Tears of Ink (Tears of ... Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

  “Have you definitely left the course? You could still go back after the summer; tell them you were tired and didn’t mean what you said.”

  I shake my head. “I never go back.” A quick glance down reminds me I’m covered in dust and chemicals. I brush my clothes to avoid looking at him, until the silence is too heavy and I peek through my lashes.

  He watches me, perplexed.

  “So, what are you doing here? I thought you didn’t live here?” I crack a sly smile.

  “Oh, I know. It’s the only reason you agreed to come.” He grins. Honestly, it’s mesmerising. And the fact he’s here, even if he did overhear my row with slimy Steers makes my chest tighten in this odd way.

  “I thought you might want supper. I wasn’t convinced you’d brave the dining room.”

  I smirk a little. “I’m a big girl.”

  His powerful gaze sweeps over my body. “I know. But is the big girl hungry?”

  I notice he’s holding a stripy picnic bag. “What’s in there?”

  “Wine, bread, and cheese.”

  My smile stretches. “Three of my favourite things.”

  “Come on. I know just the place.”

  I’m surprised when he leads us to the conservatory where we had lunch the first time I came here. It’s quite exposed, and really I could do without the Wicked Witch of the West thinking I was stealing one of her grandsons. He steps forward confidently, not looking at who else might be around. The conservatory is surprisingly, and wonderfully empty. The lights are low solar bulbs lining the walkways, so we can see where we are going. The insects are quiet, and even the flowers seem to be sleeping.

  “What time is it?” I hadn’t even thought to check what inconvenient hour Gerard had decided to bombard Bowsley Hall and come knocking on my studio door.

  “About ten, I think.”

  “Ten? Have you just got back from work on a Sunday?” This sounds awful. Even at the ink shop in the height of summer, with drunk idiots begging to be inked, we’d always walk away at 5pm. It was one of my dad’s rules. Al would be the one working into the night.

  I close my mind to thoughts of my dad. How did he creep in? I slam the door to my memory vault firmly in place.

  “I’m trying to help a family.”

  My ears prick up. His voice lowers. Does he not want anyone else to hear? I continue to follow him and his stripy bag through the dimly lit pathways of the conservatory. How big is this place? It’s like being in the jungle. “Tabitha mentioned you are working on a sexual harassment case.”

  His shoulder straightens under the fine blue shirt. “Yes.”

  Okay. Maybe we aren’t allowed to talk about it.

  “Here.” He motions with his hand, and I see we have stumbled into a small pebbled area. I stand open mouthed. This place can’t be real, surely?

  We are in a circular clearing. Pathways converge from different sides of the large conservatory. But we must be against a far wall because right in front of us, gushing from the roof is an indoor waterfall.

  Momentarily, I’m lost for words. “This is a-amazing,” I finally manage to stutter.

  He smiles, and it glimmers in the light of the moon and dances with the glow of the solar lamps. “It’s special even in daylight, but it’s something else at night. I love sitting here and thinking.”

  “Doesn’t everyone sit here? I’d never be able to leave this place if this was my home.” God, it is like standing on an island of heaven. Even the air is dense and sweet, filled with pungent natural scents that remind me of places I haven’t even been. It takes me to the places I used to shut my eyes and dream about.

  “No, I’m the only one who spends any time here.”

  “Not even Tabitha?” I’m surprised. She’s shown remarkable ability with all the tricky little jobs I’ve given her today. Somewhere under her pale and slender exterior, is a rebel artist desperate to get out.

  I watch Elijah. In the moonlight he looks something else. His straight, perfect nose is highlighted with silvery tones. The short hair on his head glows a little with the natural back-light. And those shoulders in that shirt.

  Okay, I need to stop this right now.

  He shakes a picnic blanket out and motions for me to sit down. “Not even Tabitha,” he continues, answering my long-forgotten question as I became distracted by the handsome sight of him.

  “Why? She seems to be unsure of what interests her. She can’t wander around this house all day.”

  “The family haven’t decided what she’s going to be yet, so until they do, she just has to hang around here being nothing.”

  I stare at him in confusion, ignoring his immediate presence as he sits close to me on the blanket. “What do you mean the family haven’t decided?”

  He stares up at the glass ceiling. “The family way is the only way.”

  “Meaning what?” I press.

  His eyes fall on my face; even in the growing depth of night they are piercing and tempting.

  Like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing, his finger lifts and trails along the string of roses I have across my collarbone. “What I mean is that what the family says is what happens.”

  “You make it sound like the Mafia.”

  He chuckles. Is he really close, or is it my imagination? It’s like he’s absorbing the air around me. “It’s worse—far worse.”

  “How?”

  I thought I had the worst family in existence.

  “Everything is for the Fairclough name. Everything.”

  “That’s why you’re a lawyer?”

  “Yes, although I do like helping people.”

  “Like the family you’re helping now?”

  His face darkens a fraction, and it isn’t a cloud drifting over the moon causing it.

  “So what else do your family say?”

  His thumb rubs across the peach and pink rose petals as if he’s mesmerised by their existence. “So, I don’t have any tattoos, and it’s nothing about being scared of pain.”

  “So why?”

  I sit up a little straighter, pulling away from his touch. As if awakened from a dream, he realises what he’s doing and busies himself getting the wine out of the bag, along with two glasses.

  “This is a very deep conversation for a late evening glass of wine.” He hands me a glass and disarms me with a smile. I won’t be deterred though. I want to know what’s under that exterior. Once again, I think of the two sides of Elijah Fairclough. There’s the businessman I met in the Ritz and the guy in sliders who knocked on my door to apologise.

  I don’t know who’s the stronger. Or even if he wants one of them to win over the other. Although I know I want to see more of the guy in the sliders. He’s charming and deep. I can sense it.

  “It’s disapproved. What if someone were to see? What if we were on a holiday and the press caught a picture of it? What if it offended someone?”

  I snort my wine everywhere. “That’s ridiculous. Ink is an expression of individuality.” I’ve known this since a young age. I’ve known it since I first picked up a pencil and a scrap of paper and put the two together, creating an alchemy of magic that spilled onto the paper. My sixth sense, the one jingling now during my conversation with Elijah, is one of my strongest personality traits. It’s what people say to me that helps me sketch for them what they want on their skin. It’s their voice. Their thoughts.

  I want to know what he looks like under his clothes. Under the gorgeous blue shirt, loose at the collar is a canvas of bare beautiful skin.

  “So, what about Tabitha?”

  “I think she wanted to be a vet.” He smiles and takes a sip of his wine. “She was always saving things when she was little. There was always some poor animal hidden out in a stable that needed her attention.”

  I chuckle and take a sip of the chilled wine. It’s delicious and smooth.

  “Yeah, it was great until she coaxed an injured fox into the kitchen and it crapped all over the place. It took months for the sme
ll to go.”

  “Gross.”

  His eyes shine, all thoughts of his “family” problems seem to be forgotten. “Here, have some cheese.” He slides over a small wooden board with a curved knife.

  “This is all very posh for a late-night picnic.”

  He grins. It’s electric. My tummy tightens no matter how much I don’t want it to. Reaching over, he clinks his glass against mine. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” I let a deep breath through my lips. God, I can’t even think about it. “I still don’t know if I can do it.”

  He nods. “You can.” Where does he gets his confidence in me? In what he’s seen in my portfolio? Surely, that’s not enough? I want to ask, but instead he says. “So, tell me about the mosaic.”

  Chuckling, I groan. “Your mother is such a blabbermouth.”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s not a mosaic. I just let her think that because she was so rude.” I settle back onto the picnic blanket staring at the stars through the domed glass roof of the conservatory.

  He settles down next to me. It should be weird. It isn’t. That familiar surge of obsession tingles beneath my skin.

  He’s wonderful.

  I grin and stretch as his eyes travel over the stories on my skin. “It’s going to be so much better than a mosaic.”

  Before he has a chance to answer. Before I have time to sweep my gaze over his shape, the curve of muscles. Before I have the chance to think that maybe I do like him after all, even if he isn’t always the guy in sliders. Before I wonder what he would taste like; we are showered with water from overhead.

  With a shriek, I leap to my feet as sprinklers flood the foliage and pathways with large droplets of water.

  “Shit! I forgot about the water system.” He shouts over the crash of water landing on gravel. He leaps to my side and we both gather the stuff. Wine spills everywhere, soggy bread and cheese goes back in the picnic bag.

  My hair is splattered to my head, my face as wet as if I were in the shower. An irrepressible giggle builds inside my chest.

  His hands clutch onto me as the deluge continues to pour down. We are soaked. His pale blue shirt is dark and clinging to his chest. My vest top has disintegrated into a useless rag. I stretch the material and try to lift it away from my bra but it’s pointless, it’s see-through.

  I start to laugh, the water sliding off my face, falling into my lips. Then he laughs, and we cling to one another, an upturned lifeboat in a single moment of perfection.

  “Was this a ploy to see my bra?” I grin, staring up at him through the droplets falling from my eyelashes. He looks amazing, breathtaking. Unlike any piece of art I could ever hope to create. He steals the air from around me. His hair is damp, droplets clinging to short spikes. His face and eyes shine with laughter. The man in the suit evaporating with the sprinkler system.

  Then he’s kissing me. His mouth hot. I gasp, shifting forward, sliding my fingers through the wet strands of his hair. His lips are firm, delicious, teasing. And I open my mouth as his warm tongue probes between my teeth, pushing mine for a response. A deep and furious fire lights me from the inside out.

  I want to die. I want to combust into a million perfect pieces, spinning in the moment forever.

  One of his hands lifts into my hair, tugging on the end of my ponytail and working its way until his fingers are against my scalp, while the other hand cradles my chin, his thumb brushing along the skin at the edge of my jaw.

  Fibres of snapping electricity fuse the air between us and I never want the kiss to end.

  It does. But his lips gently brush mine, teasing the moment for one long drawn out second.

  “You’re all wet.” His voice is a low murmur.

  “So are you.”

  My heart pounds, crashing in my chest, and in my head and heart, the seeds of an irrepressible need root themselves and come to life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I haven’t slept, and it’s nothing to do with the nerves of what today will bring, what the youngsters turning up will be like, or if I ever get my glass mixture to not smash into a million pieces.

  It’s him.

  Thoughts of the kiss looped around my head all night.

  He kissed me.

  Why?

  Doesn’t he realise I’m not like other girls? You’d think the tattoos would have been a warning enough.

  But of course, he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand the way I am. The way I will now want him—need him more than anything I’ve ever had—but then after, I will walk away.

  He’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted.

  He shouldn’t have kissed me.

  There’s a knock on my door and I roll over in bed. I want to hide under the pillow, not show people how to make mosaic tiles with glass.

  “What?” I grouch. It will be Tabitha, and I’m already hanging my head in shame for being rude. That girl brings out a side of me I didn’t know existed. “I’ll be up soon. Find Jennings and tell him I need about a hundred espressos.”

  The door opens, and I give a little shout when Elijah’s dark head pokes through the gap.

  “I’m not dressed,” I squeal. I wish I could be all sultry and seductive. But I can’t. I want to dive under the duvet and hide. He kissed me under the sprinklers. Like I need the reminder.

  I don’t want him to see my skin. For the first time, I want to hide my tattoos. All the strength I had behind them evaporates. His eyes skim along my leg, along my thigh with its patterns and swirls, flowers and thorns.

  “I brought you the first of many espressos.” He grins, wide and open, happy and relaxed. He clearly hasn’t lost sleep running our kiss through his mind all night like an out-of-control video stuck in an old VCR recorder.

  “Uh, thanks.” I tuck the sheet around my chest. I’m not naked, but I am only wearing a sports bra and briefs. My skin is a mesh of rainbow splashes, black ink, and flesh toned pink. I don’t want him to see. The exposure is unsettling. My stomach tightens, and my pulse quickens. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “May I?” He motions at the edge of the bed.

  Oh, good lord.

  “Sure.” I cough a little and clear my throat. It doesn’t help ease the obstructive lump that’s making me hot and bothered.

  “I’ve taken a couple of days leave. I thought you’d like the help.”

  “And your mother approved?” I don’t even know why I just said that.

  A flicker of a cloud floats across his features. “Even lawyers scared of their mothers are entitled to annual leave.”

  “Elijah, I’m sorry.”

  His startling blue gaze sweeps across my face, and I blush. That’s right. I blush. No way to hide it lying under white bedsheets. His frown morphs into a smirk.

  “I’m Eli.”

  “Eli,” I concede. It sounds funny on my lips. Elijah, for some inexplicable reason, seems to put more space between us. If I call him Eli, it means this friends thing is real and that deep down I might want to be more than friends.

  I know that’s a childish fantasy. I don’t do more. Not ever.

  I can’t go through today without talking about last night. It’s better if I just get it out there. I mull around for the words, and he watches me, his smirk growing.

  “Stop laughing at me,” I snap.

  “What?” He hands me my coffee and I take a tentative sip. It’s perfect: hot, sweet, strong as fuck, and definitely the rocket fuel I need.

  “We need to talk about you kissing me in the greenhouse-thing.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “It’s actually a conservatory.”

  I glare. “I think you’re missing the point.”

  “I kissed you. You looked beautiful, so I kissed you. It’s no big thing.”

  No big thing… I haven’t slept since.

  Did he say I looked beautiful?

  “Why do you look so shocked?” His voice lowers and warms, and I squirm my feet together as a tingle works up my legs.

  I take
another sip of coffee. “I don’t think anyone’s told me I look beautiful before.”

  His mouth falls open a little. “Well, clearly you’ve been hanging around with the visually impaired.” He leans closer and the scent of soap on his skin and a subtle note of a warm aftershave fills my senses. “Because standing there, laughing, your face shining bright, your hair soaking wet, you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I hit him with my hand. “I bet you say that to all your female friends.”

  He shrugs and gets up from the bed. I want to ask him to stay there a moment longer, so I can blink the image onto my retinas for my memory bank. “I don’t have any female friends.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Do you have male friends? The type I should be jealous of?”

  My mind flashes to Dan dealing with the worst period of his life, and I’m sat here grinning like a fool at some handsome aristocrat. “No.”

  “That’s good.”

  I don’t know what good means, but he leaves me to get dressed and I neck back the rest of my coffee. I need to get my hands on more of that nectar later, but right now I slip into the en-suite wet room where I stand under a hot shower and try to wake up.

  By the time I’m out, dry, dressed in baggy linen trousers and a light oversized shirt, I’ve managed to calm myself down. It was just a kiss.

  He’s already at the breakfast table when I attempt to face his family again. His eyes dance as I walk in and I know he’s staring at me on purpose so I’ll blush.

  Tabitha pats the space next to her. Her mother doesn’t lower the paper to note my arrival. The wicked witch is thankfully absent. Jennings brings me some more potent coffee, and I rip a croissant to shreds.

  “How was your evening?” Tabitha asks innocently. “Did you manage to get the glass right?”

  I pop a shred of pastry into my mouth. “It was rather dull actually.”

  Elijah snorts across the table and raises an eyebrow which I dutifully ignore.

  “No Peter today?” I haven’t seen him since my first lunch, and I’m guessing like Elijah, he stays away from the family crazy as much as possible… although Elijah has been here every night since I have… I lock the thought away. Stop it.