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)
All because of her mother’s death.
The letter breaking the news of Beau Hayley’s failed appeal will land on her doorstep soon. And then what? What will she do? Who will she talk to? How deep will she dig? Like her mother, I get the feeling Beau Hayley is like a dog with a bone. And like her mother, she will end up dead as a result. So why the fuck is she still breathing? She knows there is more to her mother’s demise. It’s that sixth sense in her. The same sixth sense her mother had. I don’t need Beau Hayley getting in my fucking way. I don’t need complications in my simple life.
So end it.
I growl to myself and head downstairs to get a beer, pulling up my contacts as I go. I need something to take my mind off things. Something to relax. I down a straight vodka and stare at the screen of my mobile where Beth’s number glows.
Then toss it on the worktop, head back to my office, and locate the footage from today.
I stare at the moment I had my gun aimed at the back of Beau Hayley’s head.
And the moment I bailed.
I can’t kill her.
Don’t want to kill her.
Fuck.
13
BEAU
Tuesday plays out the same as Monday. I’m collected by Goldie and when I arrive at James’s, he hasn’t found somewhere else to work. He looks up from his laptop when I enter his colossal office. Stares at me.
I stare right back, unable and unwilling to be the first to break our eye contact. What James Kelly should know is that I’ve faced demons far greater and scarier than him. I realized that last night while tossing and turning in bed. He’s dark. But I’m darker. I bet he doesn’t wrestle with black thoughts each day. I bet he doesn’t have to spend every minute of his life correcting himself. Reminding himself. Pulling himself away from the easy way out. Not needing to control his urges.
I also came to terms with the reason I can’t stay away. Why I’m here. Why I’m enduring these constant episodes of unbearable intensity.
Escape.
When I’m here, when I’m in his orbit, there is no darkness. Not mine, anyway, because I don’t have to pretend here. No veil. I’m fine. It’s all his darkness, and it is addictive. So if he wants to play this game, I’m willing. He won’t find a better opponent than me.
My eyes begin to burn they’re so focused on him, but I refuse to blink. To look away. And I will endure the torture and thrill of his presence all day. I’m armored up. My war paint is on. “I won’t submit,” I say evenly.
His expression doesn’t waver, and he settles back in his chair, getting comfortable. Talking without talking. That is, until he speaks. “Why are you here, Beau?” he asks again. “I’ve spent all night wondering, and I’ve come up blank.”
“You tell me,” I say quietly, held prisoner on the spot, his icy eyes darkening by the second.
He hums, blinking slowly. My pulse quickens. “You’re here to paint my office. Why else would you be here?” He stands and rounds his desk, passing me. “So get on with it.”
My head turns, following him to the door. “Asshole,” I breathe quietly.
“You have no idea,” he replies without looking back, shutting the door loudly.
I bite my lip and approach the glass on light feet, coming to a stop only a foot away from the door. “I can hear you breathing,” I say, my voice throaty, as I reach for the frosted pane and lay a palm on it. “And I feel your heat.” My eyes dart before me, my mouth spewing words before my brain is engaging.
“Does that mean you want to fuck me?” he asks, and suddenly the door isn’t frosted anymore, but crystal clear. And James is on the other side, a whisper away.
I inhale and pull my hand back, truly feeling the burn. And I retreat. Away from the door. Away from the temptation.
Away from the danger.
I don’t need to answer him. I’ve never wanted anything more, and judging by his wicked, half-smile as the glass frosts again, it’s clearly written all over me.
My body aches perfectly by the time I’m done undercoating the baseboards, and it feels so good. I rub the back of my neck as I look at the ceiling, studying the endless tiny, awkward spotlights. I set up my ladder and take the steps, reaching for one of the spotlight encasements and wriggling it. It pops out, giving me just enough room to swipe my brush around it. I nod, satisfied, and lift one foot from the ladder, leaning back, pulling three of the four legs off the floor. And I spin it, letting the legs lower back down slowly by counter-balancing the weight with my body. I come to rest under the next spotlight and reach up to pop the encasement off before performing the same move to get me to the next spotlight. In just ten minutes, I remove a quarter of the spotlight encasements ready to paint around tomorrow.