valve after Dominic’s bath, which was an inconvenience, and it made zero sense.

Still, I did as advised once Dominic finished splashing in the tub. He loved the water and squirty, colourful bath toys.

He settled in the wooden cot with a dummy and a cool blanket without any fuss and fell asleep almost instantly.

Being the baby’s nanny was either too easy or I was doing it completely wrong.

I set up the enhanced range audio monitors, took the parent transmitter downstairs and left it on the kitchen island.

Previously, Gilbert stacked prepared meals in the fridge. I picked sous-vide barbecue pork fillet, rosemary roast squash, kale and chimichurri. God knows what It tasted like. I was in no position to complain, so I popped the meal in the microwave and mentally appraised the man whilst ingesting each delicious mouthful.

Gilbert’s cooking was like heaven in a bowl.

I could get used to this lifestyle.

Holding the transmitter, I ventured throughout the house to find something to do. It was eerily quiet. Perhaps the rest of the staff had clocked off for the night. Well, I might as well turn in for the night, too. I’ll smoke a joint first.

I went to the empty barn, the floor strewed with spoiled hay and windswept leaves, and lit a pre-rolled joint. I only had enough marijuana to roll three more, so I must touch base with my dealer.

Sliding down the wooden wall, I sat on the floor, knees-to-chest, and let the somniferous effects of haze relax tight muscles, block headache-inducing thoughts and calm erratic heartbeats.

Am I seriously stoned already, or is there a random plant pot in the stall opposite? A dead plant pot, I might add. And there are no flowers. It’s piled with stones.

Jumping onto my feet, I stomped on the joint and investigated.

Nudging the plant pot with the tip of my trainer, I squatted, fossicking through many shaped stones and rocks, and heard an imperceptible noise. It was the weight of my body kneeling on the ground.

Yes, I must be stoned because concrete braced…Is that a trap door?

With herculean strength, I heaved the plant pot aside.

My eyes grew wide with excitement.

Tucking the transmitter into the waistband of my jeans, I unlocked the phone provided by the estate and shed light through the door’s wooden slats. The corroded, unlocked latch beckoned inquisitiveness. I opened the latch fully and peered into dark depths. It’s an underground tunnel.

Balancing the phone between clenched teeth, I reached for the fixed access ladder and, shutting the latch behind me, descended below the surface.

I am not afraid of heights, but the vertiginous drop to darkness produced sweat. I was hot and dripping by the time I set foot on safe grounds.

Aiming the phone’s torch down the secret tunnel, the moss-covered brick walls in peripheral vision, I traipsed the only route beneath the estate. Perhaps it led outside. Imagine that. I could escape the guards stealthily.

Taking a sharp turn, I dodged wide cracks, deep potholes and puddles of stagnant water.

I heard indistinct voices in the distance and hesitated.

What if someone is down here?

Proceeding ahead, I followed the sound of undefined conversations until the most unsatisfying dead-end finalised the destination.

What, that’s it?

Where are the hidden doors?

Where is the escape route?

A blood-curling, high-pitched scream reverberated from above.

The phone dropped on the floor.

Slowly, I peered up and uncovered the steel grill manhole. It is bright up there, but I did not recognise the all-concrete room or those oddly secured ceiling hooks. Perhaps it is the forbidden place Alexa had mentioned.

Loose soil particles drifted down whenever somebody walked along the floor.

My neck craned.

“Vaffanculo!”

A woman, I thought.

Pushing onto the tips of my toes, I peeked through the bars and saw the most beautiful woman hunched down on the floor. Black, waist-length hair framed her flawless face, but fear and sadness blazed in her deep-set brown eyes. Her sequined dress had rips and tears, and fresh blood dripped from her shoeless feet. “You will have to kill me,” she said, her accent strong and fierce. “I am not a rat.”

I swallowed dryness.

Brad fell to one knee and cupped her cheeks. “Gia, isn’t it?”

“Jones.” Her red-painted lips smiled, then she spat saliva in his face. “Leccaculo!”

He chuckled once, nodded twice, and slapped her across the cheek.

I smothered a stunned gasp.

Her body twisted at the waist as her head whipped to the side. Two palms striking the floor, she looked at him from beneath thick eyelashes.

My breath held.

“You will regret that,” she promised, which earned a round of chortles. “My father will hang you.”

“Your father is a coward.” Brad’s thumb smeared blood across her lips, and she hissed, backing away from him. “I want you to do something for me.”

“Segaiolo.” Her blood-stained teeth snarled. “I will not help you.”

He stood to his full height. “You have no choice.”

Nate appeared. He snatched the woman’s hair, forcing her to stand. His arm enveloped her waist as he brandished a knife. She gave him a good fight, kicking and yelling, but her distress merely entertained them. When the sharpest point of the blade nicked the skin beneath her ear, she drew in a quick breath and held it, her eyes wide open and swimming with dread. “Please,” she whispered, licking her bloody lips. “I am not a problem. I miei bambini…”

Brad’s foot tapped the floor impatiently as he loaded the phone. “I want you to beg for your father. Tell Bosqui to come to the table. It is you or him.”

Gia looked directly at the phone. “Padre.” Her voice quivered. “They want me to tell you that it is you or me. You do not have to come for me. I know what is expected of us.” When Nate’s fingers tugged her hair, she winced, rocking in his inescapable hold. “Do not listen to them! They will kill the both of us—” He tossed her body to the ground. “Please, do not listen!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Gia.” Brad ended the phone recording. “I have no reason to kill you unless you prove me otherwise.”

“You should eat.” Nate stepped over the woman’s curled up form. “Get her a sandwich or something. I ain’t got the patience to deal with hunger strikes. Josh is enough.”

Who is Josh?

The transmitter crackled, and conversations above went silent.

Grabbing the phone on the floor, I broke into a quick sprint and ran for cover. I heard the metal grill shriek just as I turned the corner. Holy shit. They’ll come down here, and I’ll be toast.

Stumbling into the ladder, I stuffed the phone in my back pocket and clambered the bars in record-breaking time. Falling across the concrete floor of the barn, I closed the latch, the plant pot securely in place, and crawled into another stall.

I did not require another joint but sparked one to look unmotivated and innocent.

As expected, the barn door flew open, and Brad stalked down the centre aisle in search of treacherousness. He found me on the floor, eyed the joint in my hand, then glanced at the stationed plant pot.

Respiring two smoke halos, I remained unruffled. “Do you want some?”

“Alice.” He stepped forward. “Shouldn’t you be inside with Dominic?′

My nose wrinkled. “He is asleep.”

Brad hummed.

“Am I not allowed to smoke before bed?” My heart thrashed so painfully in my chest. “I almost finished.”

“Leave,” he ordered, and with an eye-roll, I pushed to my feet. “I am not comfortable with my son’s hired help consuming drugs. I will tolerate cigarettes only.”

The son of a bitch. “Right.”

My trembling legs carried me out of the barn.

I felt his eyes on me the entire time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Brad

Nate locked Gia in the holding cell underground whilst I handled Alice Montgomery. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the docile nanny was spying on me. I had just finished the recording for Bosqui and hit send when the whisper of serpentine underhandedness scuttled beneath the floor. I am aware of the secret passages and tunnels within the estate (those interesting details came with the brochure), but I deemed them unimportant until now. Thanks to the hired help, I’ll be on the phone with contractors in the morning.

I entered the home office.

“I gave Gia a mild sedative. It will wire her trap shut for a few hours.” Nate had changed into a clean two-piece suit whilst I tended to the nanny. “Was it Alice in the tunnel?”

My phone vibrated.

Emma’s name flashed on the screen.

I ignored her call.

“She was smoking weed in the barn.”

“Rodents?” He pulled on a ribbed beanie. “I can chuck some poison down there.”

No, the movements were far too loud to be rats. It was her, I am sure of it, but proving it is another matter. I will have to trust my gut, block the tunnels and quell the woman’s snoopiness moving forward.

“I have to check in on Josh.” Deep lines frowned his forehead. “Do you want to come with me?”

My phone screen brightened with a notification from Emma.

Emma: I did something.

Emma: It was wrong, and I feel guilty.

Emma: Please do not hate me.

What is she rambling on about?

“Brad?” He zipped the coat to his chin. “Are you ready?”

Putting the phone to my ear, I held up one finger.

“Hey,” Emma said after one ring. “Big guy, I need to talk to you. It is really important.”

Nate’s brows elevated in question.

Truthfully, I had to stay away from the woman. I liked her, and I wanted us to be friends, but something changed between us. Maybe it’s because we almost slept together. Perhaps it’s because her sad eyes this afternoon uncaged something dangerously protective within. I am not sure. Either way, I had to take a huge step back and focus on the job.

You see, Chloe’s letter hit me with a few home truths. I am an unapologetic womaniser. I have played the field and behaved irresponsibly for as long as I can remember.

Don’t get it twisted, though. I am not the quintessential fuckboy who dumps females in the wake of sex. I can still be in their presence days, weeks, months and years after, with the proviso that we are on the same page. In other words, no-strings-attached friends with benefits.

Emma is not like the birds I bed, and that’s not an insult to past encounters. All women are perfectly unique and equally beautiful in their own right. There is a substantial difference between promiscuous and inexperienced, though. Emma has little experience with casual relationships and is looking for a long-term commitment, which I could never provide. Yet, I am attracted to her. I want something she cannot offer, and I value her friendship too much to ruin it. I have to be the bigger person and pull away before it’s too late.

My hand squeezed the phone. “Now is not a good time, sweetheart.”

“Shit.” Her teeth chattered. “Okay, do not kill me. I am outside.”

“What?” I went to the window and peered into the front garden, where armed security roamed in sheets of rain. “That’s a little stalkerish. How do you know where I live?”

“The internet.” Her embarrassment emitted through the phone. “Look, I wouldn’t be here If I weren’t desperate. Please, can I come in? Or you could come with me for thirty minutes. I can drive us somewhere.”

Nate lingered by the door.

“Christ.” Touching the chrome button under the desk, I unlocked the electronic gates. “It’s a bit of a drive, so keep those headlights on.”

She snivelled. “Thank you.”

I ended the call.

“Dare I ask?” He fixed his nose ring. “Who’s the bitch?”

I have told the men about the Mildred/Emma fiasco. Nate will get the wrong idea if he sees the woman driving toward the estate, so I paid no heed to his question. “Go to the Warren Manor. I will come over later.”

With a two-finger salute, Nate left the building.

Security will escort Emma indoors. Whilst I awaited her arrival, I placed two glasses on the low table and sat on the ledge of the leather sofa.

Emma’s soft voice echoed in the foyer, and a sense of uneasiness occurred as a result. Knocking the door twice, she poked her head inside, smiled flatly and, one tentative foot at a time, stepped into the office. Her soaked clothes hung loosely, and her wet hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead.

“Hey.” Her green eyes roved over the suite and furniture. “Do you mind?” She pointed at the Jameson bottle. “I could do with a stiff drink.”

Help yourself, I gestured.

Uncapping the bottle with her teeth, she splashed alcohol into a glass, downing the liquid in one swallow. “How do you know Jace Williams?”

Straight to the point, huh?

With her apathetic face in sight, I unpocketed essentials to build a deck. “Why?”

“I need to know if you are a friend or an enemy.” Her backside eased onto the low table in front of me. “I need to know if I can trust you.”

Our eyes collided.

Sprinkling marijuana into Rizla paper, I pinched the deck between my fingers. “Are criminals ever truly trustworthy?”

“I do not believe that criminality defines you.” Her hopeful gaze and throaty voice caused horripilation. “Prove me right.”

I licked the Rizla seam. “What are you asking of me?”

“I know him,” she said cryptically. “We used to be friends.”

My heart palpitated. “Friends?”

“Friends,” she assured me. “I lied to you earlier. I saw the two of you together and freaked out.” Her cast is damp from the rain. “Anyway, we are not friends anymore. We fell out a very long time ago.”

Well, what a small world.

“After I left you in the alley,” she said sheepishly, “I followed him home.”

Not sure I liked where this conversation was heading.

Sparking a clipper flame to light the end of the joint, I took two drags and exhaled through my nose.

“I am so stupid.” Her lips wobbled. “I don’t even know what possessed me to go there, but he spotted me, and we had this big argument. And I threw your name out there because it holds power and influence, and it was wrong. I feel terrible. I had to come here and apologise in person. If you never want to speak to me again, I completely understand.” She slowed down, held her breath and re-opened her eyes. “Sorry, I am very emotional right now.”

I gave myself a moment to digest her garrulousness. “It was rather presumptuous of you,” I joked to lighten the mood. “Hey, you were there for me when I was lost.” When I sat on the floor in the rain, numb and directionless, she took my hand. “I guess we can call it even.”

I caught the single tear on her reddened cheek when she looked away.

“Back to Jace.” I swear if the motherfucker hurt her, with or without Alexa’s permission, I will snap his neck. “We are not friends per se. However, he is very close to the boss’s wife. I guess that makes him an ally by default. You see how that could be a conflict of interest.”

“Alexa Warren,” she said, and I gave her a curt nod. “I don’t know her personally, but her name is a big deal in London.”

Alexa Haines is a big deal in London. Her survival story inspired numerous victims of sexual abuse to come forward and hold perpetrators accountable. Alexa Warren, however, is feared by many. Her husband is the most dangerous man in London.

You must be bat shit crazy to get on her bad side.

She is Hellen of Troy incarnate.

Warren will wage wars in the name of love.

Emma shivers, the night’s cold winds and hellacious downpours frigid to her skin.

Leaving the joint in the ashtray, I strode to the door. “I will be right back.”

I went to the master bedroom, grabbed a towel, a T-shirt, jogging bottoms and returned to the office.

Emma’s spirits lifted when the towel draped over her shoulders. “Thank you.”

Turning to give her some privacy, I re-lit the joint, listening to her wet clothes hit the floor. “Are you decent?”

“Not yet.” Her movements continued. “Okay.”

Collapsing on the sofa, I watched her roll the wet jean shorts and hoodie into the towel. The T-shirt buried her petite frame. “My clothes look good on you.”

When she vacillated with the pile of laundry, I told her to dump it on the leather high back chair for housekeeping.

I motioned to the bottle. “Do you want another drink?”

“Please.” She sat next to me. “Are you angry?”

“No.” I handed her a refill. “I want to understand, though.”

“It’s a long story.” She sipped whiskey. “Can I give you the short version for now?”

Nodding, I slid an arm across the sofa’s rear. “Hit me.”

“I met Jace through a mutual friend.” Her tense shoulders relaxed. “Killian O’Shea.”

The name sounded familiar, but I could not place it.

“Jace is very good friends with Killian’s older brother, Tommy. I don’t know how they met, but those two were inseparable back then. Tommy told everyone they were cousins, which is not true because they are unrelated. Not that it mattered. Their brotherly bond was unmatched. Hell, Killian was so jealous. He loved and hated their bromance. Tommy was his idol, and he did not want to share him with anyone, least of all Jace.”

I listened intently.

“Because I was close to Killian, I got to hang around with Jace and Tommy often. They were the three musketeers, and I was the freeloader. At least, that’s what Jace used to call me.” She laughed at the memory. “He had a weird sense of humour.”

I poured another drink.

“I fell out with Killian.” Her expression became serious. “It was awful, big guy. We could never be friends again. It was over between us.”

Now, I wanted the more extended version of the story.

“Tommy defended his younger brother. Jace stood by his best friend. And I was ostracised by their community and mine.”

“Wait.” I slowed her right down. “Why did you fall out?”

Her gaze cast to the floor. “Let’s just say it was his word against mine.”

Her evasiveness was interpretable. “Is Killian Carter’s father?” I asked, and she nodded. “Is he the guy who hurt you?”

“Yes,” she said with a small sob. “Shit. Why am I crying? I am over it.”

My blood fired hot. “I will fucking kill him.”

“Brad.” Her hand captured my wrist before I could stand. “Killian is dead. He committed suicide in his holding cell the night officials arrested him.”

Killian is a bastard coward. “Shame, guilt and suicide. How fucking poetic?”

“What?” Her lips parted. “You believe me?”

I have only known this woman for a short while, but I am good at reading people. She does not have one malicious bone in her body. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Nobody believed me.” Her tears eyes locked with mine. “It was Ben. He was the only person in my corner. Even my parents disowned me.”

Christ, there is so much I needed to learn about this woman.

“In the eyes of Jace and Tommy and the entire gypsie community, Killian was innocent, and I was a pathological liar. I was blameworthy for his death. How dare I file fake rape allegations? How dare I defame the reputation of an innocent boy?” Tears welled in her eyes. “Why would I lie, big guy? He was my best friend.”

I thumbed a tear across her cheek. “You grieve.”

“Crazy, right?” Her knuckles whitened as she clenched the glass. “I hate him for what he did to me, but death is another matter. I didn’t want him to die.”

My composure remained. “What did they do to you?”

“Ben was the one who suffered the most. My poor brother endured so many beatings back then. His only crime was protecting me.”

“Yes.” I understand that. “But what did they do to you?”

“Looking back, it was child’s play.” She downplayed her painful past. “Before my parents kicked me out of our family home, I remember nights when bricks came through the windows and flames torched vehicles. People broke in whilst we slept and stole anything they could get their hands on. I mean, they took photo frames and ornaments and pointless furniture.”

I snubbed the joint in the ashtray and poured another round of drinks.

“When the council gave us keys to temporary accommodation, I thought I was safe, that Ben was safe, but they found us. Ben came in from work one night. He was exhausted and went straight to bed. I was in the shower when someone broke in and set the living room on fire. Ben got us out in time. I stood in the street in nothing but a towel, watching the building go up in flames.”

I poured alcohol down my throat.

“We moved again,” she continued. “They tracked us down. If I left the flat, they’d be waiting for me. I was cornered in supermarkets, clothing stores, markets and libraries. You name it. They were there to torment me. I was grabbed, pushed, shoved and insulted. I was called a liar and humiliated in public.”

Warren loathed Jace because of his closeness to Alexa. He is an enigma, but I never pegged him as a woman beater. “Jace did this?”

“Tommy’s family and friends,” she corrected. “Jace was there at the beginning. He and Tommy tried to get a ‘confession’ out of me when I lived with my parents, but they never took it too far. They used scare tactics instead. Quintin is a different breed, though. He was out for blood.”

I was sangfroid. “Who is Quintin?”

“Tommy’s father. He will never forgive me for Killian’s death.” Her hand touched my knee. “Thankfully, the man is in prison for another ten years. His subjects are loyal, though.”

There was more to this story.

“So, that’s been my life ever since. If I bump into them, I run, and I don’t look back. London was the best decision we made. For some reason, they never followed us here.” Her throat swelled. “I fear Jace and Tommy could make waves. What if Tommy has ill-intentions? I should have…decked Jace and drove away.”

“Decked,” I whispered, and she gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Ill-intentions?”

Her fingers picked imaginary lint on my knee. “It is not the first time someone has attempted to take Carter.”

My ears perked up. “Why would they try and snatch your son?”

“They do not want to share Killian’s boy with someone like me,” she said, and tension tightened my fists. “I drove Carter home tonight and sent him inside to avoid my brother. He is probably packing as we speak. I don’t want to run anymore, big guy. I want to stay.”

I downed whiskey.

“Jace is still upset. He told me to contact Tommy, or he’ll do it for me. So, I messaged Tommy and agreed to sit with him to appease Jace, and now I am terrified. I don’t know what to do. My brother will never forgive the O’Shea family for what they did to us. And honestly, I am so scared.”

“Emma.” My hands smoothed up and down her arms. “You need to calm down for one second. Your mind is going one hundred miles an hour.” Topping up her glass, I placed the Jameson bottle on the table. “When is the meeting?”

“Well, nothing is set in stone yet.” Her fingers curled around the glass. “I have to reply to his last message.”

Not on my watch. “You are not obligated to do shit.”

Her eyes popped wide. “But Jace…”

“I can handle Jace,” I promised, and relief washed over her beautiful face. “Christ, send Tommy in my direction whilst you are at it. We’ll see who comes out of the situation unscathed.”

“I know it’s ridiculous, but I don’t want to hurt them.” She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth. “They did what anyone would do in that situation. They stood up for someone they loved.”

Palming the phone, I sent Jace a message.

Me: Emma Hughes is off-limits. If you or O’Shea come within five miles of her family, I will rip out your intestines and make you choke on them. And don’t fucking test me. Alexa might be your friend, but I am Warren’s right-hand. Her word won’t mean shit if I get my hands on you.

Message delivered.

Emma wiped the dampness from her cheeks. “I am sorry for barging in on you like a crazy person.”

“Will you stop apologising?” Curling a strand of hair behind her ear, I pulled a swig of whiskey. “Hey, I visited your gaff. It is only fair that you see mine.”

“Yeah.” Her amazement toured the expanse of the room. “My little three-bedroom flat has nothing on this place. Your office is bigger than my living room, kitchen and bathroom combined. I mean, you have soldiers outside. That is kinda scary, big guy.”

Chuckling, I rubbed my eyes. “Precaution.”

Rather than pour another drink, she swigged straight from the bottle. “How did it go with your son?”

I am surprised she remembered. “It went as expected.” Not a conversation I wanted to visit tonight. “Where did you park the car?”

She winced. “I should probably stop drinking.”

No, she needed the night off. “Knock yourself out. I can drive you home.”

“Great,” she said with chipper sarcasm. “Let’s trade one drunk driver for another.”

“Christ, I am always under the influence when behind the wheel.” My fingers drew shapes on the nape of her neck. “I can handle it.” I hadn’t noticed before, but her skin had many beauty marks. I counted seven on her exposed shoulder and five on her cheek. “What’s the update on Hughie?”

“I don’t know, actually.” Her lips pursed. “Hugo hasn’t texted for a while.”

Now is probably a good time to mention the last text message he sent. It was the day I drove her to the hospital. He asked if it was okay to pick her up that night. “His loss.”

“Is it?” Her eyes came to me. “I come with baggage. He’s the one with the lucky escape.”

No, Hughie would be lucky to peg this bird.

I had to release some pent-up frustration. “Do you want to hit the gym?”

“What?” she glimpsed at her wristwatch. “It’s late. Will they be open?”

One, there are twenty-four-hour gyms scattered all over London.

Two, I happen to own a well-equipped gym on the estate.

My finger aimed at the door. “It’s a short walk down the hall.”

Emma’s bewildered stare went to the door. “Of course, you have a gym.”

My arms outstretched. “Hey, you can bring the bottle.”

With a shove to my shoulder, she swiped the bottleneck and dragged her fine arse down the hall. “I plan to.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Emma

Brad switched the suit for grey sweatpants. His white T-shirt, which stretched to accommodate well-structured shoulders and a well-developed chest, left little to the imagination. His mesomorph physique was imposing. His arms flexed cords of muscle as he bench-pressed weights, and his defined abdomen tensed with each laborious rep. Whilst he worked out, I bounced on the mini fitness trampoline or played around with the skipping rope because, well, I am not a gym junkie, and I am distracted by the other person in the room.

Most of the machines were foreign objects to someone like me, anyway.

Ben: I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You never came inside tonight. You dropped Carter home without saying two words to me and drove away. What the hell is that? You sent me a terrifying text message, then disappeared! How is that fair, Em?

Ben: I have been going out of my mind since you told me about Jace.

Ben: And when did you become an irresponsible parent? Your son went to bed without a kiss from his mother. That’s not cool.

Ben: You have a lot of explaining to do.

Ben: Sis, I hate arguing with you, but if you don’t reply, I will lose my shit.

Me: I apologise for scaring you. It’s been a crazy day, but I will explain everything when I get home.

Me: I promise.

Ben: When might that be?

Me: I am not sure yet.

Ben: How can you be unsure? Where are you?

Me: I am with Brad.

Ben: Brad? Are you mad? What the fuck are you doing with that geezer?

Me: Ben, you need to calm down.

Ben: Calm down?! How can you say that to me?

Ben: I swear, I lost you somewhere. This is not you. You do not behave like this. My sister is responsible. She does not associate with criminals or take the likes of Jace Williams with a pinch of fucking salt.

Me: Ben, I love you. I love you so, so much, but you need to cool down.

Me: Look, I get it. We have been through so much together. You are overprotective. Hell, I am overprotective. But we are not kids anymore. We are adults. I am allowed to choose my friends.

Ben: See, this is where I get pissed off. Quinn is your friend. Steph is your friend. Ethan and Wyatt? Friends. Brad is the community worker. Let that sink in.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Ben: Why is he doing community service, Em?

There is no avoiding this conversation.

Me: Drugs.

Ben: He is friends with the biggest drug baron in London. Not just some small-time dealer, Em. He is an active member of a criminal organisation. Why would you invite that shit to your door? Ask yourself one question. Is he the type of influence you want in Carter’s life?

I hate that he is right.

Me: I agree with you.

Me: But rumours are not facts. Unless we see or hear illegalities in person, how can we be absolutely certain? I can only judge him based on my experience with him. Yes, he has a strong personality (people will either love him or hate him), but he is also funny, kind, thoughtful and charming.

I typed another.

Me: He makes me smile.

Message read.

Ben: Oh, fuck.

Me: What?

Ben: I knew it.

Me: ?

Ben: You like him.

Me: Obviously. He is a nice guy.

Ben: No, Em. You like him.

Me: Twin telepathy is a myth.

Ben: I am pretty sure it was you that preached thought transference when I was friends with Quinn.

Me: I am not going there.

Ben: Why not?

Me: Quinn is my friend. And you, Benjamin Hughes, are a skirt-chaser.

Me: She deserved better.

Me: End of conversation.

Ben: Skirt-chaser? Really?

Me: Would you prefer a two-timing piece of shit?

Ben: Ouch.

Me: Didn’t think so.

Ben: For the record, I never cheated on her.

Me: Then, why is Stephanie in our flat, six nights a week?

Me: Yes, I have ears. I hear everything.

Ben: I am single.

Me: Funny, so am I.

Ben: Why am I in the firing line? You are deflecting.

I am avoiding consequences, and it’s unfair.

Me: I know you are worried, but Brad promised to help us.

Ben: What does that even mean?

Me: It means we might be able to stay in London.

Message read.

Ben: What does he want in return?

Me: Nothing.

Ben: I don’t buy it. Why would he help? He barely even knows us.

Me: He is my friend.

Ben: You still believe that lie, huh?

My stomach fluttered at his question.

Me: Yes.

Ben: If he hurts you…

Me: I am responsible for my actions.

Ben: Just know that I am always in your corner.

My heart squeezed.

Me: Likewise.

Ben: Don’t come home too late.

Ben: And I am sorry for calling you an irresponsible parent. I was angry. We know that’s not true.

Me: You don’t have to apologise. We both behave facetiously when upset.

Ben: I love you.

Me: Ditto.

Chucking the phone on the black, impact-absorbing floor, I selected two dumbbells from the three-tiered rack, rushed through reps, and then settled for resistance bands.

The floor-to-ceiling mirrors also prevented concentration. How can I focus on the task when I see him from every angle? But the bigger question is: why do I care? When did his closeness become suffocating? When did the power of his smile alone start to make me feel good inside? Since when did I avoid eye contact or small talk?

Ben is right. I do have a soft spot for Brad. I mean, the man insulted me the first time we met, yet I still held out an olive branch until he accepted free coffee.

Trapped in reverie, I side-eyed him. I cannot think of one fault or imperfection. He is perfect, inside and out, and everything I aspire to be someday: confident, level-headed, brave and stout-hearted. He brightens the room with his eyes and demands respect with his presence.

My heart thumped faster.

Releasing a long, shaky breath, I wiped the sweat from my brow and collapsed on the floor with the Jameson bottle.

Alcohol burnt my throat.

U2′s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” sounded in the background. We are at loggerheads over the music. I wanted Ne-Yo. He protested. As it’s his house, I lost the argument.

I resonated with the song, though.

Brad re-racked the bar and hunched forward. Reaching behind his back, he pulled the T-shirt over his head and used it to wipe perspiration on his chest.

My opened mouth slammed shut.

“Stop hogging the alcohol,” he joked, not that I breathed, moved or blinked. “Share the love.”

Recapping the bottle, I rolled it across the floor, and he caught it beneath his foot. Pulling a long swing, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

“No.” Strands of hair loosened from his messy top knot. “I think I should get on a diet.”

His lazy gaze raked over me. “I disagree.”

“Fitness,” I said, and he smiled. “I lost my breath on the trampoline within two minutes.”

He stood.

My eyes fell to his prominent V-line, where the darkest line of hair disappeared south.

Yes, I am screwed.

Fate fooled me into believing our friendship could survive platonic boundaries, but the heart responded to the sight of him and endangered our unspoken attachment.

I might lose him to impulsiveness.

Perhaps it was worth the risk.

He adjusted the volume on the soundbar. “Fancy a bit of Madness?”

“Um, sure.” My footsteps faltered. “Actually, no. Madness is too upbeat.”

What am I doing?

I should listen to Ben.

I have a son to consider.

No, I will not judge this man based on third-hand hearsay. I will take him at face value and trust that it’s the right decision.

“Would you rather slow-and-sensual in the gym?” His amused smile vanished when I palmed his forearm nervously. “What’s wrong?”

For someone who could remove women’s knickers with his eyes alone, he was painfully clueless to the determination in my fixated stare. “Big guy,” I whispered, and his protruding Adam’s apple bobbed. Before I could change my mind, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his throat.

Then, I waited with bated breath.

“Emma,” he rasped in my ear. “You don’t want to go there.”

My heart started to race. “What if I do?”

Brad groaned, low and throaty.

“Are you not attracted to me?”

“Christ.” His forehead lowered to mine. “Is that a serious question?”

I adopted bravery. “Why do you deny me?”

“Do you honestly think I haven’t re-lived the night in your bed? That I haven’t thought about our kiss over and over again?” His hand secured to my nape. “I would be insane to deny you.”

My fingers teased the waistband of his jogging bottoms. “What’s stopping you?”

“Respect,” he said, not that I understood. “I respect you, sweetheart.”

I am not a delicate butterfly. “I can handle a one-night stand.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Then, what do you want?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled away from me and took angry strides to retrieve the whiskey bottle. “It is cliche, but I am not mature enough to handle real relationships. We discussed it already.”

I hadn’t considered a relationship. I am not one to sleep around, either. But if we like each other, and sex becomes more, that’s a good thing, right? I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? “I am not asking for a relationship.”

His shoulders quaked with mirth. “Every woman’s go-to phrase.”

Paralysed by embarrassment, I maintained eye contact.

He gave me a contemplative glance. “Is it sexual attraction, or do you have feelings for me?”

I am not sure. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes.” His back hit the wall. “There is a major difference.”

“Both, I guess.”

His lip curled at the corner. “You should never fuck someone when your heart is on the line.”

Okay, I know I am not the most experienced chick on the block, but I am not entirely clueless. “You’d know all about that, would you?”

“Yes.” He was unsmiling and grave, not cocky. “In fact, there is a woman at work who has been in love with me since I joined Warren Enterprise. She has watched me entertain other women for over a decade, yet she will open the door for me and accept the bare minimum.”

I frowned.

“Do you want to be that woman, Emma? Will you take me as I am? Will you overlook nights of debauchery and lack of respect just as long as I remember to fit you in?” When I never responded, he stifled a snarl. “I didn’t think so.”

My hands threw up. “It might not end that way.”

His jaw muscles clenched. “You are a fool to believe otherwise.”

Yes, I was making a fool of myself.

It’s time I went home.

“Emma.” His hand caught mine before I could leave. “Do not let me ruin you.”

I threaded our fingers. “I thought you’d never been in love.”

He stared at our joint hands. “Correct.”

“Then, what did she do to make you fear it?”

“It would seem that your presumptuousness knows no bounds.” His eyes filled with hate. “I’d quit while you are ahead.”

I poked the bear. “Presumptuous or perspicacious?”

He chuckled dryly. “Don’t push me, Emma.”

“Fuck this.” I escaped his clutches. “I am leaving.”

“What is it that you want to hear?” He gripped my elbow. “Do you want me to lie? Do you want me to tell you that I was irrevocably in love, and she broke my fucking heart? Or that I cried myself to sleep after catching her in our bed with my best friend.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “I grieved for months after witnessing flames engulf their dead bodies. Fuck, it still hurts.”

A chill slithered down my spine.

“I was so heartbroken.” He put out hands to his chest. “Christ, I will never forgive myself.”

No, he is remorseless. He murdered them in cold blood and lived as though it never happened.

I played his game. “You killed your girlfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend.” His whispered breath warmed my lips. “I never beat her to death, Emma. I am incapable.”

“Big guy.” My body trembled involuntarily. “You are scaring me.”

“Good.” His thumb traced my mouth. “Now, you can walk away without regret.”

It was impossible to believe this man could hurt me. I bet his ex-girlfriend used to say the same. “Why?”

His eyes searched mine. “What’s the question?”

“How could you do that to someone you cared about?” My brother is right. This man is not to be trusted. He is irredeemable. “You could have walked away.”

“I chose not to.”

My body began to vibrate with anger. “You have no regard for human life.”

He shrugged. “Correct.”

“Who are you?” I whispered, and his scowl sharpened. “You are not the man I thought you were.”

He grasped a fistful of hair at the back of his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Disappointment.” His harsh frown softened. “You look disappointed in me. I don’t like it.”

I am disappointed. “You were perfect.”

“Perfect? I am the complete opposite. I…” His gaze drifted to the door when a forceful, loud cry reverberated in the distance. “Is it in my head?”

When the cries became louder, I glanced at the door. “Is that your son?”

A woman appeared in the doorway, holding a red-faced, water-eyed, inconsolable baby to her side. Her short blonde hair looked tousled from frustrated tugs, and her red, puffy eyes bore sleeplessness. “I’m sorry for interrupting. It’s Dominic. He has cried non-stop for nearly thirty minutes. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Alice, why are you bringing him to me?” he asked, and I bit back the urge to interfere. “You are his nanny. It’s your job to fix him.”

Fix him, I thought.

“I have tried everything.” The poor woman is distressed. “Maybe he needs to see a doctor, Mr Jones. There is only so much I can do.”

Dominic’s mouth wrestled with his chunky fist as his inflamed gums sought knuckle-friction. “He’s teething.”

Alice’s face loses all semblance of exasperation. Now, she looked annoyed.

Damn, I should have kept my mouth shut.

“Here.” She pushed Dominic toward me. “Hold him whilst I find…”

“Teething gel,” I said warily, taking the baby into my arms. “And this is probably a bad idea. I have whiskey in my system.”

“Just don’t drop him.” She backed away from the door. “I will be right back.”

Dominic is one heavy baby.

Cradling him in my arms, I encouraged him to latch onto the blue dummy. It will give him something to chomp on until Alice returns with a tube of quick-acting anaesthetic.

He sucked the pacifier between his quivering lips.

My heart melted.

“He has your eyes. Dark topaz with a hint of amber.” When I looked up, Brad’s intense scrutiny averted. “Have you held him yet?”

“Once.” He glared beneath gathered brows. “It was before I knew he was mine.”

Dominic’s fingers curled around my little finger.

Brad almost came forward, then decided against it. “Is he in pain?”

The baby has a lovely set of front teeth. “Molars are the most painful stage of teething. Carter used to cry for hours when those big buggers came through.” Ben used to strap him in the buggy and go on long walks to take his mind off the pain. “He’s looking at you.”

Brad rubbed the scruff of his jaw.

I dared to challenge him. “Surely, you are not scared of a baby.”

“Obviously, not.” He stepped back when I stepped closer. “Emma…”

“You are all he has.” Keeping one arm around the baby, I reached for the man’s hand and pulled him closer. “Just let him see you.”

He warred with himself. “It’s easier said than done.”

“I know,” I admitted aloud, and our eyes collided. “I refused to acknowledge Carter when he was a baby. He was his father’s son, and I wanted no part of it. Ben intervened. He cared for his nephew until I was ready to face reality. It was not as scary as I thought it would be. I went from being unable to hold him to never putting him down. I fell in love the moment he smiled at me. Trust me, big guy. He will be your best friend someday.”

Footsteps advanced in the hall. Alice reappeared, a tube of teething gel in hand. “I found some in Dominic’s bedroom. Alexa is very organised.”

Brad smiled at the mention of Alexa. “I prefer meddlesome.”

“I will take it from here.” Alice eased the baby into her arms. “Let’s get you to bed.”

A pervading sense of awkwardness resulted from their departure. We had argued before Alice arrived with the baby. “I am sober now,” I said with a click of the tongue. “So, I can drive.”

“Wait.” His hand flattened on my lower stomach. “I was not in love with Tiffany. You were right, though. I cared. I never understood why she wanted me, but she did, and I tried so fucking hard to be the man she needed me to be.”

“What were her expectations?” I had so many questions. “Was it the job? Your lifestyle?”

“It was before Warren and the syndicate. I was a nobody, Emma. I worked dead-end jobs and barely made ends meet. She was the money. She had it all. I had no business in her life.” He rolled the Jameson bottle between his palms. “She craved passion, desire and intimacy. I dragged her along with empty promises for five years. I guess she got tired of waiting.”

I toyed with the rings on my fingers. “Help me to understand.”

His throat strained as he swallowed. “I can’t.”

With an exasperated sigh, I asked, “Why not?”

“Emma.” His jaw clenched, then unclenched. “I will not re-live it.”

Nodding, I cupped my mouth. “Even if I accept the unspeakable, I cannot be friends with someone I want to kiss every time I see him.”

His eyes rounded a fraction.

“That’s not fair to either of us, and It is a disaster waiting to happen. I can lie to you, big guy. I can tell you the tension and chemistry is not an issue. I can pretend not to care if you bed me one night, then fall into the arms of another, days later, but then I’d be no better than every other woman who tried to change you. You don’t have to be someone you are not.” I gave him a tepid smile. “Not for me.”

I only made it to the door when his arm locked around my waist.

My heart fell to my stomach.

“Emma.” His cheek pressed to the side of my head. “I don’t want to be the reason.”

It was an ambivalent statement.

Turning in his arms, I pushed onto the balls of my feet, palmed his stubble jaw and pressed a kiss to the corner of his still lips. His jaw muscles tensed beneath my fingertips. He nipped my lower lip with his teeth, his tongue seeking permission to my mouth, and reciprocated affection. This man claimed to be unpassionate, yet one bruising kiss set my soul alight. His hands moved to the wall above my head. He never touched me, but I felt him everywhere. That’s the power of a kiss. His kiss.

With my name whispered on his lips, he deepened the kiss, his tongue dancing with mine, leaving no room for air or hesitation. He savoured the taste of whiskey on my tongue, and I never wanted it to end.

“Emma,” he said hoarsely, and I buried my head in the groove of his neck, tasting his cologne on my lips. “Go home.”

It was a plea, not an order.

Ducking under his arm, I grabbed the phone on the floor and ordered a taxi on the app. I will collect the car when he is at work tomorrow.

“Jace is not a problem.” He thumbed the evidence of our kiss across his lips. “I promise.”

I believed him. “Thank you, big guy.”

My phone chimed with a notification.

The cab driver will be here in six minutes.

“Shit.” I tugged the T-shirt. “Your clothes.”

“Keep them,” he said, and I nodded. “Yours?”

I loved those denim shorts, but I will not behave like a penniless scavenger. “You can throw them in the bin. They are too small for me, anyway.”

No, they are not.

Why did I lie?

Tucking the phone in my pocket, I beelined the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

Brad never followed.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Brad

I am in the doghouse. I failed to attend community service for two weeks and the newly assigned probation officer, the strait-laced boffin, the arse-licking prick, filed an application to the court for revocation of unpaid supervision.

Now, I am in a quandary about what to do.

Kill the tweed-wearing Judge or kill the overambitious officer.

Perhaps I shall extinguish both.

Decisions. Decisions.

Carl Bishop dragged me out of bed this morning to suffer the consequences of punishable insubordination.

God help my bastard soul.

How dare I behave so irresponsibly.

Why must I make the lawyer’s life more difficult?

Well, Bishop, I hate to break it to you, but I am not the most well-behaved civilian. I tend to fly off the handle when provoked.

I blame the cafe girl for recent misdemeanours.

The predictable fall out with Emma forestalled obligatory duties. I had no desire to bump into her and masquerade awkwardness. Let’s face it. She was the sole reason litter picking continued without complaint or disturbance.

How can I work in her proximity and pretend to be a stranger? I’d flirt with her to break the ice or barb her brain to gain chastisement or follow her around like a lost puppy until she smiled because I hate the idea of her never speaking to me again. And that’s unfair. It’s either I want her in my life, or I don’t.

I cannot have it both ways.

There is no in-between.

What a fucking dilemma.

I figured avoidance coping is the right strategy. In three, six, nine months’ time, she will forget I ever existed, and life will be blissfully unproblematic once more.

Well, that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration. Life will be somewhat trouble-free. I still have Warren’s imprisonment hanging over my head, the estranged son living at the estate, and the unwanted nanny watching my every move. Not to mention the syndicate and the Italians and the Russians and the hormonal pregnant woman who sent an array of abusive text messages a mere five minutes ago.

Alexa: Where are you?

Alexa: Brad, I will lose it.

Alexa: Josh is still throwing up. Is that normal?

Alexa: I feel helpless.

Alexa: And sad.

Alexa: I don’t know what to do.

Alexa: Brad Jones!

Alexa: Right, I am coming for you.

Nate: I am at the Warren Manor.

Nate: Hiding in the theatre room.

Nate: Pregnant women are scary.

Alexa: Have you seen Nate?

Nate: Tell her nothing!

Alexa: His car is in the driveway, but I cannot find him.

Nate: She is looking for me.

I am drowning.

Alexa: Brad!

Me: What?!

Alexa: Do not shout at me.

I kicked the space beneath the table.

Carl and the Judge looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

Me: How can you detect someone’s tone of voice via text message?

Alexa: I know you.

Me: I am busy, Alexa.

Alexa: You are always too busy.

Me: In case you never got the memo, I am in the middle of presiding over your ungrateful husband’s empire.

Alexa: My husband? Last I checked, he was your best friend.

Me: The jury is still out on that one.

Alexa: What is that supposed to mean?

Me: It means the son of bitch is due to catch a slap from me.

Alexa: Something we can agree on.

Alexa: Alfie will stay with Josh. I am headed to the casino.

Me: No, Alfie is your bodyguard. He goes wherever you go.

Alexa: Nate is with me.

Me: You found him?

Alexa: Not yet.

Me: I will meet you at the casino in an hour.

Alexa: Lunch is on you.

Alexa: Remember, I am eating for two.

I almost replied with a snarky comment, then I remembered her eating disorder and smiled proudly. The boss’s wife never mentioned food. If it weren’t for the ravenousness of others, she’d forget to eat.

Lunch is on you.

Four simple yet meaningful words.

Progress is possible with the right motivation.

Bean’s tucked up in the utero until December, but his impending arrival is already accomplishing positive changes. Alexa will be a reformed woman by the time he arrives, and honestly, I am excited about the end result.

Alexa was never the most voluptuous woman (she is naturally slim without dietary requirements), but her flawless figure deserved merit. That is until her alleged death commenced, and she rose from the ashes akin to skin-and-bones.

She never quite recovered from time in captivity. She’d lost her appetite and ignored the fact her clothes draped from protuberant bones.

Maybe she was in denial.

Perhaps she learnt to love herself regardless of gauntness.

All I know is acknowledgement is key to success, and her newfound passion for health and wellness is positive for mental health, and it might contribute to curves.

“As previously mentioned in the last hearing, by reason of Mr Jones’ stressful circumstances, his community service breach order is defensible.” Carl tapped the Cartier ballpoint pen on the mahogany conference table. “He has acknowledged failed compliance. However, on this occasion, he is not willing to renegotiate terms and conditions.”

The Judge’s short, caustic laugh rattled his chest. “Negotiation is necessary to avoid conflict and reach an accord.”

Carl’s pinched countenance reflected a certain degree of uncomfortableness. He had entered the majestic room with confident strides and obstinate determination, but the Judge’s disciplined sternness seemed to discourage him. He coughed, reached for the water glass and slaked thirst. “Conflict avoidance is a rather trivial subject where my client is concerned.”

When the Judge’s ungroomed eyebrows shot up in question, I gave him an insouciant shrug. His gold-plated waistcoat chain scratched the ledge of the table as his interlocked fingers leaned onto unopened documents. “I warned you,” he said with a dark glance. “I have the power to revoke the community service order and re-sentence you to full-time jail.”

I practically begged for Belmarsh in the past. Now, I could not think of anything worse than bunking with the boss. Christ, I am angry enough to attack the ignorant prick, rearrange his smug face and disown him for life. “I am out.”

Carl rubbed his eyes beneath black-framed spectacles.

The Judge bristled. “I beg your pardon.”

“I. Am. Out.” My finger jabbed the table with each punctuated syllable. “I will not vaunt one more tracksuit to scrub recurring graffiti on the wall or stab foil packets on the floor because some lazy motherfucker cannot be bothered to walk their invalid legs to the bastard bin. For the sake of uncharacteristic mannerliness and good fucking humour, I have entertained this nonsense.” I had no reason to be on that side of town. “Not anymore.”

Carl slid an envelope across the table.

“Now, you will find justifiable reasons to terminate the probation early and accept generosity.” I watched the Judge peel open the envelope to summarise uncountable bribe money. “Or you go home tonight and sleep with one eye open. You decide. I am easy either way.”

His eyes snapped up. “Is that a threat?”

Carl’s hand raised. “No—”

“Yes.” I will prolong the Judge’s pain and torture until the early hours if he refuses to cooperate. Community service will never be on the list of priorities. It is a complete waste of time. I had business to tend to, people to visit and exterminate, family and friends to safeguard. “It is now or never. I will not plead for leniency, Your Honour. That’ll be your job if you do not sign the termination form and send my arse packing.”

The Judge stuffed the envelope inside the pocket of his inner suit jacket. “You have paid fines and attended mandatory hearings. Expungement clears the conviction from your record.” He scribbled his signature on the form. “How does that sound, Mr Jones?”

“Blissful.” I snatched the form out of his outstretched hand and tossed it to Carl. “I am glad we understand each other.”

If the Judge could fly across the table and strangle me to death, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He foamed from the mouth. “I expect no unwanted visits.” He soared from the chair. “A pleasure, as always, Mr bishop.”

Carl slid the early termination form into the leather briefcase, locking the gold buckles, and pushed to his feet. “That was not part of the agreement.” Once the Judge exited the room, he gripped the satin tie around my neck and gave it a firm tug. “You were supposed to let me do all the talking.”

My brow lifted in question.

His hand dropped as though the tie’s silken texture singed the tips of his fingers.

“Well, I changed my mind,” I said with breezy steps toward the door. “Are you hungry? I am en-route to the casino for an early lunch.”

“I have another meeting to attend.” He checked the time on his gold wristwatch. “Rain check?”

“Sure.” I strolled through the court’s regal lobby, where smartly dressed members of the public awaited legal proceedings. “Carl.”

He stopped shy of the double doors that led to the car park. “Yes?”

“Any updates or news on Warren?” Rocking back on the heels of my leather shoes, I shoved two hands in my trouser pockets. “I have yet to receive any letters.”

“Why do you continue to write when he is unresponsive?” He held the door open for me. “What are your expectations?”

“Reassurance.” Stepping down the concrete steps, I scrubbed a hand over my face. “All I need is for someone to tell me that he is okay, that he is not locked in solitary confinement or lonely and depressed. Is that too much to ask?”

He unlocked the agate grey metallic Porsche. “You doubt his resilience.”

“Even the strongest of men have lost in battle.” Warren is innately cold and impassive, but there is someone with feelings buried within the impenetrable armour. I have met him on the rarest of occasions and witnessed emotional pain and tear-shed to know that he is not immune to tribulation. In actuality, he is more in touch with sentiments than he portrays, so it is impossible to believe he is unsusceptible to the solitariness of life. “His behaviour is indecipherable. He is not one to shy from reality. I fear something bad happened.”

Carl drummed the car key on his palm.

I had a light bulb moment. “Who is the governor?”

“Governor?” He watched two females clad in tight pencil skirts walk swiftly to the parked Honda. “What’s the inquiry?”

I was baffled by his current interest. “I thought you were gay.”

“Gay?” He was positively affronted. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

I eyed the shiny leather loafers with tassels on his feet.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” He scuffed a pebble beneath his shoe. “I believe Christian Louboutin is still in fashion.”

“Whatever tickles your fancy.” You could not pay me to model tassel-trimmed loafers. “Back to the governor.”

His face paled. “What about him?”

“I want you to tell me everything there is to know about him.”

“You cannot murder the pissing governor,” he hissed, not that there were any civilians within our proximity. “You are out of your damn mind.”

“What’s with the hostility?” I grabbed onto his forearms to curb aimless gesticulation. “Stop flapping. It is unbecoming and bastard embarrassing.”

“Brad.” He let out a quiet sigh. “His death would be far too scandalous.”

“Who mentioned murder?” I flicked the crease between his groomed eyebrows. “I want some dirty laundry, Bishop. You are the man to deliver.”

He blinked in cogitation. “And what will you do with said laundry?”

“I will threaten to air it.”

“Unless?”

“He puts me in a room with Warren.” Fishing out the Bentley key, I unblocked the vehicle parked opposite the Porsche. “Pretty fucking genius, if you ask me.”

“Fine.” He ducked into the vehicle, rolled down the window, and fired the engine. “I will see what I can do.”

Next assignment: feed the peevish pregnant woman.

***

Timothy Andino’s casino is a construction site whilst strenuous contractors worked tirelessly to transform the listed building. Concrete blocks and scaffolding secured the roman pillar entrance. Builders had knocked down internal walls, electricians had rewired throughout, and sheets of plywood veneered the floors.

The clamorous sound of machinery, tools and loud music left a ring in my ears, the noisome stench of combustible dust wafting past my nose. I took the stairs to the second level, avoiding untidily scattered equipment, powdery surfaces and hard-hat-wearing contractors and headed for the unutilised office.

Alexa and Nate stood by the old desk with blueprints.

I knocked on the open door. “Howdy motherfuckers.”

Alexa frowned. “Where is the food?”

Fuck, I overlooked lunch. I was too busy typing an unsent message to the woman who-shall-not-be-named. “I thought you and I could walk into town and grab something together.” I was full of shit, and she knew it. “You know, for old times’ sake.”

She glared with arms akimbo.

“Fucking Christ.” I tugged the collar of my shirt. “I forgot to buy grub. Get over it.”

“Have I missed something?” She gave Nate a sidelong glance. “Why is he so irritable?”

“I don’t know.” Nate’s head cocked. “You good, man?”

“He is a little pale,” Alexa blethered as if I were not present. “Is Dominic keeping you up at night?”

I have not seen my son in over a week. Our last encounter was in the kitchen when Alice prepared his bottle. Even then, I did not hang around. I made coffee, went to the office and locked the door behind me.

“No,” Nate drawled with a shit-eating grin. “He is sex-starved.”

“What?” He is out of his damn mind. “Speak for yourself, Mr holier-than-thou. I am not deprived of sexual gratification. I am, however, busier than usual. I just got out of the courthouse for a breach of community service. I have Gia at the estate, and still, there is no sight or sign of Bosqui. Moretti is AWOL alongside his family. The Don might as well be a ghost—I am starting to doubt he even exists. Warren is an ignorant son of bitch, and his wife is a hormonal mess. Blaire continues to mock the syndicate from the shadows. Dominic’s nanny has a screw or two loose. I have no updates on the Russians or the Ukrainians. Christ, I daren’t ask if contraband made it to the streets this week. Oh, and let’s not forget Sailor, the unreformed drug addict presently talking to hallucinations at the Manor. Excuse me for not being overly optimistic right now,” I added scornful sarcasm. “But I am neck-fucking-deep in everyone else’s problems, and it’s weighing me down.”

Nate and Alexa stood taller, not a word of utterance.

“I am not immune to stress,” I tell them. “I can only handle so much before I snap. So, rather than chew my fucking arse out for unpunctuality and forgetfulness, take some of the load and help a brother out.”

Alexa looked regretful.

“I lost my leader, too,” I said quietly. “I am trying so damn hard to execute in his absence, but I am not him. I will never be him.” I removed the toothpick from my fused lips and dropped it in the nearby bin. “Just…back off, all right?”

Nate tapped my shoulder. “What do you need?”

“I need results,” I said, and he nodded sharply. “No more inaction. Results. If Bosqui does not call by the end of the day, I want Gia dismembered and mailed to Essex.”

“Come on, Brad.” Nate breathed a sigh. “Rome was not built in a day.”

That’s not what I wanted to hear. “If you do not uncover Blaire’s whereabouts by the next weekend, I will hire Vincent to act on your behalf.”

Nate’s shoulders squared.

“In fact, at this rate, if the brothers do not act in accordance with their duties, I will be left with no choice but to replace the entire panel—founding members be-damned. I might dislike Vincent, but he is a man of his word. If he pledged allegiance and promised success, I know damn well that he’d pass with flying colours. Is that what it will take?” I asked them. “Must I call in outside influence to do what needs to be done?”

Alexa slumped on the plastic-covered wing chair.

“This is not a one-man show,” I argued. “I would never, ever disappoint the boss with such disrespect. If he demands, I effectuate. It’s as simple as that. Maybe that’s why he is indomitable. His men carry half of the load.”

Nate’s cheek muscle popped. “You are upset and taking it out on those closest to you.”

“Yes.” My body twitched with suppressed vexation. “Still, I stand by what I said. I deserve better.”

“Well, I have offered to do more, but you refuse.” Alexa fixed her twisted military chain. “I might be physically incapable until the baby arrives, but I have a vindictive tongue. You should allow me to unleash it.”

I regarded her. “What can you achieve?”

“Put me in a room with Gia, and I will have Bosqui’s whereabouts within thirty minutes.” She glowed with confidence. “I am married to a master of manipulation. You should have faith in me.”

I surrendered. “Done.”

Alexa smirked triumphantly.

“You want Blaire?” Nate pulled on an all-black parka coat. “I’ll bring her to London.” An apology watered his eyes. “It’s not love, Brad. It’s an obligation.”

My stare narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“I got eyes on her,” he admitted, and I glanced at Alexa in puzzlement. “She is in protective custody whilst awaiting permanent accommodation. Just some seedy women’s shelter. I drive down there once a week and post money through the letterbox.”

I stepped up to him.

“My son,” he said whispery. “He is due in October. I broke into her flat, read her maternity notes and stole the sonogram when she visited the store one evening.” He slid the scan out of his leather wallet and stared longingly at it. “You might think I am crazy, but I want to keep her safe and fed until he arrives. After that, I have no qualms in killing her for what she did to Warren.”

I studied the black and white image. “Why did you keep this information from me?”

“You are unpredictable. You would have driven to her place and killed her without a second’s thought. I love you, man. I love all of you.” He glimpsed at Alexa, then back to me. “But if that’s my flesh and blood, if he is my boy, I will move mountains to protect him. I will fight you,” he emphasised, “for his safety. Make no bones about it.”

Alexa muttered under her breath.

“So, I will bring Blaire back to the institution.” He tucked the sonogram into the wallet’s side compartment. “But if anyone lays one hand on her head whilst she is pregnant with my son, I will raise fucking Cain.”

I might not like it, but I understood. “What if he is not yours?”

“Then, I prevented the loss of an unborn child regardless.” He headed for the door. “I will see you in a couple of hours.”

Alexa peered through rigid fingers.

“Did you know?” I asked the second he was out of earshot. “Did he share this information with you?”

“No,” she said, and I believed her. “I had no idea.”

“Is he protecting the child or his mother?” I wondered aloud. “What are your thoughts?”

“Judging on past experiences, I’d say he is capable of lying where she is concerned. But she unmasked herself that day in the courtroom. He is not stupid enough to believe what they shared was real, right? I mean, he knows it was all an act.” Her lips flattened. “Here is some friendly advice. Lock her up and throw away the key. Make sure there is a guard outside her door at all times. And do not let Nate within ten miles of her floor. He is susceptible to her lies.”

It is bad enough that I have to tiptoe around Alice Montgomery and listen to Gia Bosqui’s howling. “Three damsels might be considered a crowd when outside of the bedroom.”

With an eye roll, she locked the office door behind us. “By all means, drop Blaire at the Manor. I cannot, however, promise not to extract her tongue. After all, the woman defamed my husband and unforgivably so. I am not, nor will I ever be, forgiving.”

Interlacing our fingers, I led her to the Bentley parked outside of the casino. “I owe you lunch.”

“I don’t want to walk into town,” she complained, her cheeks pink and puffy. “My feet are swollen.”

“Then wear sensible footwear.” The woman modelled six-inch heels seven days a week. “Pregnancy opts for comfortable clothing, Alexa. You cannot waltz around in Zanotti shoes, day in, day out. Be reasonable.”

She admired the shoes on her feet. “I will consider kitten heels.”

I unlocked the Bentley and held the passenger door open. “What’s on the menu?”

“Noodles.” Alexa buckled up. “Rice. Baguettes. I don’t care.”

Rounding the car, I slid behind the steering wheel and fired the engine. “I want a saveloy.”

“Gross.” Her nose wrinkled. “Who, in their right mind, eats wobbly sausages for lunch?”

I accelerated down the busy street. “I might know a chick or two.”

“There he is.” She pinched my cheek and gave it a wobble. “I thought we’d lost you for a moment.”

“Remove the fingers.” Driving one-handedly toward the traffic lights, I dropped into third gear and sped through a red light. “Genuinely, I am not sex-starved. I don’t know why Nate said that.”

When was the last time I had sex, though?

A blowjob from Uma does not count.

Christ, it was the day I interviewed Alice. I followed the waitress to the pickle cupboard and fucked her six ways from Sunday.

“Pickle cupboard?” Alexa asked because, of course, I voiced thoughts out loud. “What the hell is a pickle cupboard?”

I pulled a disgruntled face. “It is some kind of stockroom with jars of pickled mayo.”

“I don’t know anyone that willingly slathers their food in pickled mayonnaise.” She was disgusted. “Where do you even buy such unusual condiments?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Before pedestrians crossed the road, I steered into the next street. “I hate pickles.”

She studied her red-polished fingernails. “You liked them enough to fuck against them.”

“They were on the shelf. I barely noticed them.” That is utter bullshit. I counted every jar and read the ingredients while Pamela (I think that’s her name?) held onto the chest freezer as I drove into her from behind. “Can I ask you something?”

Alexa turned in the chair to face me fully.

“Why Warren?” My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “What was it about him that made it worthwhile?”

Alexa smiled at the mention of her husband. “His eyes had the answers,” she said with a soft exhale. “His smile uncaged butterflies I never knew existed. His touch found the fierce woman within. His voice followed me into the darkest moments of insanity.” Her eyelids closed. “I knew he was the one because, even when trapped in his arms, I felt free.”

I pulled over by the stretch of retail stores. “But you have no one else to compare him to.”

“I have Jace.” Her eyes opened. “It happened once, and he was the perfect lover, but everything about what we shared felt wrong. I am glad we slept together, though. Now, I know for certain. I will grow old with the right man.”

Jace, I thought. I haven’t heard a peep from him since he read the text message. Not that I am concerned. He knows better than to step on my toes. “Why did you choose Jace back then?”

“I never chose Jace. I chose his daughter. I…” She sucked her upper lip. “I was that little girl once. I slept on the floor many a night, praying for miracles. I listened to the noises above and watched the door, waiting for my saviours to come in and rescue me. Shit, I used to play out the entire scene inside my head.”

I toyed with the car key.

“I owed it to Summer. If it weren’t for me, she’d still be alive. But life is cruel. She died, and I will carry that pain until the day I die. Her father is a good man. Yes, he made bad decisions, but he was desperate. I slept with him because he was heartbroken, and he needed to forget. That did not change the way I felt about Liam. Even when I hated him, I loved him too much to walk away.”

“Sex is a good distraction.” I unboxed a toothpick and slipped it between my lips. “Even when it is with the wrong people, and you do it for the wrong reasons.”

Her spine straightened.

Before she demanded elucidation, I pointed to the deli store next to the art gallery. “Do you want to share a BLT?”

“I am not sharing my food,” she said, and I hid a pleased smile. “In fact, I might buy two baguettes, two cookies, orange juice and a packet of crisps.”

Christ, I never want to look at a crisp packet again. “Lead the way.”

Alexa held a purse to her chest. “I am torn between ham and cheese and…” Her head tilted slightly. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

“What?” I glanced over one shoulder to see what caught her attention, but everything appeared to be normal. “Did something happen?”

She slapped the purse on my chest and stormed ahead.

“Alexa?” I chased the unhinged woman. “What’s wrong? Why are you angry?”

“I will murder someone,” she yelled, earning concerned stares from bystanders.

“Ignore her,” I said with raised hands. “She is abnormally hormonal and—”

She stormed inside the art gallery.

“Fuck’s sake.” Tucking the purse inside my trouser pocket, I shouldered the door open and followed her down the stark-white aisle. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You.” she pointed at the man dressed in ostentatious fabrics. “Where did you get the painting?” He never had the chance to open his mouth because she was royally pissed. “The painting in the window. I want to know how it fell into your possession—right now!”

My brows shot to my hairline. “Alexa, I will buy you the painting. Calm down.”

“Do you mean Roy Petley’s painting?” He fixed his patterned tie. “It is a great piece. I can give you the price.”

“Give me the price?” she repeated in sheer disbelief. “I will not buy something that belongs to my husband. You better return the canvas, effective immediately, or I will ruin you.” Her nose touched his. ”Ruin you.“

Well, I had no words.

“Ma’am.” His hand lowered to her shoulder. “I appreciate that you are upset, but if you do not leave the building, I will call the police.”

I looked at the window, not that I could see clearly beyond the wire sculptures. “Roy Petley,” I said, the name has a familiar ring. “Where did he sign the painting?”

“Bottom right-hand corner.” The man stepped away from the crazy woman. “Beneath the guitarist.”

Ah, I see. “The Tower Bridge?”

“Yes,” the gallerist confirmed. “It is a one-of-a-kind piece, hence the price.”

“It was painted specifically for one person, and that is why only one exists,” I educated him. “It belongs to Liam Warren. It has no business in your gallery.”

“You will retrieve the painting.” Alexa is seething. “Or I will take it down myself and beat you with it. Go ahead. Argue the matter. It will end badly for you.”

He gulped audibly. “Warren is in prison.”

“But his loyal subjects are not.” I joined Alexa’s side. “Give the painting to Warren’s wife. Now.”

He hurried to the window and recovered the painting with an apologetic smile to nearby customers. He returned, handed it over with great reluctance and wiped the sweat on his forehead. “I could lose my job. I am so out of pocket.”

“Where did you get the painting?” Alexa did not thank him, and rightfully so. “Who gave it to you?”

“Vincent,” I said confidently. “He is the only person who has twenty-four-hour access to the office at Club 11.”

“Actually, I bought it from a woman.” The gallerist went behind the high gloss desk. “Daylight robbery. She told me the painting belonged to her grandfather.”

“A woman?” My elbow leaned onto the desk. “Did she leave a name?”

“Yes.” He was more than happy to expose the seller. “She even signed the book.”

I snatched the leather-bound folder out of his hand.

Bleu Murphy.

I tested the name on my tongue. “She survived.”

“Who?” Alexa looked at the signature. “Who is this woman?”

“I think,” I shut the folder, “Bleu Murphy is our Doña Marina.” Dialling Vincent’s number, I placed the phone to my ear and held my breath until he answered. “Were you aware that Warren’s painting was missing?”

“Perhaps,” he said after a long pause. “Am I right to assume you found it?”

“Some tool was selling it in his gallery,” I told him, and the gallerist scoffed. “Get this. He purchased it from a woman.”

I sensed the man’s confusion. “Who is this woman?”

“Bleu Murphy.”

“I am not familiar with the name.”

“Let’s say that perhaps the painting went for a walk the night a certain thief stole money from the office,” I hinted, and I heard his chair groan as he shifted. “Two and two together. Is it possible that Bleu is Doña?

He hummed. “Where can I find her?”

“I owe Alexa lunch.” My hand fell to the small of her back as I coaxed her toward the exit. “I need to be at the estate this evening.” Nate is due to arrive with Blaire. “Can you swing by? We can do a background check.”

Alexa took the car key, unlocked the Bentley and placed the painting in the boot.

“Will my sister-in-law be joining us?”

“Yes,” she said, having overheard the question.

“I will be there,” he agreed, then ended the call.

“You see that?” I slid the phone into my pocket. “When one door closes, another opens. Now, I don’t know about you, but I am Hank fucking Marvin. You get in the car. I will buy lunch. We can eat at my place and plot world domination. What do you say?”

Alexa lingered by the car door. “Do not forget the cookies.”

“I won’t forget the cookies.”

“And orange juice.”

“Apple juice. Got it.”

“Brad!”

I spun around to face her. “Sugar tits?”

“I love you.” Hair strands blew across her face. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” If I had a sister, I imagine I’d love her the way I love Alexa. “Am I a good friend?”

She blinked in perplexity.

“I mean because I am a guy.” I walked back to the car. “Why is it different between us? Is it because you belong to the boss, so you’re off-limits?”

Her brows snapped together. “Or maybe you do not find me attractive, so it’s not awkward.”

“No.” Alexa is beautiful. I’d have seduced her if the boss never staked his claim. “It is not disinterest or lack of attraction.”

“You have lots of female friends,” she said warily. “Brad, just be outspoken. I am too tired to decode this conversation.”

All I know is there are a million and one suppositions in mind, and I don’t know how to handle it. “What cookies do you want?”

Alexa resigned to not knowing the answer to her question. “Raspberry cheesecake, double chocolate and smarties.”

I paused by the shop door.

Christ, I need to get a grip on life.