Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“How are you feeling?” he asks, probably sensing that I don’t know what to say to that.
“I feel fine.”
“Did you use the oil and cream I gave you?”
“Do you give a recovery package to every woman you fuck?” I get up and go to the mirror, placing my cell on loudspeaker and setting it behind the faucet. I take the cream and squeeze a little onto each wrist.
“No.”
“Then why me?” I ask, starting to rub it into the angry welts.
“It’s more for my benefit than yours.”
“Why?”
“To ease my guilt for hurting you.”
“Why would you feel guilty?” I ask, my broken skin seeming to get redder with each word he speaks. “I’m a grown woman, James. I knew what I was getting myself into.” That’s a complete and utter lie. I had no idea of the places James could take me to. No idea at all. But I do now. And, God, I want to go there again.
“Beau,” he breathes. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.”
My massaging fingers falter, my mind struggling for how to respond. He keeps alluding to this. It’s like he needs to share something but can’t. “Then tell me.”
There’s a brief silence before he speaks again. “Sleep well.” He hangs up, and I stare at myself in the mirror for an eternity, coming to terms with the fact that I’m as much in the dark about him as he is about me. Treading murky waters.
But will I drown in them?
Or just drown in James?
19
JAMES
She’s home. That eases me, but I know I’d feel a fuck load better if she was in my bed. I place my mobile down and try to focus on the spreadsheet Michelle’s sent over. I can’t focus. Not on anything, and that’s fucking dangerous. I click out of my current screen and pull up Google. Type in a name.
The results show me a good-looking guy, early thirties, well built. Oliver Burrows.
I sit back and study him, for the first time in my life considering killing a man for reasons less than worthy.
He wants Beau back.
And if he doesn’t stop pursuing her, I can’t promise I won’t end him.
I snap my laptop closed as Otto strolls in, Goldie on his tail. “You’re gonna get a call,” he says, slumping down in a chair and helping himself to the remote control on my desk. He aims it at the screens and pulls up ABC News. A reporter is standing outside the scrapyard on the docks, a swarm of police cars and forensic vans behind her.
“It made the news,” I muse.
“The owner clearly has dollar signs in his eyes,” Goldie says, joining Otto. A phone rings, and all our eyes fall to the top drawer of my desk. My skin prickles as I slowly reach for the handle and calmly pull it open, swiping up the ringing phone, clicking to answer and putting it on loudspeaker. I rest it on my desk. “Your men are dropping like flies,” I say quietly.
“Who the fuck are you?” he breathes, and I smile.
“You sound agitated.” Well and truly pissed, actually. His nifty voice distorter can’t disguise that.
“You’re hindering my business activities.”
“Maybe you should move out of Miami,” I say, kicking my feet up on the desk. “I hear Hell is nice at this time of year.” Translated: you’re a dead man.
“Fuck you. This ends now.”
I smile. “Is the big bad bear afraid?” Most definitely not. But certainly pissed off. Apparently, he saw the demise of The Brit as an opportunity. Thought he could swoop on in and mop up in Miami. It was rich pickings. The Russians out. The Romanians out. The Brit out.
Shame The Enigma is in.
“I will find out who you are.” His words are a threat, and I roll my eyes.
“Good luck with that. In the meantime, I look forward to picking off your men one by one.” I hang up and flick the phone away.
“Ever thought about what you’ll do once they’re all dead?” Otto asks, and Goldie settles back for the show, obviously wanting an answer to this question too.
“Why’s it always about me?” I ask tiredly. “What would you two do?”
“I’m going to walk in the park eating an ice cream,” Goldie declares, and Otto laughs.
I smile across at her. Goldie doesn’t talk much about her childhood. I have minimal details. She was unwanted. Was in foster care. Jumped from one children’s home to another. Her childhood was stolen. She’s never strolled in a park for pleasure, relished the sunshine, listened to the birds tweet. And to eat an ice cream while doing it? For her, that’s bliss. She joined the Royal Marines at eighteen and seemed to find her place in the world. Until some fucker gave her a stark, brutal reality check. She’s a woman. And women are targets for rapists. “Don’t be greedy,” I say, thoroughly enjoying the look of pure exhilaration on her face, just at the thought.